“You know, I kinda remember hearing you say that they’re not gonna be here,” André said as he sipped on his champagne, gazing over at the table closest the stage where all of his family were now seated.
Mr. Romanov was a tall man with graying hair that framed his rather sharp features, a trait that caught people’s attention considering that he’s already well over fifty years old. Beside him was Mrs. Romanov, the kind of woman who would probably be well-fitted in European movies as the filthy rich villain.
From head to toe, André’s mother was covered with jewelries and crystals that glowed as the light of the chandeliers hit her. She was beautiful, clearly a mark of her careful attention to visage, and her every movement was a statement of her gracefulness and charm.
If you don’t look at
