Page 2 of Chain Me

Weaving through Boston's elite, I snag a flute of champagne from a passing server and make my tactical retreat. The far corner of the ballroom, partially hidden behind a large floral arrangement, offers sanctuary from the suffocating small talk. I exhale deeply, feeling my shoulders finally relax for the first time since I arrived.

From this vantage point, I observe the room—tech entrepreneurs laughing with politicians, lawyers clinking glasses with doctors, and scattered throughout, my father's associates pretending to be legitimate businessmen. The charity might genuinely help victims of organized crime, but the irony of who funds these events isn't lost on me.

I drink down the rest of my champagne, the bubbles sharp against my tongue. My phone buzzes again in my clutch. Father,no doubt, wondering why I'm not at his dinner. Let him wonder. I've earned this independence, built this life brick by brick, code by code.

The florals beside me release their heavy perfume—lilies, and roses, too sweet, like the false pleasantries exchanged in this room. I close my eyes briefly, calculating how much longer I need to stay before making an exit that won't damage potential investor relationships.

“May I ask why a beautiful woman like you is hiding in corners at parties?”

The deep voice startles me. I turn to face the intruder in my quiet sanctuary. Striking chestnut brown eyes bore into mine. A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a perfectly tailored tuxedo stands behind me. His smile catches me off guard—genuine, reaching his eyes.

“I needed a moment,” I admit openly.

His smile is devastating. “May I offer you a drink?” He holds up two champagne flutes. “You look like you could use one.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “That obvious?”

“Only to a fellow survivor.” He extends one glass. “I endured twenty minutes on proposed parking structure designs from Kevin Jenkins.”

I shouldn't accept drinks from strangers, especially not with my family's enemies list. But something about his easy manner makes me reach for the champagne anyway.

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.” His voice carries a hint of an accent I can't quite place.

“Katarina Lebedev.”

The warmth in his eyes shifts to calculation as he takes a measured sip of champagne.

“And you are?” I keep my tone light, though my guard rises.

“Erik Ivanov.”

The champagne turns bitter on my tongue. Of course. The Ivanovs—my father's rivals in the Boston underworld. I've heard whispers about Erik, the ex-military brother, the one who handles their more physical business dealings.

“Interesting choice of event.” I gesture to the 'Supporting Victims of Organized Crime' banner hanging above the stage. “Rather ironic, wouldn't you say?”

His expression doesn't change, but his grip tightens on the champagne flute. “Perhaps we all have our reasons for being here.”

“Yes, I'm sure the Ivanovs are deeply concerned about the welfare of victims of organized crime.” The words slip out before I can stop them, sharper than intended.

“And the Lebedevs aren't?” His dark eyes lock onto mine, challenge clear in their depths.

We stand in silence, two wolves in designer clothing pretending to be sheep. Around us, Boston's elite continue their champagne-fueled chatter, oblivious to the predators in their midst.

“Unlike some, I actually mean it when I say I want nothing to do with organized crime or my father.” I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. “My tech company operates completely separate from my father's interests. I made sure of that from day one.”

Erik's expression remains neutral, but something flickers in those dark eyes. “Noble intentions.”

“Not intentions. Facts.” I set my glass down on a passing waiter's tray. “Every transaction, every contract, every line of code is legitimate and transparent. Which is more than I can say for your family's operations.”

“You seem well-informed about our business.” His voice carries an edge now.

“I know exactly what the Ivanovs do.” I smooth my dress, a gesture that helps me maintain composure. “I've spent years building something clean, something that helps people. My presence here tonight supports actual victims. But you?” I meet his gaze directly. “We both know you're here for the show.”

His jaw tightens. The warrior beneath the designer suit shows through for just a moment—in his stance, in the way his fingers flex around the champagne flute, in how his eyes scan the room.

“You're making assumptions, Ms. Lebedev.”

“No, I'm stating facts. Last month's 'incident' at the docks had Ivanov written all over it. Three dead, two missing. If you'll excuse me.” I turn away from Erik, not waiting for his response. My heels click against the marble floor as I make my way through the crowd, but the weight of his gaze follows me like a physical touch.

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