The Back-Up Bride

Chapter Four: Fiery Auction

Alcohol and men are not a good combo.

The gallery buzzed with the quiet hum of wealth—low conversations, clinking glasses, and the simmering tension of million-dollar art deals. Spotlights danced across gilded frames and champagne flutes. Every corner pulsed with presence—power, old money, new empires.

Kai’s hand rested firmly on Kira’s waist as they navigated the crowd, moving with effortless grace and magnetic presence. Together, they looked like a headline waiting to be written.

“You don’t have to keep your hand on me every second,” Kira whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

Kai leaned in, his lips brushing near her ear, voice low and even. “Is it bothering you?”

She glanced up at him, ready to scoff—but the faint blush rising from her cheeks betrayed her.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe. You make it too easy.”

His hand gave the barest squeeze at her waist, grounding her as they approached a cluster of high-profile guests. Kira plastered on her most dazzling fake smile, the kind she’d perfected at charity galas.

Then the murmur came. A ripple through the crowd. A shift in the air.

Like a gathering storm, a group of men and women began converging on them—a wave of dark suits, designer gowns, and hushed power. Kira felt it in her spine: eyes on her. Assessing. Measuring.

She instinctively reached for Kai’s arm, her fingers brushing his sleeve. He tightened his grip around her waist, subtle but reassuring, his presence like steel at her back.

The group closed in. Familiar faces—faces she’d only seen on business magazine covers or whispered about in investor briefings.

“Gentlemen,” Kai said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough weight to command attention. "Allow me to introduce my fiance, Kira. Sweetheart, these are some of our key partners and investors.”

She offered a polite nod, her smile poised, practiced. Measured warmth.

But one woman, polished within an inch of caricature, stepped forward. Mid-forties, all high-gloss fuchsia lips and a dangerously low neckline. Her diamonds caught the light with every movement, nestled strategically between surgically perfect cleavage. Her expression was feline—watching, calculating.

“I haven’t heard of you before,” the woman said, her tone cool and probing. “What do you do, Kira?”

Kira’s smile thinned. “I’m not famous.”

The woman’s brows lifted slightly.

“Kira is—” Kai started.

“I work as a volunteer at a foundation,” Kira said smoothly, cutting Kai off with a quick glance—sharp, intentional, loaded with warning.

She didn’t need him announcing who she really was. Not here. Not to these people. The last thing she wanted was to be introduced as Viktor Kiev’s daughter, as if her value was measured by bloodlines and bank accounts.

Let them underestimate her.

She used to it.

A man in his fifties, silver hair perfectly groomed and breath thick with brandy, stepped closer and reached for her hand.

“Well, when Mr. Maddox gets tired of your company,” he said with a leering grin, “you know where to find me.”

Kira flinched at the contact, her skin crawling. She tried to pull back—but then, Kai was there.

He moved like a current of danger, stepping between them with silent precision. His body was a wall of calm fury, his gray eyes no longer passive but razor-sharp.

He said nothing at first. He didn’t have to.

The man’s hand was still on Kira’s, but it now felt like a foolish risk—one he suddenly seemed to regret.

Kai’s voice was low, controlled, lethal. “Let go of her.”

The man hesitated, fingers twitching.

“I said, let go,” Kai repeated, every syllable coated in steel. His voice didn’t rise, but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The man finally released her, his hand recoiling like he’d touched fire. A weak smirk flickered across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Kai leaned in slightly, voice a quiet blade. “Find someone else to bother. Because she’ll never be interested in you. Not now. Not ever.”

Silence rippled around them. The gallery seemed to hold its breath.

The man glanced at Kira, then back at Kai, and wisely took a step back. Then another. Without a word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing sharply on the marble.

Only then did Kira realize how many people were watching.

Eyes tracked them from across the room—some amused, others disapproving, all interested.

She exhaled, trying to steady her pulse, then looked up at Kai.

“Thanks, but I don't need you protecting me,” she said when she found her voice.

Kai looked at her angrily. "Don't you now?"

"I lived for twenty-five years without any arrogant men helping me. So, no."

"You're unbelievable," he said, then left her without another word.

Kira rolled her eyes and turned towards the bar.

The bartender, a woman with dark curls pinned back and a kind smile, leaned forward. “What can I get for you?”

Kira hesitated, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the bar. She didn’t want anything too strong—she was never much of a drinker. Alcohol made her light-headed too quickly, and tonight wasn’t a night to surrender control. But she needed something.

Something to dull the sharp edges clawing at her insides.

“Just a glass of champagne, please,” she said, her voice calm on the surface, though there was a faint tremor threaded beneath it.

The bartender gave a quick nod, retrieving a chilled bottle. Bubbles surged up the flute in a soft fizz, the golden liquid catching the gallery’s ambient glow like a promise she didn’t believe in. Kira accepted the glass, bringing it to her lips for a small, measured sip.

The cool, crisp taste slid over her tongue, the delicate fizz offering a momentary distraction. It didn’t do much to still her nerves, but it gave her just enough space to breathe.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Across the room, Kai sat beside her father—who had made his entrance late, but predictably, now held court like a king returning to his throne. They leaned in close, voices low, a symphony of power in negotiation. Kai’s posture was taut, alert. A lion caged in a designer suit. His gaze swept the gallery with deliberate vigilance, and when his eyes finally landed on her, Kira rolled her eyes.

She was the one who broke eye contact and turned away, her fingers tightening slightly around the glass. She listened to the whispers of deals and carefully masked threats.

Let them talk strategy. Let them exchange names and numbers and billion-dollar nods.

She needed quiet.

Her gaze drifted toward the far side of the gallery, where the crowd thinned, and the walls stood in calm contrast—white, clean, adorned with modern abstract pieces in muted tones and fractured geometry. It was the only place in the room that didn’t feel like it was trying to impress her.

And that, tonight, felt like a blessing.

She picked up her champagne and stepped away from the bar, drawn not to the art itself, but to the stillness it offered.

Kira stared at the abstract sculpture in front of her, trying to focus on the intricate twists and turns of the metal, but something was off. Her head felt light, as if the weight of her thoughts had suddenly become too heavy to carry. A dull, almost syrupy feeling settled in her stomach, twisting it uncomfortably.

She blinked, feeling the warmth of the champagne moving through her veins, but it was more than that—it was like her body was heating up from the inside out. It wasn’t just alcohol. It felt like an overwhelming wave of heat was spreading through her, starting from her chest and radiating outward, enveloping her in a thick, suffocating sensation.

Her breath quickened. Something was wrong. She gripped the edge of the sculpture for support, but the dizziness continued to pull at her. The world seemed to tilt.

Her stomach churned, and without warning, she stumbled backward, the floor feeling unsteady beneath her feet. She had to get out. Her pulse was pounding in her ears as she quickly turned away, her steps uncoordinated as she hurried toward the restroom.