Again—weird.
A legion of luxury cars is queued up in a single file line as we near the Met. Photographers line the red carpet just outside the museum’s elegant entrance and flashing lights pop every other second.
“Oh, God,” I breathe, my anxiety clawing its way up my throat. “I’m gonna bust my ass up those stairs for sure.”
Kirill gives me a reassuring wink. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”
When our Escalade finally gets to the front of the line, my door is thrown open and I’m hit with a frenzy of flashes. It’s almost enough to make me cower into the back of the SUV and refuse to come out.
The overwhelming thought in the back of my head is, I wish Ruslan were with me right now.
Then Kirill walks around and offers me his hand. I take it gratefully and we walk into the museum together.
“Y
