I refuse to stop living my life because an old friend refuses to let go.
Two months married and rooms still rearrange themselves when we walk in together. Crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and a ballroom full of families who smile with daggers in their eyes. They turn their heads when Konstantin and I cross the threshold, their conversations dipping like a bowstring pulled too tight. Their eyes flick to Konstantin first and then to me, cataloguing whether the Bogeyman’s bride bleeds or bites.
Everyone’s trying hard to pretend they’re not criminals in overpriced suits.
I loop my hand through Kon’s arm and lean in enough to appear docile. Let them choke on their assumptions. I can be a good little accessory when I want to be. It’s the role they want me to take—clueless mafia wife—because sometimes it’s easier to wear the lie than to rip it off.
But under the mask I wear, my gift is pacing, eager to consume all the lies I can feel in the air around us. It crackles under my ribs, snapping like tension cables, feeding me pulses of truth and treachery. Each time a lie begins to take shape, a warning flares beneath my skin.
It makes the whole night feel as if I’m standing in the shallow end of a thunderstorm.
I drag a nail across Konstantin’s arm in a signal we set up before we came. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t blink, but his mouth tilts just enough to cut tension in half and the conversation dies before it even begins.
We’ve become fluent in silence as we move through the gala in sync.
We’re a waltz that’s choreographed in warnings. A duet with a body count.
“Cressida,” purrs a man with silver temples and a scent like wealth and rot, cornering me near the Champagne tower. “Your husband is a . . . formidable man.”
“That he is,” I reply sweetly.
I send a plea to Konstantin to rescue me just as my nerve endings tighten. Electricity lights up my body, my hair rising on my arms, as the poison from the lie the man’s about to speak coats my mouth.
He’s about to lie.
I push the thought toward Konstantin, still not used to communicating with him this way.
Konstantin appears at my side before the man can even open his mouth. One hand rests at the small of my back, his presence very much a threat in a custom-tailored suit. The man’s smile falters, and I sip my Champagne as I pretend not to notice. He stammers something about needing fresh air and retreats, his dignity left behind.
Kon’s hand squeezes my waist once, praise and promise wrapped together.
Good girl.
It whispers through my mind, and I shiver.
Eventually, all the snakes slither away, and we’re forced to separate and mingle because apparently that’s what power couples do. I get trapped with some old money creeper who reeks of cigar smoke and misogyny. He drones on about supply chains and the ‘good old days’, which were probably just as fucked-up but with worse hygiene.
My eyes shift toward Konstantin, and I snap straight. He’s been cornered by a woman in scarlet satin with a slick smile andfingers that trail a little too long down Konstantin’s arm. Then, before I can cross the room, she wraps her arms around him like she’s some kind of unpaid rent collector on his affection.
She. Hugs. Him.
And he lets her.
He. Lets. Her.
The bond snaps sharply. Every cell in my body goes up in flames. My jaw tightens, my vision sharpening, as my fingers curl around the stem of my glass so hard I’m one flex away from shattering it.
There’s no way he doesn’t feel the white-hot spike of jealousy slicing through my chest that drips with possessiveness. Or the way I want to rip her extensions out one by one.
Because there’s no fucking way she doesn’t know I’m not standing in the crowd somewhere. The bitch just didn’t care.
Stupid, really, playing with her life like that.
Konstantin stills then pulls back from her with all the elegance of a man unsheathing a blade. There’s no mistaking the message—he’s not hers to touch anymore.
His gaze, dark and dangerous, locks on mine from across the room.
Yours, they promise.
