“You’d think for the amount of money these tickets cost, they’d serve something edible.” The man sitting to my right drops his fork on his plate with a clatter.
“It’s about raising money for the hospital, Harry, not filling your stomach.” His wife chides him.
“You haven’t eaten much.” Ivan places a hand on my knee, his fingers spreading slightly. Like he’s taking possession.
“I filled up on those little crab puff things they were walking around with before dinner.” The best way to keep from having to contribute to conversations you don’t know anything about is keeping your mouth full of the appetizers being served.
The last speaker steps up to the podium and begins talking about the pediatric trauma center at the hospital. On the screen behind him, a slideshow of young children plays as he goes into detail about the surgical wing, the trauma specialists, and all the benefits of having such a center attached to the children’s hospital.
A photo of a pregnant woman freezes my attention. The next slide is of her unborn child being whisked away. Clearly, she’s been in an accident of some sort.
Flashes of sirens, lights, and screaming drown out the presenter, and for a moment I’m no longer in the museum. I’m stuck in the car. Blood runs down my cheek, and a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt grips my stomach.
“Vivienne.”
Ivan’s hand moves up my thigh, and he squeezes. The memory cuts off, and I refocus. His brow knits together with concern.
“Did you want dessert?” He gestures to the waitstaff trying to put a plate with some delicious concoction of chocolate and cherries in front of me.
“No.” I clear my throat when the word gets caught. “No, thank you. Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”
The waiter jumps out of the way as I shove my chair back from the table. Several sets of eyes cut to me as I grab my clutch.
“I’ll be back.” I promise and hurry from the table.
I’m so lost in the panic clawing at my throat, I nearly fall down the steps on the way to the lower level. By the time I find the restrooms, breathing is almost impossible.
Thankfully the room is empty when I burst inside. Bending over the sink, I turn the cold water on, leaning as close to the coolness as I can.
Chiding myself for letting the panic get so out of control, I close my eyes and drag in a breath, but I can barely hold it before blowing it out and choking back a sob.
Buried beneath the weight of memories trying to crush me, I barely register the restroom door opening.
“Vivienne?” Ivan touches my back.
I spring back up, nearly knocking us both to the ground. He easily catches me and holds me until I’m settled.
He searches my face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Tears I thought I had under control build again.
“Nothing.”
Concern turns to annoyance. “Don’t lie to me. You can tell me you don’t want to tell me, but don’t lie and say it’s nothing. You went completely white and ran away from the table.”
Would giving life to the memory help either of us?
He silently waits for my response. Maybe he’s thinking I just need a moment to get my mind right, but that’s not going to happen with him this close. With the horrific memory burning so bright to the surface.
“Okay. I don’t want to tell you.”
Tense silence fills the space between us. I can tell he’s fighting the urge to push the issue. He’s Ivan Volkov; I doubt he’s ever been denied before.
Then he nods, like he’s just made an agreement with himself.
“All right.” He cups my cheek, running the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “You don’t have to, but when you’re ready I want to know.”
“Why?”
