Page 9 of Porcelain Lies

“I’m fine, I—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I just needed a moment.”

She nods sympathetically. “Take all the time you need. Is there anything I can get you? Water, perhaps?”

I manage a weak smile. “No, thank you. I’ll be right back out.”

As she walks away, I take a shuddering breath, willing my racing heart to slow. I can’t fall apart, not here. Not now. These children are counting on me, and I refuse to let them down. Squaring my shoulders, I push myself up from the chair and head back toward the main event space, Gianni’s betrayal temporarily pushed to the back of my mind.

I weave between clusters of donors, my lips curved in a practiced smile as I make small talk about donation tiers and program initiatives. My body moves on autopilot while my mind splinters.

“He played us both, didn’t he?”Boyana’s voice cuts through the chatter in my head.

“Not now,” I whisper under my breath, nodding at something a donor just said about tax write-offs.

“You always choose the wrong ones, sestrichka. Remember that boy in high school who stood you up at prom?”

I excuse myself from the conversation with the donor and grab a fresh glass of water, my fingers trembling around the stem.

“This is different. I thought… I really thought he was the one.” I pause. “Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he never meant to—”

“…Trip and land with his dick in another woman?”

“God, that’s a horrible image.” I try not to groan.

“Men like Gianni don’t change, Stella. They just get better at lying.”

A waiter passes with appetizers, and I instinctively reach for one before pulling my hand back. Stress eating won’t help, not now.

“You’re better than this,”Boyana insists.“You don’t need him.”

“But I trusted him.” My voice catches, and I quickly turn it into a cough when a nearby guest glances my way. “We were planning a future together.”

“Plans built on lies will always crumble.”

The string quartet starts playing a familiar melody — the same one Gianni and I danced to at the charity gala where we first met. My chest tightens as the memory surfaces: his confident smile, the way he twirled me across the dance floor, how safe I felt in his arms.

“He never deserved your trust,”Boyana’s voice grows gentle.“Deep down, you knew something wasn’t right.”

I press my lips together, fighting back fresh tears. She’s right — there were signs I chose to ignore. The private calls, the extended trips. The way he’d change the subject whenever I brought up wedding venues.

“He was never going to marry you. You’re a fool if you thought so.”It’s Boyana again, her voice reverberating around my head.

“Stop it!” I clench my fists, ignoring the odd stares that have turned my way. “Just leave me alone.”

“Suit yourself.”

The voice switches off abruptly, and I’m left feeling oddly empty.

And then a memory hits me. I’m 10 again, sitting at our formal dining table in St. Petersburg, the heavy silverware gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Uncle Igor’s face is flushed from too much vodka, his words slurring as he points his fork at my father.

“Tell her about Boyana,” he says, sauce dripping onto the pristine tablecloth. “She deserves to know about her sister.”

The room goes deadly quiet. Mother’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.

Father’s face turns a shade of purple I’ve never seen before. “Get out,” he hisses, rising from his chair. “You’re drunk.”

“The girl in the photograph,” Uncle Igor continues, ignoring my father’s warning. “The one you gave away—”

The crash of my father’s fist against the table makes the dishes jump. “I said get out!”

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