Humiliation washes over me in crippling, searing waves, and all I want to do is sink into the floor and die. Old Tiffy would have. She would have crumbled to pieces and run from this room in tears. She would have berated herself for being so stupid. So weak. She would be an easy target.
But I’m not her anymore.
Reigning in the shame takes all of five seconds. I jut my chin into the air, square my shoulders, and plaster a charming grin on my face the likes of which would make my mother proud.
“Oh gosh, I am so sorry,” I declare, laughing politely. Haha, silly me. “Poor Vadim tried to warn me that this dress might be a bit much, but I didn’t pay him any mind.” I turn to him and playfully slap him on the forearm—hard. If he notices the hostility, his expression doesn’t show it. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could I borrow a jacket or a shawl?”
“Here, Miss.” An older gentleman steps forward and shrugs his own suit jacket from his shoulders, offering it to me.
I shimmy into it, balancing my gifts. I can sense Vadim watching me from the corner of my eye, the bastard. Smiling harder, I turn the charm up to eleven.
“You must be the brother,” I exclaim, turning to the dark-haired man. It’s a logical guess, considering his hair color, but when I glance at the blond man, I realize my mistake. No two creatures could possess eyes that shade by accident. “My apologies. You are the brother,” I declare, turning to him. Smiling prettily, I extend my gift and force myself to meet his cold, piercing stare. “I’m Tiffany. Thank you so much for inviting us. We picked out something small to show our appreciation.” When he doesn’t take the present, I laugh nervously. Desperate for an escape, I set it down on a nearby end table instead. “And your fiancée must be…” I pivot and spot the two women again. The blond eyes me, her expression unreadable, but the brunette looks as uncomfortable as a deer in the headlights. Bingo.
“You must be the fiancée!” I cross to her and nearly sigh in relief when she accepts the gift.
“I’m Francesca,” she says softly. Her voice lacks an accent, at least, but she’s young. Really young. I do a double take of Vadim’s brother, and I have to fight back the inner judgmental voice wondering just how young she truly is.
“Well, I’m so sorry we made a scene,” I say, returning to Vadim’s side. He’s rigid, unmoving even as I grasp his hand and shamelessly dig my nails into the palm of it.
He’ll pay for this later. Oh, he will so pay. But for now, I know it’s better to play my part and bide my time. No one will ever make a fool of me again, out of spite or otherwise.
“So, what are we celebrating?” I ask.
The two brooding men share a look.
“An engagement,” Vadim says before either one can offer up an answer themselves.
“Lovely!” I clap my hands, my smile beaming. “Congratulations!”
I swear everyone flinches.
But I take the awkward tension as a challenge. I will survive this, so help me, God.
Or I will gleefully take Vadim down with me.
Chapter Six
When it comes to parties and how to play them to their fullest, there is no match for a mansion born, cotillion raised Connors socialite. I learned from the best—Genevieve Mackenzie Adalynn Connors, who operated her events with me balanced on her hip while juggling a serving tray and a hospitable smile.
She had the grace and charm required to turn any hostile gathering into a soiree so warm and welcoming; she could sow world peace if the room were big enough. Emulating her, I only manage to simmer what tensions lurk between these men to the barest minimum—and I’m nearly sweating with the effort.
Dinner is an awkward lesson in how to juggle the tersest small talk with a grin and a funny quip.
“So when is your wedding?” I ask, referring to the supposed reason for this “party.”
Maxim and his fiancée share a searching glance. “Soon,” he says in a tone that makes me scramble for my glass of wine. “It will be a private affair.” His eyes slice in Vadim’s direction with chilling intensity. I have a feeling he won’t be getting an invite.
“What a shame,” Vadim replies, his teeth bared. “I was so looking forward to witnessing the nuptials. Some might say we’d thought to never see the day you’d settle down with one of your women.”
“I’ve always preferred intimate ceremonies,” I blurt in a rush, parrying the incoming blow from Maxim before the man can even open his mouth. Across the table, poor Francesca’s cheeks turn blood red though the children innocently chatter amongst themselves, oblivious. Thank God. “I wish I’d had a small wedding,” I add wistfully. “Maybe a destination one?”
At least then, I could look back on the memories fondly. Instead, my only recollections consist of sweating in a massive gown bought on my parent’s dime while being paraded before what seemed like the entire parish. That day, instead of marital bliss, my main takeaway from the experience is the memory of the pain from holding a fake smile in place for sixteen hours.
I’m so lost in the nostalgia that I barely notice the rest of the conversation has gone silent. Good. As far as social landscapes go, this one is my most challenging battlefield yet. I feel like I’m juggling knives. One wrong move, and everyone gets stabbed in the eye.
But I manage, with no assistance from the very man who brought me here.
Something happens to him in the presence of his brother. Something dark that festers within him, seeping out in cold, icy sarcasm and glittering, unreadable eyes.
It’s the eyes that unnerve me the most. His wall is back in place, higher than ever. Insurmountable.
“At least you’re dressed fucking decently,” his brother hisses as we get through most of the first course. “Have you grown bored of crawling in the shadows, luring children away?”
The British man, Milton, lifts his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I have,” Vadim replies with a manic grin. He’s still shivering, more noticeably than before. I can’t resist slipping my hand into his pocket, hoping to provide some warmth—but he recoils from me so violently he jolts the entire table.
“This has been lovely,” he says, lurching to his feet in an enviable display of grace. “Sadly, we must be going.”
“Awww!” The little girl whines from her spot near the end of the table. “You have to go now?”
“Ainsley…” Francesca cuts her gaze in the girl’s direction, her tone a warning.
Undeterred, Ainsley pouts. “I wanted to show you my pony, Uncle Dima.”
“Some other time,” he says before taking a gallant bow.
“Wait.” Milton inclines his head toward Maxim. Something wordlessly passes between the two of them. Then Milton turns to Vadim. “Dinner,” he says. “Neutral territory. Next week?”
Vadim says nothing and starts from the room, leaving me to follow. At the door, I return the jacket to the older man, and by the time I leave the house, Vadim is already at the car.
With his back to me, he palms the door. “You survived.” He has the nerve to sound surprised at that. Impressed.
“Fuck. You,” I spit, utilizing the dirtiest word in my newfound freedom-vocabulary. When he whirls around, an eyebrow cocked in amusement; I lose any shred of restraint. Leveling him with my nastiest glare, I go off. “You used me. You dragged me here, for what? To make your brother think you disrespected him by bringing some stupid slut around his children? To his home? What the hell is wrong with you?”