Thread Of Smoke

Chapter 2: Smoke and Ash

"Zoya." Her name, in a voice she didn't know, unbothered, coming from a shape rising off the edge of the bed. "There she is."

Her head whipped toward the voice, every muscle in her body locking at once, some animal part of her already cataloguing distance and exits before the rest of her had even finished being afraid.

"Who the hell are you?"

He crossed the room slower than she expected, unhurried, a lit cigar between two fingers, and something about the pace of it told her he'd rehearsed this exact walk in his head before tonight even started.

"I finally get you alone." He smiled then, like he'd finally solved a puzzle, one shoulder settling lazily against the wall as he looked at her. "I wondered if you'd remember me."

Zoya frowned at him, her lip curling before she could stop it.

"Should I?" Her pulse ticked up a notch, though her voice gave nothing away.

His smile widened.

"The Paris Debutante Ball."

She stared at him for another second.

Then the memory surfaced.

Gold chandeliers. Crystal. Her father's hand at the small of her back, steering her past man after man before any of them reached her, cutting introductions short with a look. Ministers given ten minutes. A royal family given fifteen. Everyone else given nothing at all.

"You know what disappointed me most?" His eyes moved over her slowly, without embarrassment, taking in the long waves the sea breeze kept lifting over one bare shoulder, the white lace, the composure she'd carried into that room without realizing half the yacht had stopped breathing because of it.

A smile touched his mouth.

"The photographs lied."

She stared at him.

"They flattened you." His voice stayed almost conversational. "Beauty like yours was never meant to fit inside a frame."

Her lip curled.

"Congratulations." She folded her arms. "You've confirmed I still don't like you."

"I wasn't trying to change your mind."

"No?" She held perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of curiosity.

"No." He rolled the cigar between his fingers, unhurried. "I've never needed to be liked."

His gaze stayed on hers.

"I've only ever needed to be remembered."

"I'm starting to understand why my father limited everyone to five minutes." She kept her chin level, refusing to give the words anywhere to land.

"And yet here you are." He said it softly, almost fond, the way a man might greet an inevitability rather than a surprise.

"I have a fiancé." She lifted her chin. "Which should've been your first clue this conversation isn't going anywhere."

He smiled, unbothered, and glanced at the thin gold watch on his wrist as if her fiancé were a meeting he'd already accounted for. "Do you?"

"...Excuse me?"