Page 52 of Crimson Sin
A reporter approaches, her smile bright and practiced. “Ms. Carter, this is absolutely stunning. Can you tell us about the centerpiece?”
I slip into professional mode, my voice steady as I explain the historical significance, the painstaking authentication process, and the cultural importance of preserving such artifacts. The words flow easily, but part of me feels detached, as if I'm watching myself perform from a distance.
More interviews follow. More questions about funding, my vision, and how a museum intern managed to secure backing for such an ambitious exhibit. I deflect the more pointed inquiries with grace, never mentioning Daniil's name, or acknowledging the fake marriage that made this all possible.
The speeches begin, the lights dim, and as I step onto the stage to thank the patrons and guests, the applause swells like a tidal wave. My voice is steady, and my words are eloquent, but the emptiness remains, an echo that nothing can quite drown out.
I scan the crowd as I speak, searching for his familiar face. The sea of elegantly dressed guests blurs together, all polite smiles and appreciative nods. Board members from the museum beam at me from the front row. Charlotte gives me an encouraging thumbs up from her spot near the champagne table. Everything is perfect except the one thing that matters most.
“This exhibit represents more than historical preservation,” I conclude, my voice carrying clearly through the hushed gallery. “It represents the bridges we build between past and present, between cultures, the stories that define us, and the future we're creating together. Thank you all for making this dream a reality.”
The applause thunders around me, genuine and warm, and for a moment, I let myself feel the victory. This is mine. My work, my vision, my achievement. Whatever happens next, whatever becomes of this strange arrangement with Daniil, I did this. I proved myself worthy of more than fetching coffee and filingpaperwork. And then, just as I descend the stage, applause still ringing, I see him.
Viktor.
The warmth drains from my body in an instant. He doesn't belong here in this space I've claimed as mine, among these people who've come to celebrate art, culture, and beauty. The air changes the moment he steps into the room. His steel-blue eyes lock onto me, and I feel exposed despite the elegant gown that covers me from neck to ankle.
He weaves through patrons and donors as if he's one of them, smiling, shaking hands, and playing the part of a gentleman. But I see the truth in the curl of his lips, and the way his gaze never strays far from me. There's something hungry in his expression that makes my skin crawl even as I force myself to remain composed. Ivan trails behind him, ever watchful, his bulk a grinding contradiction to the refined atmosphere of the gallery.
Charlotte's grip tightens on my arm. “Don't tell me that's who I think it is.”
I don't answer. I can't. My body has already gone taut, every muscle pulled tight. The warmth of the spotlight fades, replaced by a chill that snakes through me. My mind races, cataloging exits, searching for Lex and his other enforcers in the crowd. But I won't run. Not now. Not from my triumph.
Viktor moves with strategic slowness, stopping to admire a display case here, exchanging pleasantries with a donor there. But his path is clear, and his destination obvious. He's coming for me, and there's nowhere to hide in this fishbowl of glass and light.
When he finally reaches me, his smile is sharp enough to cut. “Congratulations, Mrs. Zorin,” he offers, his tone his tone like poured honey. “What a remarkable evening. Your speech was flawless. Daniil must be very proud.”
The way he draws out my married name makes my stomach clench, but I force a polite smile. Cameras are still flashing nearby, reporters lingering within earshot, and I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter. Not in front of people who could destroy my career with a whispered rumor.
“Thank you, Viktor. I didn't know you had an interest in cultural preservation.”
His laugh is soft, almost musical, but there's no warmth in it. “I take an interest in many things. Beautiful things. Valuable things. Especially the ones Daniil claims as his own.”
The words scrape down my spine like fingernails on a chalkboard, but I don't let my smile slip. I tip my champagne flute slightly toward him in a gesture that could be interpreted as a gracious acknowledgment. “Then you'll appreciate the detail that went into tonight's work. Each piece has been carefully selected for its historical significance.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” he murmurs, his gaze traveling slowly down my body and back up again in a way that makes me want to scrub my skin raw. “You have exquisite taste. In everything, I imagine.”
The innuendo is like poison, invisible but deadly. I take a small sip of champagne, using the moment to steady myself, and remember where I am. This is my night. My success. He willnotsteal this from me.
He steps close enough that I can smell his cologne. “Tell me, does your husband always leave you to handle such important occasions alone?”
The barb hits its mark, but I don't flinch. “Daniil has complete confidence in my abilities. He knows I don't need someone holding my hand to succeed.”
“Confidence,” Viktor repeats, as if tasting the word. “Or indifference? It's so hard to tell with my dear cousin.”
He leans even closer, his voice dropping low, almost intimate, though the venom in his words makes my stomach clench. “I know the marriage is fake, Naomi. And soon, so will everyone else. Daniil will be dead, and you will be mine.”
The threat slams into me like a body blow, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. Instead, I let out a soft laugh, one that carries just enough to reach the cameras nearby, and the reporters still hovering at the edge of our conversation. “Careful, Viktor. Someone might think you're flirting.”
His jaw clenches, the only sign that my deflection has found its mark. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Lex, standing at the edge of the crowd, his stare as sharp as a blade. Maksim and Roman flank him, all three braced to intervene. But I give the smallest shake of my head. Not here. Not now. My exhibit won't be stained with chaos.
Charlotte shifts closer, her smile fixed for appearances, but her hand trembles against mine. “Naomi,” she murmurs, “let's go?—”
“No,” I whisper back, my voice steady, and my chin lifted. I won't be driven from my celebration by this monster in an expensive suit.
Viktor's gaze slides to Charlotte, and something cruel sparks in his eyes. The predatory focus shifts, and I see him searching for a new angle of attack. “And who is this? Your loyal shadow?”
The menace in his tone when he looks at Charlotte ignites a fierce protectiveness in my chest. Before he can take another step, or so much as breathe in her direction, I move. My body angles in front of Charlotte's, a shield of emerald silk and iron resolve. My voice is smooth, clear, and pitched just right for the donors still lingering within earshot.
