Page 58 of Sixth Sin

ANGEL

Tipping my head back, I blink at the massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceilings. They’ve been dimmed, which bathes most of the room in a shimmering shadow I assume is meant to provide ambiance, or an opportunity to hide behind darkness.

Plucking a third glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, I down half of it before Michaela can chastise me again. According to crusty Bel Air elite protocol, it’s not socially acceptable for the hostess to drink at her own party. Good thing I subscribe to the underprivileged Chula Vista orphan handbook.

My hand tightens around the glass as my gaze wanders around the decorated room.

He’s still not here.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. As he said, he got his money. I knew better than to count on Dominic McCallum for anything, but a part of me hoped tonight would be different. That he would be different.

Slamming the rest of the champagne, I pick myself up and straighten my crown. Because I have one now, fuck him very much. Dominic scrambles my thoughts every time he’s within ten feet of my vagina, making me forget I’m the one in control. I’m the heiress. I’m the one sitting on a family fortune the size of a small continent.

I’m Alexandra Romanov.

“Fascinating.”

Startled, I spin around, almost dropping my glass at the man standing in front of me. He stares at me with cold, celestial blue eyes as unnerving as they are startling. “Excuse me?”

His fingers curls around a short glass of brown liquid. “Your event, Alexandra. It’s a fascinating affair.”

I roll the word around in my head while assessing him. He seems familiar. I can’t place it, but I know I’ve seen him before. “That’s an odd choice of wording, Mr…” I pause, giving him a chance to fill in the blank. When he just stands there, sipping his drink, I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

He glances up, still holding his drink to his lips. “I tend not to adhere to society’s rules, Miss Romanov. Or rules in general.”

Forcing a plastic smile, I allow those pale eyes to swallow me whole. “So how is my event fascinating? Does something not conform to Romanov standards? Because I assure you my public relations director has gone to great lengths to ensure no expense has been spared in recreating—”

“It’s fascinating because of you, Alexandra.” His lips peel back to reveal a smile that never quite meets his eyes. “Your presence is fascinating, your beauty is fascinating, that dress is fascinating.” His eyes scan my gown, and as if pulled by force, mine follow.

Michaela insisted I make a statement that Alexandra Romanov is all grown up. Sleek and straight, the gown is a blue and gold showstopper with a daring slit on the side and a train flowing so far behind me, I need a twelve foot radius.

“But mostly, Miss Romanov,” he continues, “your existence is fascinating.”

I lift my chin, stunned by his bold statement. “If this is about my memory, the estate has already put out a statement about that—”

“I have no interest in your memory. I’m more intrigued by your allure.”

“My allure?”

“Yes, my dear. Six people were brutally murdered on the very ground beneath our feet, yet here you stand, unharmed.” He casually motions toward the floor, his voice eerily calm. “Thriving, dare I say. Why is that? Why would a team of vicious killers spare a young girl and risk having her identify them to the police?”

He doesn’t know we’re lying. He can’t know.

“From what I’ve read, the assailant was killed, as well.”

He takes a step forward. We’re so close we could be dancing, but somehow, I know it wouldn’t just be a dance. It would be an oath. “Then one might beg the question, how did an eight-year-old girl escape a crime scene unseen and then make it from Bel Air to Chula Vista with just the clothes on her back?”

“I-I don’t know.” I stumble backward, my high heel catching on my train. I feel my balance shift and the world tilt. I’m going to fall, and I can’t stop it. I close my eyes and wait, but I don’t fall. My eyelashes flutter open as I stare down at the man’s hand, wrapped firmly around my bicep as he steadies me.

“Like I said, a fascinating event.” Releasing me, he holds up his drink. “Until we meet again, Miss Romanov.”

As he tips his glass, the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket slides up his arm, and my eye catches something familiar. Something kept covered by expensive material and pretenses. Something that makes my throat close up and my heart slam against my chest so hard I can’t breathe.

Half an hour and three drinks later, my nerves still haven’t settled. In fact, I’m three times as on edge and wound tighter than a mattress coil.

“I’m overreacting,” I tell myself pacing the length of the kitchen. Dozens of wait staff dodge my repeated path, clearly annoyed, but smart enough not to say a word. Tipping back the fresh glass in my hand, I drink and pace until my lungs beg for air. “There’s no way that’s possible. Dominic is ruthless but he’s not a—”

“Alexandra, just the person I was”—Michaela’s wine-stained lips pinch as she plucks the flute out of my hand—“looking for.”

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