16. Katerina #2
It’s barely larger than a dollar coin, unassuming and innocuous looking. To anyone else, it looks meaningless. But to me it weighs more than the entire hotel around me. Every damning file inside will soon be presented on the big screen, all thanks to this tiny piece of hardware.
I slip it into a hidden pocket sewn into the lining of my dress and push away from the wall. I smooth my palms down the skirt one last time, steadying myself.
Then, I move.
The corridor is dimly lit, the service lighting a low-wattage meant for staff, not guests. It opens into the antechamber behind the stage where black curtains hang heavy and impenetrable to conceal the crew as dinner service continues on the other side.
The stage manager, a thin man drowning in a tuxedo that doesn’t fit him properly, sees me rounding the corner and freezes.
I don’t say anything to him as I pass by.
He knows exactly who I am. He’d been paid well this afternoon to keep quiet and keep the primary camera fixed on me once I step onto that stage no matter what happens.
I move closer to the curtain where it parts just enough to view the full ballroom. I scan the room, noting press placements and the positioning of military officials at their tables. Their line of sight to the stage is exactly what we planned for.
Perfect.
My father sits at a central table laughing easily with the officials around him.
His posture is relaxed, the image of a man at the height of his influence.
But the longer I stare, the more I notice the subtle asymmetry in his expression.
He favors one side of his face slightly.
His smile doesn’t pull quite as evenly as it used to.
Aleksandr never actually told me what he’d done to him after coming back covered in his blood, but I could take a guess. Someone covered in that much blood with none of it being their own painted a vivid enough picture all on its own.
The sight of my father happy makes my blood boil.
It must have been so easy for him to move on after getting rid of me. With my mother long gone and me conveniently out of the way, there were no familial obligations left siphoning off his time or money.
I wonder what he’s told his people regarding my absence.
If he even bothered to in the first place.
Perhaps a vague comment about me studying overseas, thriving somewhere distant and irrelevant that no one will know enough to press him for more answers.
Giving some throwaway explanation delivered with that same polished ease he does with everything else is exactly what I would have expected.
Whatever narrative he spun, it ends tonight.
In my ear, Aleksandr’s voice cuts through the swell of music and conversation via the comms. “He’ll be announced in two minutes. Get ready.”
We haven’t spoken at all since the argument, barely looking in each other’s general direction for more than a few seconds before turning around in the opposite direction.
Yet as pathetic as it feels, somehow, hearing him now anchors me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Even if I don’t see him, I know he’s watching, tracking every variable so I’m not doing this alone.
It steadies me.
Infuriatingly so.
I adjust the earpiece and straighten my shoulders before moving back from the curtain.
The black velvet sways slightly when I move away from it, the heavy fabric smelling slightly dusty like every backstage corner in places does.
I find a set of narrow metal stairs that lead to the lower level and take them.
The string quartet’s music fades behind me, replaced by the low electrical hum of equipment and soft whir of cooling fans as I make my way to the back where the control room is.
When I reach it, the control room door is already propped open. Exactly as planned, no stagehand behind the console in sight. Aleksandr’s men took care of that thirty minutes ago, doing whatever they needed to make sure this little cubicle would be empty.
I slip inside without hesitation.
The room is crowded with racks of equipment and tangled cables snaking across the floor like veins. The large tower projector that feeds straight to the massive screen behind the podium dominates the far wall. I move toward it quickly, slipping the USB drive from my pocket.
I pop the cap off and trace my fingers along the row of ports on the tower, looking for the one Aleksandr told me I needed to use—the auxiliary input labeled AUX-3, the one that bypasses the main console and feeds directly to the screen, no password required to go straight to broadcast.
When I find it, a part of me sags in relief.
Not that I doubted Aleksandr’s intel for a second but so far, all is going according to plan.
I push the drive in and stand back, waiting for the soft green light to blink on.
“What are you doing in here?” The voice comes from behind me.
My heart nearly jumps straight out of my chest.
I spin around to find a woman in the doorway, maybe late thirties with her hands planted on hips in the universal stance of someone who’s just caught an intruder.
She’s wearing an all-black uniform—crew neck, slacks, practical flats—the standard stagehand attire.
The radio clipped to her belt and the laminated badge dangling from her neck tell me everything I need to know.
Control room manager. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here.
Shit.
How the hell did she get back here?
Aleksandr’s men were supposed to have taken care of all this with whatever distractions, bribes, or quiet threats needed to keep this room empty for the five minutes I’d need. The plan was airtight.
Her eyes narrow as she takes in my gown and the diamond at my throat. I move slightly to conceal the USB from sight.
“Guests aren’t allowed back here,” she says. Her tone is clipped and professional, but there’s an edge beneath it. One that tells me she’s used to dealing with drunk VIPs and entitled celebrities and knows exactly how to shut them down.
I plaster on my best innocent smile, the one I perfected to use at my father’s functions when I needed to charm a general or a minister into agreeing to whatever terms were currently being negotiated.
“Sorry,” I say, letting my voice go light and breathy. “I was trying to find tonight’s playlist. I wanted to request a song during one of the awards. Someone I know is being honored tonight and I thought… well, it would be nice to surprise him with his favorite song.”
Her expression doesn’t budge. “You’re not supposed to be touching the equipment. Who let you in here?”
I take a small step forward, hands raised slightly in surrender. “Sorry, it was a dumb idea. I’ll leave.”
I tilt my head back just enough to look over my shoulder at the USB, finding it thankfully blinking green.
“Step away from the console,” she says. “Now.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Really. I’ll go right now. I just—”
Her eyes narrow at me, suspicion hardening into certainty as recognition clicks into place. “Wait a minute… you’re Katerina Borchin. You’re on the banned guest list. You’re not supposed to be here at all.”
My smile falters.
Banned?
He had the audacity to actually ban me? After selling me off?
I almost scoff in disbelief. Adding my name to a list to keep me from coming to an event like this is downright insulting.
Did his paranoia finally get the better of him?
Cause him to worry I might escape the Volkov estate and come for him?
After whatever Aleksandr did to him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d barely left the house since then.
Nor would it surprise me to find out he had every guard on his security team working overtime to protect the grounds.
The woman in front of me reaches for her radio.
I move without thinking.
My hand snaps out and grabs her wrist before she can key the mic. I twist it in a sharp motion the way I’ve seen Volkov enforcers do once or twice. She gasps as the radio clatters to the floor, a pained groan leaving her.
I kick it away and spin her until her back is against the wall and my forearm is across her throat. Not hard enough to choke but enough to get my point across that this is not up for debate.
Her eyes go wide.
“Don’t scream,” I hiss. “You won’t like what happens if you do.”
She freezes.
My eyes narrow at her. “You’re going to stay right here and not touch anything in this room that looks out of place.
When this is all over, you’re going to walk out and pretend you saw nothing.
Because if you don’t and you run to security to tell anyone what you saw tonight, I will make sure you pay for it. Am I understood?”
She swallows hard and nods slightly.
A booming voice echoes from down the hallway. “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Colonel Ramil Borchin to the stage.”
Applause erupts faintly.
Shit.
I shove away from her and quickly head for the door. My hand slaps onto the frame when I pass through it, stopping me long enough to look over my shoulder at her one last time. “Remember what I said.”
She nods meekly, slumping into a chair nearby.
Satisfied, I turn and leave. My heels are loud as I run back to the stage, the sound of them easily drowned out by the crowd growing louder the closer I get. Stage hands shoot me looks as I pass by them, though none of them reach to stop me.
The comms in my ear crackles with something Aleksandr is saying—“Status?”—but the blood rushing in my ears is too loud for me to decipher it.
The spotlight hits me the second I finally step out from behind the background curtain. The ballroom beyond is a sea of black, white, and glittering gowns. Crystal chandeliers throw prisms across every surface, hundreds of people turning as one when the applause for my father falters mid-stride.
He turns at the sound of my heels, his face going instantly white.