19. Anya
ANYA
For a moment, I forget where I am.
The hall, the lights, the music, Yaromir’s hand at my waist, all of it fades behind the sight of Dmitri and Katya standing near the auction platform.
Together.
Not touching, not obviously. They are too careful for that now. But I know what closeness looks like when people are trying to hide it. I know the small angle of Katya’s body toward him. I know the way Dmitri’s attention keeps slipping to her, even while he pretends to look at the room.
My stomach twists.
I hate that it still hurts. I hate that after everything, after running from the wedding, after marrying Yaromir, after the blood and the hotel and the strange new life I have somehow stepped into, the sight of them can still make me feel like the foolish girl outside that sitting room door.
Katya sees me first.
Her face changes. Only for a second. Shock, then calculation, then something almost like guilt before she smooths it away.
Dmitri follows her gaze, and his eyes find mine. The change in him is immediate. He stops mid-sentence. His mouth parts slightly. The arrogance slips from his face, and for one raw, satisfying second, he looks exactly how I once felt.
Unprepared.
Wounded in public.
Good.
I want to enjoy it more than I do. But seeing him standing there in his tuxedo, beautiful and careless, beside the woman who helped him humiliate me, brings back the worst of it.
My fingers tighten around Yaromir’s sleeve.
He feels it. Of course he does.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back, firm and grounding. “Breathe,” he says quietly.
“I am breathing.”
He gives me a look.
I turn my head toward him. “Is this your way of helping?”
“Yes.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s working. You’re arguing.”
I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat.
Dmitri is still staring. His gaze moves over me slowly now, taking in the red dress, the diamonds, the coat slipping slightly off my shoulders, Yaromir’s hand on me.
Then his eyes drop to the ring. Yaromir’s ring.
Something hard moves across Dmitri’s face.
Not love. Not regret.
Jealousy.
Yaromir leans closer. “Look at me.”
I do.
His face is calm, but his eyes are not. They’re fixed on me with that dark, steady attention that makes me feel seen in a way I’m not ready for.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks.
The question surprises me.
I glance back at Dmitri and Katya. Katya has lowered her eyes. Dmitri has not.
“No,” I say.
Yaromir’s mouth barely curves. “Good.”
This time, I don’t tell him to stop saying that.
The music changes. A slower piece begins, the kind of polished, elegant waltz people dance to when they want the room to admire how civilized they are.
Yaromir takes my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing with my wife.”
I stiffen. “Now?”
“Especially now.”
Before I can argue, he leads me toward the dance floor.
People notice immediately. Whispers follow us like a draft. I feel every eye in the room. Galina’s cold stare from somewhere near the auction platform. Dmitri’s anger. Katya’s discomfort. Women turning their heads to watch. Men pretending not to assess me and failing.
Yaromir stops at the center of the floor and turns to face me.
I place one hand on his shoulder because I’ve been taught how to do this since I was a girl. Smile lightly. Stand straight. Follow the man’s lead. Look graceful even when your shoes hurt and the room wants to eat you.
But this is different. This is Yaromir.
His hand closes around mine. His other hand settles at my waist, not too low, not yet, but firm enough to remind me who I’m standing with.
“Relax,” he says.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re holding yourself like you expect gunfire.”
“Given your family, that seems wise.”
His eyes warm with something almost like amusement.
Then he moves.
I have danced with Dmitri before. Dmitri liked dancing because people watched him. He moved well, smiled easily, spun me when he wanted applause. He made everything look effortless because effort was beneath him.
Yaromir dances like he does everything else.
With control. No wasted motion. No performance for its own sake.
He leads without asking permission and somehow gives me enough space to choose to follow.
His body is close, but not careless. His hand at my waist adjusts once, and suddenly my steps fit his perfectly.
It annoys me how good it feels.
“You’re thinking again,” he says.
“I’m trying not to step on you.”
“You won’t.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“You’re sure about everything.”
“No.” His eyes hold mine. “Not everything.”
My breath catches, and the room blurs a little at the edges.
He turns me, slow and smooth, and the red silk of my dress moves around my legs. I hear a few whispers nearby. I feel heads turn. When I come back into his arms, I’m closer than before.
My chest nearly brushes his.
His thumb moves once at my waist. Small. Deliberate.
Heat slips down my spine. “Yaromir,” I warn.
His expression doesn’t change. “Yes?”
“People are watching.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that like it makes this better.”
“It does.”
His hand shifts lower, still proper enough that no one can accuse him of anything, improper enough that my body knows exactly what he means.
Of course he notices. “Are you embarrassed?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Yaromir.”
“You blush beautifully.”
I almost miss a step.
He catches me immediately, pulling me in with quiet strength. My hand tightens on his shoulder. Beneath the expensive fabric of his suit, he’s solid and warm and real.
I forget the auction, the gossip, the ring, the bargain. There’s only Yaromir’s hand on me and the way he looks at me, as if the whole room is allowed to stare because none of them can touch.
The thought makes my knees feel weak.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you know what I’m thinking.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
His mouth curves.
There. Almost a smile. It changes his face just enough to make my stomach tighten.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I should lie. I should say I’m thinking about Dmitri, or Katya, or the room full of people waiting for me to crack.
Instead, I look at his mouth for half a second too long.
His eyes darken.
The music continues around us, elegant and distant. We turn again, and this time his hand spreads more fully over my back, pulling me closer. My body follows before my pride can object.
I hate how natural it feels. I hate how my body seems to know him better than I do.
The dance changes without changing.
Still proper. Still public. But the air between us becomes hot and private.
Every step presses me closer. Every turn brushes my thigh against his. His scent reaches me, smoke and cedar and cold air, and my pulse starts beating in places it should not be beating in the middle of a crowded hall.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. I feel it like a touch.
“Careful,” I whisper.
His voice is low. “That was my line.”
The song ends.
I don’t realize it at first. My hand is still on his shoulder. His hand is still at my waist. For a second, we stand there as the room begins to clap politely around us.
I become aware of the room again all at once.
People are watching. Really watching.
A woman near the front hides a smile behind her champagne glass. Two men exchange a look. Galina’s face is stone. Dmitri looks like he wants to break something. And Katya looks at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time.
The satisfaction that moves through me is small, but bright.
Yaromir releases me slowly. Too slowly.
I step back first because if I don’t, the room will see more than I want it to.
“You did that on purpose,” I say.
“Yes.”
“At least lie sometimes.”
“No.”
I shake my head, but my mouth threatens to smile.
A waiter passes with champagne. I take a glass mostly to give my hands something to do. Yaromir’s attention shifts across the room, alert again, scanning faces and exits and enemies I don’t know how to name yet.
His hand touches my back once. “Stay close.”
I should resent it.
I do.
But less than I did before.
“I see Irina,” I say, spotting a familiar pale dress near the side corridor.
Yaromir follows my gaze. “The women from lunch?”
“Yes.”
His expression cools. “Do you want me with you?”
The question makes something in my chest tighten.
“No,” I say. “I can speak to my friends.”
He looks at me for a moment, as if deciding whether to argue. Then he inclines his head. “I’ll be near the west column.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No,” he says. “You are my wife in a room full of people looking for weak points.”
Before I can decide what to do with that, he turns away to speak to Viktor, who has appeared near his side like a shadow.
I stand there for a second longer than I should. Then I go toward Irina.
At least, I mean to.
But as I come closer, I hear voices from the small alcove behind a line of tall flower arrangements. Irina, Lena, and two other women from my old circle stand partly hidden near the champagne table.
I slow.
They have not seen me.
“Anyway,” Irina says, “did you see the emerald necklace in lot twenty-three?”
“The old Romanov-style piece?” one of the women asks.
“Yes. It’s stunning.”
Lena sighs. “Everyone has noticed it. The bidding will be insane.”
“I heard Katya has her eye on it,” Irina says.
My breath catches.
There’s a small laugh. “Of course she does.”
“And Dmitri will get it for her,” Irina continues. “He always gets what he wants.”
My footsteps slow.
“I still can’t believe she actually came,” Irina says.
“She had to,” another woman replies. “What else could she do? Hide forever?”
Lena’s voice is lower. “Be fair. Dmitri humiliated her.”
“And she married his brother a week later?” Irina says. “That’s not dignity. That’s desperation and she’s always been that way. Now don’t look at me, Lena. You know she’s not one of us. Her father is a pathetic bootlicker.”
I stop walking. My fingers tighten around the champagne glass.
One of the women laughs softly. “Did you see the way Yaromir looked at her? Maybe desperation works.”
“Please,” Irina says. “Men like Yaromir don’t marry girls like Anya because they’re in love.”
“No one said love.”