Page 2 of Emerald Malice

My hope goes unanswered.

“Barely.” She flicks her platinum blonde bob. “That was just a lot of talk?—”

“From Viktor himself!”

“Exactly.” She nods aggressively, eyes huge, probably assuming that I’m not aware of how she’s inching us towards the gilded elevators while we argue. “He was just trying to gas himself up to impress me. None of it is actually true.”

“First of all, what does it say about you that illegal, shady shit turns you on?” I snap. “And secondly, what if it is true?”

She waves away my argument and presses the button to summon the elevator. “If it is true, are you really gonna leave me up there alone with all those big, bad criminals?”

Goddamn her.

The elevator dings. I stand rooted to the spot. I should stay here and leave her to her fate. As usual, this is her drama. My kind of drama involves True Blood rewatches with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s (Cherry Garcia all day, every day).

Leave her to it. This is not your fight. Just turn around and walk a?—

As she walks into the elevator and turns to face me, her left eyebrow arches. That’s never a good thing. It’s the left one that signals she’s about to whip out the big guns. “You know, Natalia, if you stopped being so damn afraid of everything, you’d realize that life is an adventure, not just an unrequited love triangle with Ben and Jerry.”

Did I also mention that, apart from being a vengeful bitch, Katya can also be a straight-up, in-your-face, bitchy-ass bitch? One who knows exactly which nerves to hit?

Because that’s an important detail.

“Oh, screw you.” I scowl as I join her in the elevator.

She giggles triumphantly and wraps me up in a hug that I do not return. “I promise, this is gonna be fun.”

“For whom? Definitely not for Viktor. Definitely not for Mila. Sure as hell not for me.”

She just winks. “You look hot as sin, by the way. Green really is your color.”

“You don’t have to lay it on so thick. I’m already in the damn elevator.”

Ping. Katya steps out on the fifth floor with a confident strut. I follow with a sigh.

Once more into the breach, dear friends.

We emerge into a sweeping ballroom. White-clothed tables range on all sides, a gleaming wooden dance floor in the center. Crystal chandeliers cast gauzy light on the ogre-sized floral arrangements lining the walls. There’s no way they spent less than fifty grand on florals alone.

But the obscenely lavish decor is nothing compared to the guests. All of them sparkle like human diamonds in their floor-length ballgowns.

As I try to keep up with Katya, who’s apparently become an Olympic track star since our last nearly fatal spin class, I count a who’s who of New York Fashion Week’s most beloved designers.

Earlier tonight, my rented vintage dress with its flowy midi skirt and a daringly sexy open back—daring for me, at least—made me feel like I was giving Atonement-era Keira Knightley vibes.

Compared to these people, I feel more like Fiona from Shrek. And not the human version.

Oh, Jesus, where’s Kat?

I catch a glint of sequins as she whips a sharp right between two hulking men who look more like bodyguards than party guests.

Which, as I think it, is when I realize they are bodyguards.

The serious-looking kind.

The earpiece-wearing, indoors-sunglass-donning, I-can-murder-you-with-one-pinky kind.

“Katya!” I reach out and snag her elbow before she slithers from my reach. “Where the hell are you going?”

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