STELLA
If someone had told me I’d enjoy myself at a Bratva gala, I would’ve laughed in their face. Yet here I am, champagne glass in hand, actually smiling — and not the fake, tight-lipped one I usually reserve for these people.
The ballroom is awash in gold light, the kind that makes everything look expensive and untouchable. Crystal chandeliers drip overhead, catching in the curls of my hair when I tilt my head. Soft music flows around the room, a live quartet playing something classical, but not so classical that people can’t sway to it.
Viktor is to my left, dressed in a tailored black suit that looks like it cost more than my father’s car. He has that same collected, controlled air he always wears — except tonight, it’s sharper. I notice how he angles himself so he can see the door
