24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sergei
“Ican’t believe you talked me into this,” I mutter in Russian as Nadia adjusts my bowtie, which perfectly complements the overpriced tuxedo I’m wearing.
“Oh, stop it,” Nadia says, her voice tinged with exasperation. “You know this is the right thing to do—” Her attention shifts to the servers behind me. “Yolki palki, don’t put it there!” She rushes off to scold them, but I know she’ll be apologizing soon enough.
When Nadia first suggested hosting an exclusive New Year’s Eve party at my apartment, I nearly fired her on the spot. But her arguments were solid, her logic ironclad. That’s how she always won our debates—her reasoning was unassailable.
The board was growing increasingly restless.
Financial projections held steady, yet my questionable reputation loomed over me and my hotel like a dark cloud.
Despite formal channels clearing me of any wrongdoing—and the fact that I was never officially named a person of interest—Daniel’s earlier accusations still carried their echoes.
How much alcohol would it take to drown out my guests’ skepticism about my leadership capabilities?
Honestly, I’m not sure there’s enough in all of Nevada to shift their perceptions.
The party guest list was a carefully curated mix of board members and several public figures. Nadia even suggested inviting Raymond Rivers to show our appreciation for him finally doing his job and signing off on the liquor license.
But inviting these people into my home during the holiday feels… wrong.
My fondest childhood memories are all tied to New Year’s Eve.
While the occasion is celebrated worldwide, it holds even greater significance in the Slavic culture.
No matter how hard my parents worked or what else was happening in our lives, this night was sacred.
Everything else was forgotten, and the focus shifted entirely to family and celebration.
I remember as we raised our glasses for a final toast to bid farewell to the old year, we savored the bittersweet echoes of past celebrations and losses.
The small television in the corner shifted from the 1970s film, S Lyogkim Parom, to a close-up of a clock reminiscent of Big Ben.
This sudden change pulled everyone’s attention to the screen.
The bells chimed, each note resonating through the room and into the homes of all celebrating.
Voices blended in a rising chorus of anticipation, creating an electric buzz.
Then, with a triumphant pop, the champagne cork flew, its bubbly spray mingling with the fireworks dazzling on the television screen.
Adults drank throughout the night as if it was their own personal Olympics, a year-long preparation culminating in this moment, eagerly anticipating who would collapse first beneath the tree.
Over-sugared, exhausted children unwrapped presents from Ded Moroz and his granddaughter Snegurochka, one inevitably sipping vodka, mistaking it for water, leading to laughter and a core memory to be retold at every New Year’s Eve celebration in the years to come.
As a child, I adored the holiday. As an adult, I barely tolerate it.
The magic, atmosphere, and traditions never lived up to my memories. Despite having people decorate the tree and cook traditional dishes—each surpassing my mother’s cooking—and Nadia’s help with presents for Alessia and Misha in past years, it all felt like a cheap replica of the original evening.
“Excuse me,” one of the servers says as they pass by, snapping me out of my memories. I step aside to let them through.
The living and dining areas have been completely transformed.
The stunning tree, nearly brushing the ceiling, is decorated with meticulous care—each ornament symmetrically arranged, the colors perfectly complementary, as if lifted from a Hallmark movie.
Violin notes drift through the air, turning familiar pop tunes into hauntingly elegant melodies.
A makeshift bar buzzes with activity, where two stylish bartenders craft cocktails with graceful precision, their movements a dance as they serve eager guests.
The long, rectangular table gleams with polished elegance, covered in a vibrant array of Ukrainian classics.
Nadia has orchestrated every detail, with a menu crafted by one of the best Ukrainian chefs.
The spread features creamy layers of olivier salad, rich selёdka pod shuboy, and an assortment of mayonnaise-heavy dishes.
In the center of the table, elliptical dishes are filled with holodetz, the jelly-like chicken soup, and rectangular bowls hold borscht, the traditional red beet soup.
Neatly arranged red and black caviar sandwiches challenge the first guest to disturb their perfect symmetry.
I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the servers has a ruler in their apron, ready to correct any disruption caused by an eaten sandwich.
Everything looks perfect, yet it all feels strangely artificial.
What’s missing are the sounds of screeching children, the imperfections of tables with makeshift leaves added to extend them, and the mismatched dishes, silverware, and glasses from broken sets over the years.
Missing is the warmth that comes from being surrounded by those you love and who love you in return.
My eyes search for Aurora.
The past few weeks have been miserable. Every time I looked at her, she seemed on the verge of tears, as though she was in constant pain.
She made it abundantly clear that nothing could happen between us, but the pained expression adorning her beautiful face suggested it wasn’t just uneasiness from what transpired between us.
It was something else. I wanted to talk to her, to clear the air, to apologize for whatever I did that dimmed the bright light surrounding her.
But I didn’t. I worried that bringing it up again would go against her wish to let it go.
Externally, I was pretending that everything was fine and business went on as usual between us, even as my inner thoughts were driving me mad.
Every time I caught a glimpse of her, or a breeze carried lavender scent to me, I was lost in the memories of having my arms around her in Misha’s bed or in the pool.
I could imagine the slickness of her skin, her body pressed against mine, setting my blood on fire.
The memory of the lingering taste of wine and gin on her lips made everything else feel like dirt in my mouth.
“The view from here is absolutely to die for,” says the wife of a heavyset board member as I join a group of guests.
Her choice of words, oblivious to the somber context, prompts her husband to quickly hush her and steer her away.
Clearly, she didn’t get the memo about avoiding death-related terms in my presence.
“I’m so excited to try some of this… ethnic food,” chimes in another board member with hesitant enthusiasm. “Do we serve this at the hotel?”
I want to snap that we don’t serve any of this, but I clench my fists and let it go, striving to maintain a veneer of civility. “Yes, there’s a whole page dedicated to Ukrainian cuisine in the European restaurant,” I answer without looking in his direction.
I scan the cold room again for Aurora and Misha.
I planned for them to stay at the hotel tonight to avoid the chaos of the party.
Yet, with her masterful persuasion, Nadia convinced me that having Misha here might make the evening semi-tolerable.
She also appealed to my logical side, arguing that his presence would enhance my image as a devoted, nurturing father.
I hate using Misha as a pawn in the game of social perception, but perhaps she’s right, and his being here might improve the night, even a little.
Maybe having her here could make the evening feel like it did when I was growing up.
Misha rushes into the living room, his black suit crooked as if it had been wrestled onto him.
And trailing him is Aurora. As she enters, all eyes are drawn to her as if by an irresistible force.
She glides across the room in a midnight blue floor-length gown that shimmers, the delicate lace of the bodice trailing in intricate patterns that dance with each step.
She’s like lightning slicing through a storm, and I’m the fool standing in the field, daring nature to strike.
“Who’s that?” someone murmurs nearby.
Aurora weaves into the crowd, her gentle smile and sparkling eyes a sight I haven’t seen in weeks. She’s a goddess—captivating and irresistible, a vision of grace and sophistication that makes me question everything I thought I knew.
It takes every ounce of my willpower not to cut through the crowd, sweep Aurora into my arms, and take her to my bed.
That dress.
That woman.
God help me.
When it’s time to find our seats, I’m torn between cursing Nadia and thanking her for seating Aurora next to me at the head of the table.
Anton and Pavel, both in matching tuxedos, settle in by Nadia, and I can’t help but wonder if that arrangement was also intentional.
She winks at me from across the table, letting me know she’s, as always, two steps ahead before I turn my attention to the enchanting woman beside me.
“Papa,” Misha calls from Aurora’s other side.
“Chto, Misha?” I ask in Russian as I pull the ornamental napkin from my plate onto my lap.
“Do you always speak Russian to him?” a board member sitting a few seats to my right asks, curiosity piqued.
His much younger female companion chimes in, “Wouldn’t that delay him, like, in school if he doesn’t speak English?”