Page 2 of Crystal Wrath
The idea hits me like a lightning bolt. It’s dangerous. Reckless. Potentially brilliant. And absolutely insane.
I turn on my heels, slowly scanning the room for the nearest gatekeeper. A woman in severe black stands near the back entrance to what appears to be a private section of the estate, flipping through a leather-bound guest log with the focused attention of someone whose job depends on getting every detail right. She wears a headset and gives curt nods to anyone who approaches, checking names and faces with military precision. Her suit is expensive but practical, and her expression is one of professional friendliness that never reaches her eyes.
My legs carry me toward her before my brain can fully process what I’m about to do. Each step feels like crossing a bridge that’s burning behind me. There’s no going back from this moment. If I’m caught, if someone recognizes me, or if the real Natalia Petrova shows up, I won’t just be thrown out of the party. I’ll be ruining my career, credibility, and possibly life.
“Excuse me,” I say, voice pitched with just enough bored elegance to pass for someone used to being recognized and accommodated. I let a slight Russian accent color my words, hoping they sound authentic rather than ridiculous. “Natalia Petrova.”
The woman pauses in her page-flipping and raises an eyebrow. Her eyes are sharp, taking in every detail of my appearance, from the Louboutin heels to the vintage Cartier necklace, to the way I hold myself. I realize she’s professional security, probably a former military or law enforcement officer, hired to ensure that only the right people gain access to the inner circles of the party.
“Natalia Petrova,” she says absently, checking her list. Her finger traces down the page until she finds the name. I see other entries. Some names are crossed out, others have arrival times beside them, and a few have special designations marked in red ink.
“Natalia hasn’t checked in,” she continues, her tone neutral but with an underlying question.
“I’m here now,” I say coolly, lowering my lashes in what I hope is the kind of subtle arrogance that comes with generational wealth. “Fashionably late, as always. Traffic from the marina was impossible.”
The mention of arriving from the marina is a calculated guess. Most of these people probably keep yachts at one of the exclusive clubs along Biscayne Bay, and this detail suggests a lifestyle I can never afford.
The woman gives me a once-over, her professional instincts clearly warring with the pressure to accommodate someone whose name appears on the exclusive guest list. I see her making calculations. The dress is clearly expensive. The jewelry is real. My bearing suggests confidence and entitlement, and most importantly, I know to use the name Natalia Petrova in the first place.
Her lips part as if to ask more questions, perhaps request identification, but something in my tone or the clout of the name stops her. In this world, questioning the wrong person can end careers, and the Petrova family name clearly carries enough significance to give her pause.
“Of course, Miss Petrova,” she replies crisply, stepping aside and making a small notation in her book. “Welcome. The private reception is through these doors.”
She gestures toward a set of carved wooden doors that I didn’t notice before. They’re tucked into an alcove and guarded by two men in dark suits who look like they could bench-press small cars. The doors are slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of a smaller, more intimate space beyond.
“Thank you,” I murmur, walking through with what I hope is the right mixture of casual confidence and aristocratic boredom.
As I move into the smaller chamber off the main ballroom, the lights dim slightly. The atmosphere here is thicker, darker, more intimate, and it feels more dangerous. Cigar smoke clings to the air despite the state-of-the-art ventilation system, creating a haze that makes everything look slightly dreamlike. The conversations are quieter and more serious, conducted in tight circles that open and close like exclusive clubs within an exclusive club.
I feel eyes on me immediately, suspicious, amused, and calculating. Different kinds of attention from various types of people, but all focused on the newcomer who has just entered their sanctuary. A tray of hors d’oeuvres passes by, carried by a server whose uniform is even more pristine than those in the main ballroom. I take one without really looking at it,not because I’m hungry but because the act makes me appear comfortable and gives my hands something to do.
Every step, every glance, every word is now part of the game I’ve chosen to play. The stakes are higher here, the players more dangerous, and the consequences of exposure are potentially fatal. I don’t know what kind of power the name Natalia Petrova commands in these circles, but tonight, I’m her and I have to hope that’s enough.
A man’s voice reaches me over the gentle hum of conversation, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife through silk.
“That dress doesn’t belong to her.”
The words aren’t meant to be overheard except by the person he’s speaking to, but they reach my ears perfectly. There’s something about the quality of his voice, the certainty in it, that makes every other sound in the room fade away.
I turn slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird desperate for freedom. And that’s when I see him.
He’s wearing a midnight-black suit that looks as if it’s been stitched onto his body by angels who understand the male form better than any earthly tailor. The fabric is so dark it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, and the cut is so perfect it enhances every line of what is clearly an athletic physique. He stands apart from the others, not just physically but in energy, presence, and the way space seems to bend around him like he’s a dark star exerting gravitational pull on everything nearby.
His eyes are a shade I can’t name at first glance. Hazel, maybe, but deeper, darker, and more complex. Golden brown with flecks of green and amber that seem to shift in the candlelight like molten metal cooling in a forge. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’tblink. He just watches me like he’s trying to peel me apart layer by layer without lifting a single finger. As if he can see through the expensive dress and borrowed jewelry to the terrified journalist underneath.
“Excuse me?” I say, lifting a brow and putting every ounce of aristocratic disdain into my voice. My mother fled an abusive husband in Cuba, worked three jobs to put food on our table, and taught me that dignity is something no one can take from me. I channel her now, gathering her strength and her determination to resist intimidation by powerful men.
“The dress,” he says, moving closer with fluid movement that suggests either dance training or combat experience. “It’s not yours.”
My heart stutters like a car engine refusing to turn over, but my smile doesn’t waver. Years of dealing with hostile interview subjects and facing down corrupt officials and intimidating sources taught me to maintain composure even when my world is crumbling around me.
“And yet,” I say smoothly, gesturing to my body with one elegantly manicured hand, “I’m wearing it.”
Something shifts behind his eyes. Amusement or a challenge. Or recognition of a fellow predator. Then he steps closer, closing the distance between us with the confidence of a man who’s never been denied anything he truly wants and never met a door that didn’t open at his approach.
The space around us seems to shrink, becoming charged with electricity. Other conversations fade into background noise. The string quartet might as well be playing in another universe. All Ican see and feel is this man and the dangerous energy radiating from him like heat from a wildfire.
“What’s your name?” he asks. Even though it’s phrased as a question, it carries the force of a command.
