Chapter 29
LYRA
The event ends the way all the best events do—slowly, reluctantly, with donors lingering over the last of the wine and exchanging business cards, telling me they’ve never seen the foundation in better shape.
Elena finds me on her way out.
“Lovely, my dear. Simply lovely.”
I want to play it cool, and I know I should. But I can’t help it—I freaking beam at her words.
“Thank you so much, Elena. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she replies, raising a playfully chiding finger. “My assistance was my Rolodex. Accomplishing all of the difficult tasks was purely your doing.”
She turns, taking in one last look.
“I was worried about this,” she says. “Not your abilities, of course. But about this organization, Irina’s foundation. With Alexander and Sophia… it wasn’t in good hands. Now, it is. Irina is smiling tonight. I’m sure of it.”
I almost lose it right there on the spot. Tears form in my eyes, but I manage to quickly wipe them away.
“Thank you,” is all I can say.
She leans in, giving me a quick, but warm hug.
“Time for me to retire for the evening,” she says. “My days of after-parties are over, unfortunately. But do enjoy the rest of your night. I look forward to working with you on the next. And the next.”
We smile at each other, and then she’s gone. I feel like I’m walking on air.
Anya approaches, the huge grin on her face and the little bounce to her walk, making it clear she understands what just went down.
“That looked really good,” she says. “Like Elena was practically worshipping you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I reply with a chuckle. “But she was happy with the event.”
“Trust me, she doesn’t just hand out compliments. You really impressed her.” Anya takes a tablet out of her purse and clicks it on. “And it wasn’t just a pretty night either. The numbers are staggering. Check it out.”
I crane my neck to catch sight of the tablet screen.
“Wow.” It’s the only word I can think of to say.
“Wow is right. We raised more in one evening than the foundation raised in the entire previous fiscal year. Three new anchor donors signed letters of intent. Children’s Harbor Alliance committed to a five-year partnership.”
“It’s incredible,” I say, my voice sounding far away, like this is all some kind of dream. “Did you see that Todd Gelman was here?”
“The AI billionaire? Yeah, I noticed.”
I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper. “He said that he wanted to fund the literacy initiative that Alexander shelved. And I mean the full program, no conditions, starting in June.”
Her eyes go wide.
“That’s… wow.” She steps back, shaking her head. “You very well may have undone in one night all the damage that my dear brother did to the foundation. This is something you should be proud of, Ly.”
Warmth runs through me, and I allow myself a broad, happy smile.
“I am. I built this. All of it. And it worked.”
“It did. Hell, we’re going to have to have a celebratory gala to celebrate the success of this one!”
I laugh, and Anya pulls me in for a hug.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “It wasn’t just me. You were a big help.”
“Hey, if you’re offering credit, I’ll take it.” She squeezes my hand. “And both of us put our blood into this—almost literally.”
Her phone vibrates, and she quickly fishes it out of her purse.
“After-party in SoHo. You in?”
I glance over at Julian, who’s in the middle of a conversation with a pair of guests. He catches my eye and smiles, a smile that says, I need to get you alone. Now.
“I think I’m going to pass. Some decompression time is in order.”
Anya glances over at Julian, then back to me. She grins.
“Right. Decompression time. Not going to pry for info on that one. Anyway, congrats again. It was absolutely a legendary night.”
More hugs, and then she leaves. When Julian finishes his conversation and strides over to me, all I can do is stare. Damn, he looks so good.
“I’ll save the compliments for back at my place,” he says. “I’m sure Anya and Elena, what’s the term, ‘gassed you up,’ enough already.”
I laugh. “They were very kind. But yes, I’m ready to get going. I’m going to need at least a day to mentally unwind from this.”
“You can take a week. You’ve earned it.”
I take one more look at the place. The event has successfully ended, the staff breaking down tables, the last of the guests thinning out, a few still on the back patio in the middle of champagne-fueled conversations likely to last into the wee hours of the night.
There’s only one thing I want right now: Julian, lying next to me in bed, my head resting on his shoulder, warm hand on my hip.
As we leave, I catch sight of the massive, full-length, golden-framed mirror leaning against the wall in the lobby.
When I stop in front of it, it catches my reflection in a way I don’t like. I look flushed, tired. Laura’s comment regarding my dress echoes in my mind.
It’s doing quite a bit of heavy lifting, isn’t it?
I stare at my reflection, and for a moment I see what they all want me to see—too much. Too wide at the hips, too soft at the waist, too visible, too present. A woman who takes up more space than she should, more space than she deserves.
Then Julian appears behind me in the mirror. He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, looking at the same reflection that I am. But it’s clear that he sees something very different.
“You know what I see?” he asks.
“Julian, you don’t nee—”
“I see the woman who caught a Dobrov plant in the seating chart. I see the woman who rebuilt this event from scratch after a drive-by shooting. I see the woman who flew to New Orleans on zero notice and held her family together in a hospital waiting room. I see the woman who inspired 300 of the most powerful people in this city to open their wallets for children they don’t even know, children they’ll likely never meet. ”
My eyes sting and I blink the tears away.
“That’s who I see in the mirror,” he says. “Not whatever they tried to make you see.”
He’s not done.
“You’re beautiful. Not despite anything either. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I want nothing more than for you to ignore anyone who tries to tell you you’re less than or not good enough. Or too much.”
I look at my reflection again—my curves accentuated by the midnight blue gown, the body beneath the silk that Julian Volkov worships.
And I smile.
Then I turn away from the mirror.
“Let’s go.”
He offers me his arm, and I take it.
The front doors open onto West 26th Street, the night exploding into light as soon as we cross the threshold. Photographers—at least two dozen—are lined up behind a rope barrier, cameras flashing one after the other.
There are reporters with microphones and a local news crew with shoulder-mounted cameras. The success of the Irina Volkov Foundation fundraiser seems to have already hit social media and newsrooms.
I can feel the story writing itself in real time:
Volkov heir and the mystery woman behind the Foundation’s triumphant return. Who is she?
I’m smiling. And as much as I don’t want to admit that this is kind of a buzz—fun, and a little intoxicating—I have to give in a little. The gala was a smash hit, and people are going to be talking about it. About me.
That means more events, more buzz, more publicity. My head’s spinning, and I thank God that Julian’s arm is around my waist, keeping me steady.
The cameras flash. I don’t flinch, don’t angle, don’t try to make myself smaller. I walk beside Julian like I belong there—because I do.
Then the night cracks open.
The first gunshot comes from somewhere off to the left. It’s sharp and percussive, and I hate that I know instantly, from experience, what a gunshot sounds like. The second shot follows half a second later. The third shatters the window of a parked car at the curb.
Screaming follows instantly. The crowd outside the venue explodes into total chaos. Photographers and reporters begin to run. One of them goes down—hit or tripped; I can’t tell.
Two masked figures emerge from a dark van across the street.
Julian moves before I can think. He shoves me behind him and takes out his gun, returning fire. Two shots, aimed right at the van. His other arm is holding me down and pushing me back at the same time.
“Inside!” he shouts. “Get inside—now!”
Bullets punch into the brick above the entrance. Julian fires again, and one of the masked figures stumble. But the other keeps shooting. Glass shatters behind us. I hear Ethan shouting orders, then more gunfire, before Julian pulls me through a side door into a service corridor.
“Lyra. Lyra. Stay with me…”
His voice is close, yet far away at the same time.
The floor comes up to meet me.
Then everything goes black.