Chapter 15
Willow
The past few weeks had felt... easy.
I had still been running myself ragged, but that rock that had been crushing my chest for so long had finally been shoved off.
I didn't hate going to work anymore. Even the subway crowd didn't look so damn unbearable. Some mornings, standing on the platform, I actually found myself watching the sky shift outside the windows instead of counting the seconds until the train arrived.
Tom still swept me with that judging look in the hallway, but it happened a lot less. Every time our eyes met, he seemed to remember who stood behind me now. He always yanked his gaze away and walked off like nothing happened.
Jessica still drifted past my desk with her salad bowl, but she never stopped to fake small talk again.
The silent exclusion felt like dust on thick cotton—one quick swipe and it was gone. It didn't stir a damn thing in me anymore.
After work, I still headed to the bar for my shift.
Artyom showed up sometimes, took the far corner seat at the bar, ordered a whiskey, and didn't say a word. He just sat there, quiet, watching me mix drinks.
And every time he sat there, my eyes kept finding him anyway.
He didn't rush me to clock out. He didn't leave early. When I finished closing, we left together, and the rest of the night became ours.
It made me stupidly happy. I got used to the rhythm, to the way it fit. I even started thinking maybe this was what life was supposed to feel like.
Friday afternoon, I sat at my desk putting together next week's schedule when an email popped up in the corner of my screen. It came from Artyom's private address. The subject line had a single word.
Ball.
I opened it.
The message was short—time, place, dress code.
Then one separate line: "I have the gown ready. Try it on after work."
I didn't reply.
I stared at those lines for a good thirty seconds, fingers hovering over the keyboard, dead still.
What girl hadn't ever pictured herself in a gown?
Of course I had.
I could already guess what it looked like. Artyom would've found the best tailor, the best fabric, measurements down to the last damn millimeter. It would fit me better than anything I owned.
But I still wasn't ready.
The idea of standing beside Artyom still scared me.
It wasn't just a dress. It felt like a ticket. A pass into his world.
The second I put it on, I'd be under the lights, next to him, taking the full hit of those looks—curious, jealous, contemptuous.
I closed the email. No response.
When I got off work, I stood outside the building while the sunset washed the street in thin gold.
His car rolled up beside me. The window dropped halfway. When I walked over, he had just ended a call. He grabbed a white paper bag from the passenger seat and handed it to me.
"Go change."
I took it. It was lighter than I expected.
"Do I really have to go?" I asked.
"Yes."
I exhaled hard and didn't argue.
I turned back into the lobby, bag clenched in my hand. The restroom lights were brutal—cold white glare on tile that made my eyes squint.
I shut the door, took two deep breaths, and finally opened the bag.
Inside was a dark emerald floor-length dress.
Satin. Clean lines. No heavy embellishments.
The neckline wasn't low. The waist cinched at a place I wouldn't have guessed—right where my side curved and dipped, where I always wanted to hide.
The gathering hit at the perfect angle, like it had been made to protect me from my own insecurities.
I ran my fingers over the fabric. The satin felt cool, smooth. I held it up to the mirror.
When I slipped it on, the emerald color flowed over my skin like water—over my shoulders, down my chest, settling into place with a precision that made my throat tighten. It hugged me without fighting me, like a tailor had known my bones from across the city.
It looked good. Really good.
I stared at myself for a long time.
Then I folded the dress back up and put it in the bag.
I smoothed my skirt, pushed the restroom door open, and walked out.
Artyom leaned against the car. When he saw I hadn't changed, he didn't look surprised.
I walked up and held the bag out. "Thanks, but I don't really want to go."
He didn't take it. The bag hung between us.
"Why?"
"You know why."
"I don't."
Wind funneled down the street and lifted a few loose strands off my forehead.
He watched me, calm as deep water. No pressure. No impatience. Just waiting.
He was playing dumb. Or maybe he was sure I couldn't give him a reason he'd accept.
"I don't belong there." I dropped my eyes, dodging the way he kept studying me. "Those events. Those names. That whole world. Artyom, I am not like you. I am just some regular employee. Walking in wearing that... I will look like a bad joke."
"Willow."
He said my name once, low. "Stand up straight."
My body reacted before my brain did. Spine up. Heels together. Chin slightly lifted.
The movement unfurled me—pulled me out of that instinctive hunch. Even my breathing eased.
He stepped closer. I caught that faint wood-and-smoke scent on him.
"Willow, don't overrate anyone. And don't you dare cut yourself down."
"You aren't ordinary. You don't need to cage yourself in. Tonight, I don't need you to work the room. I don't need you to pretend to be some socialite. I just need you next to me—real. That is enough."
He didn't need some perfect society girl.
He needed me.
For a second the wind seemed to stop. The neon across the street blurred, like wet paint bleeding red and green across his dark coat. The traffic noise dulled, like his words had built a wall around us.
I held the bag against my chest, and the restless panic inside me... eased. Like someone had pressed a hand to it.
It was ridiculous how much it worked.
Artyom bent down, mouth close to my ear. "Besides, my mother has been picking out a suitable fiancée for me. You really want to watch me call someone else my fiancée?"
Something sharp and sour rose up in me—absurd and immediate—like a single drop of lemon hitting a cocktail that had finally been perfectly balanced. One drop, and everything tilted.
I didn't want that.
I really didn't want that.
I tightened my grip on the bag and turned on my heel toward the restroom.
The woman in the mirror looked pale, but her eyes burned.
The thought of him calling someone else his fiancée hit too hard, too fast. It spread through me like weeds, choking out what little sense I had left.
I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto my face.
Drops slid down my jaw, cold against my collarbone.
Then I opened the bag again and pulled out the emerald dress.
When I put it on, it didn't feel like it was squeezing me or forcing me into some shape I didn't have. It simply lay against me, followed my lines, fell where it should.
Beautiful. And it fit.
I adjusted the hem one last time, drew in a deep breath, and forced the tangled mess in my chest down. Artyom had been right. I didn't need to become anyone. I just needed to be me.
I pushed the restroom door open and walked out of the building again.
Artyom still stood there. The corner of his mouth lifted. He offered his arm.
This time I didn't hesitate. I hooked my arm through his like it belonged there.
"Get in," he said. "We're going to be late."
?????
The car stopped in front of an old building. Warm yellow lights glowed under the portico, spilling over the steps like crumpled gold leaf.
I got out, and my heel caught in a crack between bricks.
My body tipped. Artyom's hand was on my elbow instantly.
"No rush," he said, quiet.
I steadied myself and used his support to straighten. "Thank you."
I smoothed my skirt and climbed the steps.
The warm light stretched our shadows long, layered over the worn stone.
The heavy doors stood open, breathing out an air that felt solemn and old.
Inside, everything blazed. A massive crystal chandelier hung from a high ceiling, flooding the hall with light that left nowhere to hide. Servers in formal black moved through the crowd, and the champagne flutes on their trays threw off little shards of sparkle.
Artyom's hand hovered at my waist—a silent claim, and also the right amount of space.
"Mr. Sokolov."
A man in a suit approached with a drink. Artyom paused and turned slightly, speaking with him for a few quick sentences. His words came fast—Russian threaded with some English.
I couldn't make out what was said, but I saw his brows pinch for a moment.
He looked back at me. "I have to step over there."
"Okay."
I stayed put. People clustered in groups—talking, laughing, raising glasses. A few stood by the tall windows, looking out into the night.
My stomach tightened. I drifted a few steps to the side and stopped at a long table covered in glasses.
The tablecloth was dark gray, hanging to the floor, pressed flat at the edges like someone had measured every crease.
I picked up a drink and took a small sip.
Cold slid down my throat, leaving a faint bite behind.
I lowered my gaze, thumb rubbing the glass, trying to look like I belonged. Laughter and conversation rolled around me like waves—surging close, then pulling back—leaving me weirdly isolated in the middle of all that noise.
As I started to set the glass down, a shadow fell across me.
"You are the one he brought, right?"
I turned.
A woman stood beside me holding a champagne flute. She was tall and willowy, pale blonde hair falling over her shoulders. Her light brown eyes were big and bright, and when she looked at someone, it came with that built-in appraisal.
She smiled. Her mouth curved beautifully.
"I'm Lily."
No last name. Just Lily, like it was a name everyone was supposed to know.
I held a hand out. "Willow Pierce."
"Willow." She didn't take my hand. She just repeated my name, her gaze dropping from my face to my dress. "That color looks good on you."
"Thanks."
"He picked it, didn't he?" She sipped her champagne. "He always has great taste in gowns. He picked mine, too. Back then."
My fingers tightened around the glass.
She meant Artyom.
"You have known him a long time?" I asked.
"A long time." She gave me a small, confident smile. "I was his fiancée."
She said it like it was nothing, like she was commenting on the weather.
My throat locked up like I'd swallowed a chunk of bread—too big to go down, too stuck to cough up.
Lily was Artyom's fiancée?
That didn't make sense.
He had never mentioned her. Not once.
In whatever this thing between us was—maybe not tender, but not distant either—he had been almost painfully straightforward with me.
I lifted my glass and drank.
The cold burn in my throat didn't put out the hotter, uglier burn inside my chest.
I looked at Lily and understood exactly why she had come over.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
The heart that had been pounding itself raw a second ago suddenly slowed, heavy and stunned, like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over me. So when he said his mother had been choosing a fiancée, he hadn't been joking.
So that emerald dress—custom, made for me—had been a trick he'd pulled before.
So all those nights, the softness, the way he let me have what I wanted, the way he told me to stand up straight, the kisses, the arms around me—maybe I had been the only one who believed any of it meant something.
My eyes flicked toward Artyom without meaning to.
He lifted his gaze at the same moment. His eyes cut through the moving crowd and landed on me. His brow tightened—he saw my face, saw something was wrong. But several men in suits had him boxed in, talking over drinks. He couldn't get away.
I looked down fast.
"It's fine," Lily said, her smile polished and perfect. "You don't need to be nervous. Men like new toys. I don't mind. But fun is fun. Don't get confused and take it seriously, okay? In the end, the person who stands beside him needs the right identity, the right status. Those are nonnegotiable."
Her voice stayed light.
Her words hit exactly where I bruised easiest.
My throat went dry. I couldn't find a single thing to throw back at her.
And the worst part was—she wasn't wrong. Someone like me didn't get to stand beside someone like Artyom.
"I don't feel well," I said. I set my glass back on the table and forced a smile that probably looked like it hurt. "Could you tell Artyom for me? That I left."
I didn't wait for her answer. I turned and headed for the ballroom doors.
I glanced back one last time and saw a woman in a black velvet cheongsam standing near Artyom.
She pointed toward Lily. "Stop talking business all night. Lily finally came. Go dance the opening with her."
Her eyes and brows looked a little like Artyom's.
His mother.
I watched from a distance.
Lily moved forward like a princess, smooth and sure, and slipped her hand around Artyom's arm.
A few people chuckled warmly. Someone clapped. Applause floated on top of the music.
I stood in shadow and watched Artyom get guided toward the center of the dance floor.
Together, they looked like they'd been cut straight out of a fashion magazine.
The music swelled. He bowed slightly, took Lily's hand, and they turned with the rhythm. Her skirt swept the floor in clean, beautiful arcs.
Bits of conversation drifted to me.
"They look perfect together. When they got engaged, everyone was jealous."
"I heard when Mr. Sokolov got hurt back then, Miss Blake got forced into a marriage by her family. What a shame."
"But who was that fat woman next to Mr. Sokolov earlier? Was that his date? They don't match at all."
There it was.
Face. Body. Always. Like an ice blade.
Even if they'd hesitated for a second because of Artyom's name, their eyes still cut cold as hell when they landed.
I looked away. Bitter flooded the back of my throat.
The air in here felt too thin. I had to get out. Now.
I shoved through the heavy doors. Night wind hit my face, sharp with chill, and my tight chest finally loosened enough to breathe.
I turned to look back at the glowing building.
Behind the carved glass doors, the crystal chandeliers threw off a dazzling, fake halo, stretching the figures inside into long, twisted silhouettes.
In that moment, I saw it clearly.
I didn't belong here.
And Artyom was never going to belong to me.
All those daydreams, those pretty lies I'd let myself believe—shattered. Completely.