Chapter 1
ALINA
The DJ plays another sappy love song, and I’m forced to keep this stupid smile on my face as I wonder where the hell my fiancé’s gotten to. It’s such a beautiful party, so elegant and dripping in wealth. The complete opposite of my tastes, but it was important to Kostya’s family.
I notice the expensive crystal and can probably tell you the exact price of each shrimp within two cents. I’m much more comfortable on the other side of events like this. It feels wrong to be in the middle of it; to be the center of attention at a party thrown in my honor.
I’ve worked enough events to know when a party is trying to impress people.
The rental fee on this ballroom alone costs more than my rent for a year.
The chandeliers are crystal, not glass. The linens are heavy, real linen, pressed so sharply they feel stiff beneath my fingers when I brush past the tables.
The flowers aren’t just pretty; they’re expensive and indulgent, grown out of season and arranged by one of the finest florists in New York City.
Every detail of this party has been chosen to make people feel luxurious and important. Yet, here I am, the bride-to-be, and I’ve never felt less important in my life.
Yet people continue to approach me.
“You look beautiful, Alina.”
“You must be so happy.”
“You’re glowing.”
I smile when they say it. I thank them. I let them kiss my cheeks and squeeze my hands. I nod when they tell me how proud my mother would be if she were here.
She would’ve been involved in the details. She would have made sure that this party felt more like me, and that I didn’t just sit through the arrangements nodding and smiling while secretly cringing inside.
The planning was more fun than the event is turning out to be.
When I was sitting with Kostya’s mother, picking out the details, I imagined I’d feel like a princess in the middle of a ball.
We went shopping for the most beautiful dress, a champagne-colored, knee-length party dress that’s fitted through the waist, with subtle sequins that catch the light when I move.
She even let me borrow an old family tiara and some family jewels.
Now, though, I feel like Cinderella at 12:01.
The dress doesn’t seem to fit exactly right, and the jewelry feels too heavy, and nothing about the party feels like something I actually want.
I find myself watching the waiters with envy, wishing I could slip back into my uniform and become invisible to the people here.
Instead, I smooth my hands over my dress and wonder where the hell my fiancé is.
He’s supposed to be right beside me. He stayed through all the pictures. He greeted the guests. He put his hand at the small of my back and leaned in to whisper sweet things in my ear when he could tell I was feeling nervous and overwhelmed.
Then he disappeared.
At first, I don’t think much of it. Kostya knows everyone, or at the very least, he knows how to act like he knows everyone. He likes to circulate, to feel important. He’s good at it in a way that makes people feel singled out when he focuses on them. They feel drawn to him.
I’ve always told myself that’s part of his charm, but now I realize that it’s a huge inconvenience. Is this what marriage to him will be like? Will I always be standing in the middle of a ballroom feeling awkward and wanting to disappear?
It’s been over an hour, and I scan the room again, my eyes moving automatically now.
I search near the bar where his friends are all gathered telling raucous stories that have them all cackling.
My eyes sweep near the band, where he was earlier, joking with the musicians.
They land on my father, who is deep in conversation with two men I recognize from his work at the docks.
Kostya isn’t anywhere.
Someone presses a champagne flute into my hand. The glass is cold against my fingers.
“Your fiancé stepped out for a moment,” one of Kostya’s many cousins tells me casually. “He’ll be back.”
I nod, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I take a sip of champagne. It tastes sharper than I expect, the bubbles stinging the back of my throat.
My father catches my eye from across the room.
He smiles at me proudly, and his eyes water a little.
I’m his only child, his baby girl. We’re as close as we can possibly be, considering how much he works.
He’s been a dock worker my whole life, and he had to put in a lot more hours after my mom died.
He became a single parent responsible for a two-person income, and a little girl who didn’t know why her mom had to leave her.
He’s the one who introduced me to Kostya. He said he wanted to see me married and settled so that he wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore, and when he met his boss’s cousin, he was just sure we’d click.
I believed him at the time. Kostya was handsome and charming.
He was older than me, but not so much that it felt inappropriate.
He’s been good to me in the six months we’ve been together, but there’s so much I don’t know about him.
There are secrets he keeps, and he often expects me to just grin and bear it.
Now chatting with his dock buddies, my dad looks uncomfortable in his suit but happy, adjusting the knot of his tie like he isn’t used to wearing one. He raises his glass toward me and I smile back and lift my glass slightly in response.
I don’t want to disappoint him. Kostya’s parents paid for all of this, so the least I can do is be grateful and let my dad feel proud of me. It would just be a lot easier if my future husband were also reveling in pride next to me.
I pull my phone from my clutch and glance at the screen. He hasn’t sent me any messages. I dial his number and lift the phone to my ear, pressing a finger against my other ear to block out the music.
It rings and rings before going to voicemail. I hang up before the message finishes playing.
Something tightens in my chest. He should be enjoying his night with me. He should be talking to our friends with me, and accepting congratulations with his hand held firmly in mine.
I tuck my phone away and turn when someone calls my name. Another congratulations. Another photo. Someone asks about the flowers, who arranged them, whether I had help planning everything.
I answer automatically. Yes, the hotel staff has been wonderful. Yes, they’re incredibly professional. Yes, Mrs. Belova is a dream, and I can’t wait to be her daughter-in-law.
When I’m free again, I check my phone. Still nothing. I tell myself not to make this into a bigger deal than it needs to be. I’m just tired and overstimulated and being pulled in ten directions at once. I’m just inventing problems.
I tell myself all of this, but my gut won’t be ignored. Something feels off.
I step toward the windows at the edge of the ballroom, where the noise fades just enough that I can hear my own breathing. The city stretches out below, distant and indifferent.
I dial him again. I get his voicemail again. This time, I let it play. His voice sounds relaxed. Confident. Like nothing in the world could be wrong.
I hang up and stare at his name on the screen, opting to text him instead.
Where are you?
I watch the screen longer than I should. No typing bubbles appear. My fingers curl around the phone.
I scan the room again, this time from the outside. I walk the perimeter, smiling when people stop me, excusing myself politely when conversations try to pull me in.
The discomfort in my chest sharpens into something harder to ignore. I can’t stand here anymore.
I nod politely at guests as I move toward the door. The hallway outside the ballroom feels cooler and much quieter. The music dulls into a background thrum. My heels sound too loud on the carpet.
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how alone I am out here.
This is ridiculous, I tell myself. He’s probably on a call. Or outside. Or in the restroom.
I check my phone again.
Nothing.
I start walking, checking side spaces as I go. He isn’t near the restrooms or in the small lounge where a few guests are laughing over drinks. The further I get from the ballroom, the more uneasy I feel.
I stop at the intersection of two hallways, debating whether to turn back, when I hear his laughter. It’s close and intimate, in a way I’ve come to know well.
My heart starts beating faster, hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
You’re imagining things, I tell myself. But my feet move anyway.
I turn down the narrower corridor meant for staff and deliveries.
The lighting is dimmer here, less opulent and more practical.
The air smells faintly of cleaning products.
Then I hear a woman’s voice, soft and nervous. She’s murmuring something, and I hear Kostya’s laughter again.
My stomach drops.
I round the corner.
That’s when I finally find my fiancé. He is standing, facing the wall, with his pants unbuckled and his lips on another woman’s exposed chest. She’s wearing a hotel uniform. Her hands are gripping his jacket and body is angled into hers, one arm braced beside her head, the other grasping her thigh.
For a moment, my brain stalls. There’s no way I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There’s no way my fiancé is fucking another woman at our goddamn engagement party. My breath comes out in short spurts, and I start to see red.
“Kostya,” I say in a thin voice.
They both instantly freeze. He turns slowly, already arranging his expression. That familiar calm smile slides into place like it’s muscle memory.
“Alina,” he says, the panic evident on his face. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
The woman’s eyes widen. She shoves at his chest and stumbles away from him, muttering something I don’t catch before she disappears down the hall.
I look at him. At his hands. His mouth. The jacket I helped him choose is hanging open and his shirt is rumpled from her hands. He’s moving quickly, adjusting his clothing, buttoning and zipping, and it’s all too much.
“What do you think it looks like?” I ask hollowly, my voice sounding distant to even myself. “Because it looks like you’re fucking another woman at our engagement party.”
He lifts his hands slightly, palms out, in a sign of surrender. “Oh, baby,” he says in a calming tone. “You’ve misunderstood.”
I let out a short laugh. It sounds hysterical. “I’ve misunderstood your dick in her in the goddamn hallway?” I ask.
He steps toward me, lowering his voice, glancing down the hall like he’s more concerned about being seen than about me.
“You’re upset,” he says. “But you’re misunderstanding—”
“You were fucking her against a wall,” I say. “Thirty feet from our engagement party.”
His jaw tightens for a split second before smoothing out. “She came onto me,” he says. “I told her to stop. She didn’t.”
I stare at him. “You must think I’m an idiot,” I say.
“No, of course not,” he says quickly. “I think you’re emotional right now and—”
My hand moves before I think about it. I throw my phone as hard as I can, cutting off whatever bullshit he’s about to spit out. It hits him in the face with a sharp crack that echoes down the corridor. He shouts, stumbling back, and clutching his nose.
I don’t stick around for the aftermath. I turn and run, with no particular direction in mind. My breath comes fast and shallow. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I can’t stay here.
I hear my name behind me. I don’t turn around.
The elevator doors slide shut as I throw myself inside and hit the first button I see. I lean against the wall, shaking. My chest heaves and tears spill down my face before I can stop them. I wipe at them with the back of my hand, not caring about the expertly applied makeup I had done earlier.
The elevator hums as it moves. I don’t notice the man inside until I look up. He stands across from me, tall and still, dressed in dark clothes that look expensive without being flashy. His expression is neutral. His eyes are pale and steady.
“Bad night?” he asks.
I let out a shaky, incredulous breath. “Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts, it takes me a minute to really look at the man. When I do, I almost start shaking for another reason. I’m alone in an elevator with Andrei Markov, the most notorious Bratva boss in the city.