Page 14 of Beautiful Cruelty

But there it is—the photo of me in nothing but Vadim's suit jacket, legs spread wide, and finger between them.

Oh God. What was I thinking?

I look at the bottom of my message.

Delivered.

NotRead, justDelivered.

I want to crawl under my covers and never come out. The confidence I felt last night is all but forgotten now. What kind of person sends nudes to a stranger? A successful, powerful billionaire at that.

He's probably used to getting nudes from models and movie stars.

Not catering staff playing dress-up in his clothes.

I close out the messaging app and scroll through my camera roll. The photos mock me with their boldness—each one more revealing than the last.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid." I tap my forehead against my phone screen.

The worst part is, a tiny voice inside me hoped he'd respond. That maybe he'd found me as intriguing as I found him. That the intensity in his storm-gray eyes when he looked at me meant something.

I'm here because I see potential. In a lot of things.

But clearly I was wrong. Just like I was wrong about Nathan. Just like I'm wrong about belonging anywhere.

My finger hovers over the delete button, ready to erase the evidence of my momentary insanity. But something stops me.

Whether Vadim responds or not, I still felt bold last night.

Desirable.

Free.

Even if he will never see them, these photos remind me that underneath all my insecurities, there's still a part of me that dares to want more.

A part of me thatdeservesmore.

I leave the photos where they are and head to the shower. I have work to do, a life to get back to—even if that life feels emptier than ever—and a handsome billionaire whose path I'll have to cross again in the evening.

I fidgetwith the new catering uniform I picked up from Kohl's, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles as I walk through the striped tent to pick up a tray of champagne.

The polyester material feels stiff and scratchy against my skin—a far cry from the soft caress of Vadim's suit jacket. When I walk into the kitchen, the rest of the catering team is already busy at work.

The doors behind me swing close, and I pull out my phone to look at the message again.

Delivered.

All day, I've checked my phone off and on, hoping to see the message go fromDeliveredtoRead.

And all day, nothing has changed.

Disappointment sits heavy in my chest.

I can't help glancing toward the entrance every few seconds, my heart jumping each time a tall blond man enters.

Stop it, I scold myself as I turn my gaze away towards the crowd.You're here to do a job, not moon over some guy who didn't even respond to your texts.

A banner staked into the ground outside shows a picture of Savin Vorobyov a few years before his death. With thick white hair and a dark mustache, Savin was from a Russian aristocratic family and grew up in Italy with his mother. He established himself as a couture designer in Europe before moving to Seattle nineteen years ago to start his luxury brand:Vorobyov Ensemble.

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