Chapter 15
LYRA
The next week flies by.
Julian’s been out of the picture for the most part, busy with corporate and Bratva business, leaving me to work on my own.
Any contact with Julian is routed through Anya, per his request. Work updates come through email, signatures are done electronically, and I’ve got leeway to make whatever decisions I need.
But I miss his presence, his voice, his gaze. It seems like every time I close my eyes, I’m back to that night at my place, his powerful body on top of mine, his cock buried deep inside me.
It’s torture, but it’s necessary. I need to work, and so does he. And distance from each other isn’t a bad idea. Without it, things could get too… messy.
I’m at the Irina Volkov Foundation’s offices on the Upper East Side, sitting across a mahogany table from a woman who makes me feel like I’m being grilled by the Russian aristocracy.
Elena Volkov is Irina’s younger sister, Julian’s aunt. She’s seventy-one, silver-haired, dressed in a charcoal-gray Chanel suit, with a single strand of pearls around her slender neck, and a ramrod straight posture.
She drinks her tea black with a slice of lemon and has a stare that could turn an intern to stone on the spot. Her features were likely beautiful when she was younger but have since evolved into something more regal: high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and those same gunmetal -ray eyes as Julian’s.
She’s also, to my surprise, really funny.
“Irina would’ve liked you,” she says, flipping through the guest list I’ve prepared. “She had no patience for timid women. She used to say timid women made timid choices, and timid choices result in timid events. And nobody likes a timid event.”
“Timid events mean timid donations,” I add.
She arches a brow. “Indeed.”
Elena flips another page, quietly reading the information. Then she smiles, shaking her head.
“I do think that Elena and I would’ve gotten along,” I say. “Most of all because she took the time and effort to set up a charity like this.”
Irina nods. “You would’ve fought constantly and respected each other enormously.
That’s how Irina operated. If she liked you and saw talent in you, she pushed you.
I often found it ironic how the employees that she didn’t bother with were the ones who always thought they’d won her over.
It was quite the opposite, actually—she didn’t care. ”
She looks me up and down, assessing me.
“And now I know why my nephew can’t stop talking about you.”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of Julian. I clear my throat and compose myself, so I don’t look too excited.
“Julian talks about me?”
“Julian hasn’t stopped talking about you. And that’s how I know it’s serious. The man has mentioned your name multiple times in the last ten days. For Julian, that’s practically shouting it from a mountaintop.” She picks up her tea and sips slowly while I process her words.
Something in my chest tightens. I take a quick swig of my spring water and follow it with a slow breath. I want to ask her about the context in which he mentioned me, what he said, but I stop myself. I don’t want to appear like a silly teenager in front of her.
“Let’s go over the table assignments,” I suggest, trying to turn the focus back to business. “I want to make sure that the donor tables are balanced, that the donors complement—and encourage one another. Maybe they’ll start a friendly bidding war, and we can get more donations.”
“Good idea. Let’s take a look.” She flicks her gaze at me quickly before turning her attention to the papers, then we go to work.
Elena knows every name on the list, their net worth, their political leanings, even their dietary restrictions, and, in several cases, the details of their divorce proceedings.
She’s a walking encyclopedia of high-society intelligence, and she knows how to use it.
“The Karimov family, table 4,” she says. “Very generous donors, but Viktor Karimov’s wife despises the Orlovs. Seat them on opposite sides of the room, unless you want a scene before the salad course.”
“Done. Orlovs are at table 9, near the bar.”
“Wise move; she’s a drinker.”
I spot six seats at table 12. The names are listed in the foundation’s system—donors who RSVP’d through the online portal, not Elena’s office.
Three of them I recognize as mid-level corporate contacts.
But the fourth name is one I don’t recognize at all, and there’s a fifth listed as a plus-one “security liaison.”
The sixth name is Gennady Fomin.
I pause, placing my finger tip at the name.
“Elena, who approved the guest list additions for table 12?”
She frowns, then pulls the sheet closer. “They came through the general portal. Sophia processed them before she was terminated. I suppose I assumed your office had vetted them.”
“We didn’t. This list was finalized before I came back.” I tap my finger on the sixth name. “Gennady Fomin. Do you know him?”
Elena’s expression changes, the warmth disappearing, her features hardening. “Fomin works for Dobrov,” she says. “He’s not a donor; he’s an enforcer.”
The room suddenly feels smaller. I look at the seating chart in the way I’ve trained myself to—studying logistics, not just for aesthetics or flow, but also for intention.
Table 12 is positioned adjacent to the VIP corridor that leads to the private reception room—the room where Julian will be greeting high-value donors and syndicate allies one-on-one throughout the evening.
The “security liaison” means that Fomin walks in with a credential that bypasses the main checkpoint. And that means someone put an enforcer within fifteen feet of the private corridor, with a badge that gets him past security at an event where Julian will be exposed and vulnerable.
“This isn’t a seating error,” I say. “Someone placed him here so that he’d have access to Julian. He could slip in and no one would notice.”
Elena stares at the chart. She looks at me. Then back at the chart.
“Move table 12 to the far wall,” I say, already redrawing the layout.
“Then we can reassign Fomin and the other unvetted names to a holding list—they won’t get through the door until Ethan’s team runs them.
Then we reroute VIP corridor access through the east entrance, instead of the south.
Oh, and add a secondary checkpoint at the reception room door. ”
I’m writing as fast as I can think. Elena watches me with an expression of alarm and admiration all at once.
“You caught this from a seating chart,” she says.
“I’ve spent enough time studying the names to recognize them. Sophia, on the other hand, wouldn’t have known Fomin from a florist. But whoever fed her the list was counting on that, knew she’d put them right where they asked without a second thought.”
“Dobrov.”
“Or someone working for him. Either way, this would’ve put an armed man inside the security perimeter without anyone noticing until it was too late.”
Elena pauses and looks away. Her mouth twitches a bit as she considers the implication and what could’ve happened.
She sets down her tea. “My nephew needs to see this.”
Then, as if summoned by the universe, the office door opens and Julian walks in.
He stops when he sees me. All the feelings I’d been avoiding over the last week hit me all at once. Great. My breath shortens and my heart rate picks up.
“Julian,” Elena says, not missing a beat. “Sit down. Your Lyra may have very well just saved your life.”
Your Lyra. I like the sound of that.
Julian knits his brow. “What do you mean?”
Elena walks him through it—the unvetted names, the VIP corridor exposure, all of it.
Julian listens without interrupting, his expression shifting from attentive to something dark, something cold and operational, as she speaks.
When Elena is done, he takes a moment to process what he’s just been told, then turns his attention to the new layout.
“You rerouted the corridor access,” he says.
“Yes, to the east entrance. And Fomin and the rest won’t get badges until they’re personally vetted by you.”
He flicks his eyes to me, a heated gaze that nearly melts me on the spot. Then he slips out his phone and takes a picture of the layout. He sends it to whom I presume is Ethan, then regards me with an expression of gratitude.
Julian opens his mouth to speak, but the office door swings open before he can get out a single word.
A man in his mid-twenties breezes in, walking with the sort of confidence and swagger that makes it seem like he’s under the impression he runs the place. He’s got curly dark hair and is wearing a grin that makes him look like he’s amused by whatever’s on his mind.
He’s also got Elena’s sharp cheekbones. The resemblance is uncanny.
“Mom, I need the car keys,” he says. “I left my—oh.” He spots me and his grin widens. “Well, hello. Julian, you didn’t tell me that the foundation hired a… voluptuous new—”
“Peter!” Julian’s tone is sharp and cutting—enough to silence and stun the cocky little asshole right on the spot.
But Peter clears his throat and keeps going. “I’m just saying—it’s nice to see the foundation investing in—”
“Peter, this is Lyra Thibodeaux. She runs the foundation’s event operations. You will not speak to her or about her in that way, and if you even attempt to finish that sentence, I’ll ensure that the next event you attend is your funeral.”
Peter’s grin dies and his face totally drains of color. Next to me, Elena lets out a restrained snort of amusement.
“If there’s one member of this family you ought to listen to other than myself,” she says, “you’re looking at him, young man.”
“I… Julian… I didn’t—”
The confidence and swagger are totally gone, leaving Peter looking like a nervous kid.
“Apologize to Ms. Thibodeaux. Now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is uncomfortable, to say the least. Peter looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Elena calmly sips her tea, content to watch her son learn his lesson.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“This time,” Julian adds. “Lyra, walk with me.”
I gather my things, nodding to Elena as I stand, and she nods back. As Julian and I enter the corridor, I can hear Elena quietly chastising Peter.
Julian closes the door, his hand finding the small of my back. Together, we walk in silence toward the elevator.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say finally.
“Yes, I did.”
“That’s Elena’s son. Isn’t that going to cause problems?”
He shakes his head. “Peter has been causing himself problems ever since he learned how to talk. Elena knows how he is; she knows that getting taken down a peg every now and then is good for him. But more importantly, the seating chart. That was exceptional work, Lyra. You may have prevented something catastrophic from happening.”
I allow myself a small, pleased smile. “Just a trained eye.”
He looks at me carefully, and I find myself wondering what’s on his mind.
The elevator car arrives and the doors open.
“You’re being too modest,” he says. “But either way, this is exactly why I need you.”
The way he says need carries a hell of a lot of weight. And I suspect it’s about more than just seating charts.
We step inside and I find myself wondering how the hell I’d gotten through the last week without his presence.
I’m becoming addicted. And I don’t mind one bit.
It’s scary as hell.