19. Nina
NINA
The gala’s being held at the old conservatory wing of the Royal Meridian, which is exactly the kind of place rich people choose when they want to look good giving away to poor.
The driveway curves through gardens lit with low golden lamps, and by the time Luka stops the car at the entrance, I can see the glass roof glowing above the building like a greenhouse full of chandeliers.
A red carpet runs from the covered drop-off to the front doors.
Photographers stand behind a velvet rope.
Women in jewel-toned gowns move through the light with champagne smiles.
Men in black suits shake hands with the kind of seriousness that suggests all of them are pretending not to notice each other’s wives.
I sit very still in the passenger seat.
My body has finally stopped shaking from what he did to me in the car, but my nerves are still a complete mess, and now I have to step out in front of cameras beside Luka Kazan as if I’m a normal employee attending a normal event and not someone whose underwear he adjusted under my dress ten minutes ago.
Luka comes around and opens my door himself, one hand resting on the top of the door, jacket sitting perfectly on his shoulders despite the wound underneath, face calm as photographers begin turning toward him.
He looks unreal in a black tuxedo.
Not just handsome in the easy way younger men are handsome, with charm and nothing behind the eyes.
Luka looks expensive, controlled, and slightly dangerous even when he is standing under warm lights at a charity gala.
The silver at his temples is more visible tonight, his jaw freshly shaved, his bow tie impeccable, his mouth unreadable.
There is no sign of the man who kissed me in my apartment, no trace of the man who put one hand between my thighs while driving like he was merely adjusting the climate control.
He holds out his hand.
I take it.
The moment I step out, the cameras start clicking.
My grip tightens around his fingers.
His thumb moves once over the back of my hand, quick enough that nobody else can see it, steady enough that I know it is meant for me.
“Breathe,” he says under his breath.
“I’m breathing.”
“Barely,” he murmurs. “You look so beautiful, Nina.”
My face warms, and I turn slightly toward the entrance, hoping the photographers catch my better side and not the side currently losing an argument with my heart.
Luka’s hand moves to the small of my back as we start walking. It’s a light touch, controlled and appropriate, but my body remembers every version of that hand that wasn’t appropriate at all. I feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my dress and force myself to keep my chin up.
“What’s this gala actually for?” I ask, because talking is easier than thinking about his hand.
“The Meridian Foundation holds it every year,” he says. “Officially, it raises money for pediatric trauma centers and surgical units. Unofficially, it is where half the city comes to be photographed giving money they already planned to deduct.”
“That is the most cynical explanation of charity I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs.
“Are you donating?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough that they put my name near the stage.”
I glance at him. “That sounds like something a villain says before funding an orphanage.”
“Hush now, don’t call me a villain in front of photographers.”
“So I can call you one inside?”
“Quietly.”
A laugh almost slips out of me, but the cameras are still flashing, and I remind myself to look composed.
I’ve seen this moment before in my head.
That’s the part that makes my chest ache.
For the past year, I planned Luka’s evenings with other women.
I chose the restaurant if he was too busy to care.
I confirmed dress codes. I made sure cars arrived on time.
I sent the address, the timing, the table number, the security instructions.
Sometimes I even looked up the venue photos so I could tell his date what kind of dress would work best without sounding like I was doing her emotional labor for free.
I used to imagine it despite myself.
Just a stupid little daydream that came when I was tired and annoyed and forced to type another message to another woman with perfect hair.
I imagined stepping out of a car beside him.
I imagined his hand at my back.
I imagined the cameras turning.
I imagined being the woman people looked at and wondered about, the woman close enough to Luka Kazan that he lowered his head to speak near her ear.
And now I’m here. Actually here.
In his hand. In his car. In a dress bought with his card, walking into the light beside him while the same kind of women I used to schedule are probably somewhere inside, waiting to look me up and down.
The thought makes me dizzy.
Then we reach the entrance, and reality fixes itself in the most humiliating way possible.
A concierge in a dark suit steps forward with a tablet and a practiced smile. “Mr. Kazan. Good evening. We’re honored to have you.”
“Good evening,” Luka says.
The concierge glances at me, polite but uncertain. “And your guest?”
Luka’s hand remains at my back.
There is the smallest pause.
“This is Nina Hale,” he says. “My executive staff.”
My stomach drops.
It’s ridiculous because this is exactly what I asked for.
I said I didn’t want people thinking I was sleeping with the boss. I made the rules myself and stood there like a lawyer in heels while explaining them to him.
Still, hearing it out loud feels like a slap I have no right to complain about.
My executive staff. Not my date. Not my guest. Not the woman I touched in a car five minutes before arriving.
Just… Staff.
The concierge’s expression clears immediately. He nods and checks something on the tablet. “Of course. Ms. Hale, welcome. You’re both expected in the main conservatory. Mr. Kazan, your table is near the foundation trustees.”
“Thank you,” Luka says.
I smile because I know how to do that.
I have smiled through worse things than being publicly described as exactly what I insisted on being described as.
We step inside.
The lobby is full of marble, flowers, and people pretending not to stare. A string quartet plays somewhere beyond the archway. Waiters move between groups with champagne and tiny trays of food that nobody truly wants but everyone accepts because holding something gives their hands purpose.
Luka guides me past the first cluster of guests. “You’re angry,” he says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not angry. I’m slightly miffed,” I sniffle.
His mouth tightens like he wants to smile and knows better. “You asked for secrecy.”
“I know.”
“I did what you asked.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still angry.”
“Because I’m a woman, Luka. We have range.”
He looks down at me. “Do you want me to correct it?”
My head snaps toward him. “No.”
“Then what do you want?”
I want too many things.
I want the secret because I need my career intact.
I want my brother not to know because he will lose his mind.
I want the office to see me as competent, not available.
I want Luka to understand why the word staff hurt even though I chose it.
I want to be able to stand beside him and not feel like I’m borrowing a place that should belong to one of the women from the diary.
I swallow all of that. “I want a glass of champagne.”
His eyes hold mine for a second. “You barely drink.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to finish it.”
He lifts his hand, and a waiter appears almost immediately, as if summoned by money and fear.
Luka takes one glass and gives it to me.
I accept it, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“Slowly,” he says.
I look at him. “Do you supervise everyone’s champagne intake, or am I special?”
“You are special.”
He says it so plainly that I almost forget where we are.
I take a sip to cover the reaction.
Bad idea.
The champagne is very cold and strong notes of… something or the other.
I cough once.
Luka’s mouth moves. “Slowly.”
“I hate you,” I mutter.
“No, you don’t.”
I hate that he’s learning.
We enter the main conservatory.
For a few seconds, I forget to be annoyed.
The room is stunning.
The glass ceiling rises high above us, dark with night outside and scattered with reflected chandeliers.
Tall palms and white flowers line the edges of the room.
Round tables are dressed in ivory linen, crystal, and small gold lamps.
The stage at the far end carries the Meridian Foundation emblem, and behind it, a wall of names glows in soft light.
Kazan Holdings is near the top.
People turn when Luka enters.
Conversations slow. Men straighten. Women look at him, then at me, then at his hand still resting lightly at my back.
I become painfully aware of my dress.
My hair. My face.
The fact that I’m not one of them, no matter how much the dress cost.
Luka leans down slightly. “Stop thinking.”
“I’m not.”
“I can see it on your face,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
A man approaches before I can respond. He’s in his sixties, with white hair, a deep tan, and the satisfied posture of someone who’s never had to check the price of anything in his life.
“Luka,” he says warmly. “Good to see you alive and attending events again.”
My fingers tighten around the champagne glass.
Luka does not react. “Rajan.”
The man smiles at me. “And this is?”
Before Luka answers, I brace myself.
“Nina Hale,” Luka says. “My executive staff. She manages a great deal more than anyone admits.”
I look at him.
That was not what he said outside.
It is still professional, still safe, still within the rules, but there’s enough respect in it that the sting in my chest eases despite my best efforts.
Rajan’s eyebrows lift with genuine interest. “Then I should speak to her instead of you.”
“You would get better answers,” Luka says.
I nearly choke on my champagne for the second time in three minutes.
Rajan laughs. “I like her already.”
“She has that effect,” Luka says.
My face heats.
He moves us along before I can glare at him properly.
“Was that necessary?” I ask under my breath.
“Yes.”