4. I followed her anyway. （Aleksander）
I FOLLOWED HER ANYWAY. (ALEKSANDER)
“Congratulations on your marriage, Aleksander.”
I shake Yakov Gagarin’s hand, brief and firm. Around us, The Velvet Echo hums—low music, crystal, expensive liquor, expensive violence. Mila stands beside him in dark silk, one hand resting lightly against his arm.
“Thank you,” I say.
Yakov’s gaze flicks toward Tamara. “You survived the ceremony. That’s the hardest part.”
“Comforting,” Tamara says dryly.
“I’m serious,” Yakov says. “The reception is easier. Everyone’s drunk by midnight.”
“Excellent,” Tamara replies. “Something to aspire to.”
Mila laughs softly, then turns toward her. “If you need anything, call me. Katarina too.”
They move off into the crowd on that note. Men in tailored suits keep track of every entrance, every glass, every hand that disappears inside a jacket. Women in diamonds drift past on stilettos, their hair swept into immaculate, expensive arrangements.
Tamara doesn’t look impressed. Her attention goes to the doors, the guards, the men with jackets cut to conceal weapons.
“You’re cataloging the room,” I say.
“I’m trying to determine which guests are armed.”
“Most.”
“Including the priest?” she asks.
“Especially the priest.”
She almost smiles. Fights it. Loses.
I should not enjoy the victory as much as I do.
A waiter passes with champagne. Conversations continue around us, but differently now. People glance at her, assessing and curious.
One older man approaches, greeting me first.
“Aleksander.” Respectful nod. “Beautiful ceremony.” Only then does he look at Tamara. “Kalinin’s girl.”
Tamara doesn’t react aside from correcting her posture, which tells me plenty.
“Tamara,” I say evenly.
The man blinks once. “Of course.”
He leaves quickly after that.
She looks at me over the rim of her glass. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
She recovers fast. Too fast. I file that away too. A woman who expected to be handled, not seen.
Across the room, Igor gives me the smallest lift of his chin. A check-in. Everything under control.
It is.
Mostly.
The music shifts into a slower, softer beat. Tamara catches it the same moment I do.
“We have to dance now, don’t we?” she asks.
“Technically, no.”
But I set my glass down and offer my hand regardless. She considers it long enough to make refusal feel possible. Then she places hers in mine.
Her fingers are cool, her grip precise. I guide her onto the floor. Around us, conversations continue with slightly too much effort. Tamara notices the change and adjusts before the first step.
“You’re very aware of everyone watching you,” she murmurs as we begin to move.
“I was raised that way.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Her palm rests lightly against my shoulder. Mine settles at her waist, leaving space between us on purpose.
Her fingers ease against my jacket.
“You’re not holding me very tightly,” she says after a moment.
“That’s deliberate.”
“You always this controlled?”
“Yes.”
After that, she stays silent. Just studies me like I’m a problem she’s deciding whether to solve.
She moves well. Balanced, like someone who learned long ago that composure could become armor.
I recognize the technique. I invented a version of it myself.
“You hate this,” I say quietly.
She lifts her chin. “My father handed me over in a church full of men who frisk people for a living,” she says softly. “I’m trying very hard not to sulk.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. She has just described the evening better than anyone in this room would dare.
“You’re doing remarkably well,” I say.
Her laugh is quiet and bitter. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
The tempo drops. Her skirt brushes my leg.
For one step, every careful inch between us matters.
I do not close it.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
Tamara glances toward the edge of the dance floor where several men immediately look away when caught watching.
“They’re afraid of you,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You don’t seem upset about that.”
“Fear keeps people predictable.”
“And what keeps you predictable?”
She means it lightly. I don’t answer lightly.
“Discipline.”
The song ends before either of us says anything else.
I release her first. That unsettles her more than pressure would have.
She knows what to do with pressure.
“Well,” she says lightly, stepping back. “Congratulations. We survived the hostage waltz.”
“A memorable achievement.”
“Do married people usually hate each other this much at first sight?”
“No. Typically it takes eight to ten years.”
“So we’re ahead of schedule.”
“Significantly.”
Before I can say more, the lighting changes. The chandeliers dim a fraction as music pulses faintly from downstairs—the nightclub level of The Velvet Echo waking up beneath the reception.
A few younger guests drift toward the staircase immediately.
“Ah,” Tamara says dryly. “The sacred transition from Orthodox sacrament to bottle service.”
“That’s New York tradition.”
Mikhail appears out of nowhere with a champagne flute in one hand and what looks suspiciously like tequila in the other.
“There she is,” he announces, already too drunk to modulate his volume properly. “My terrifying new sister-in-law.”
“Mikhail,” I warn.
He ignores me completely, eyes fixed on Tamara. “Question. On a scale of one to psychotic, how close are you to a complete nervous breakdown?”
Tamara blinks. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs. Real and loud. Three conversations near us falter at once.
Mikhail points at her triumphantly. “See? I knew she was interesting.”
“You’re drunk,” I tell him.
“You’re emotionally constipated. We all have problems.”
Tamara nearly chokes on her champagne.
“You know what you need?” Mikhail continues, speaking directly to her now. “A drink, loud music, and one bad decision that doesn’t involve organized crime.”
“Mikhail.”
“No, hear me out.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You just endured a strategic alliance disguised as a wedding. If anyone in this room has earned a catastrophic second drink, it’s you.”
Tamara looks toward the staircase. Then at the champagne in her hand. She drains the rest of her drink, sets the glass on a passing tray, and says, “You know what? Fine.”
My brows lift. “Fine?”
She turns toward the staircase, pulling the pins from her hair. Blonde waves spill over her shoulders as she descends into the club level wearing a cathedral-white wedding gown and the absolute refusal to be dignified for one more second.
Katarina stares after her. “Oh, this is going to be spectacular.”
Mila smiles into her drink. “I like her.”
I should stop this. Instead, I follow as if hypnotized.
Downstairs, the reception has shed its manners, jazz giving way to deep house. Colored lights cut through the crowd.
And in the middle of it—
Tamara, dancing, violently alive.
The lace of her gown flashes white beneath the lights as she moves through the crowd like she’s trying to outrun the last twelve hours. Hair loose. Black nails wrapped around another drink someone handed her. Laughing now when my sister Katarina joins her.
People stare because white lace under club lights is impossible to ignore. But Tamara gives them nothing back.
Mikhail appears beside me, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“Your wife’s insane,” he says.
I should disagree. I’m not sure I can.
Across the dance floor, Tamara spins under strobing lights, laughing breathlessly as Katarina drags her deeper into the crowd.
She doesn’t look like a hostage bride at all. She looks like a woman I will have trouble staying away from.