Page 137 of Legacy
VIP is above it all, perched like a crown on this inferno. Booth three. Maksim delivered.
I slide into the leather seat, gold heels crossing one over the other. The hem of my black dress rides high on my thighs, and for once, I let it. I want to be looked at. No—seen.
Not by him.
Absolutely not by him.
The low amber lights reflect off the glass of my drink. A Manhattan. Strong, clean. Like me tonight.
I sip slowly and tilt my head, watching the crowd dance below. Bodies pressed together in that mindless rhythm of hunger and release. Everyone down there is chasing a high. I’m just here chasing silence. Control.
I don’t think about Angelo.
Except I do.
Every time my bracelet hits the glass and makes that little sound, thatclink.
I should’ve left it at home. But I didn’t.
Because part of me wants to feel wanted. Even if it’s just from a piece of metal wrapped around my wrist.
Enzo’s here somewhere. I don’t see him, but I know the shadow is near. He’s quiet, trained. My personal ghost with a gun.
I lean back, let my eyes drift, let my mouth curl into something like a smirk. For once, I feel good. Not safe, not healed, but good enough to forget—
“Adriana!”
A high-pitched squeal nearly makes me spill my drink.
I whip my head.
And there she is.
Vasilisa Amato, twinkling like a fucking constellation. Her arms already open, her blue eyes wide with joy. She rushes over, nearly slipping in her four-inch pumps, and wraps her arms around me like we’ve been best friends since birth.
I go stiff, my drink caught awkwardly in one hand as she squeezes me like I haven’t been avoiding the world.
She pulls back, still beaming. “You look amazing!”
I stare at her dress. Plunging neckline, sequins glittering with every movement, her waist so tiny it makes my throat tighten. Even her collarbones look elegant.
Of course she looks amazing.
Anything would look good on a girl like her. The world wasn’t made to bruise girls like Vasilisa.
I shift, crossing my legs tighter, trying to remember that Idolook good. I felt good a second ago.
She flops into the booth beside me, her perfume a cloud of jasmine and amber and fairy dust.
“So,” she says, her smile softening. “How are you?”
Even her voice is pretty.
“Fine,” I answer, forcing my lips tomove.
She tilts her head like she doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t push.
“Who are you here with?” I ask, more to divert than out of real interest.
