Page 17 of Beautiful Cruelty

"Not you." He steps closer.

"Not me." I breathe.

"Iama little surprised," he says. "That a woman with such an excellent eye for fashion is serving champagne at this event instead of being a part of it."

"Life doesn't always work out the way we plan." I shrug, trying to keep my voice light. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with being a caterer."

"No, there isn't." His eyes gleam with interest. "Especially not one with a portfolio asboldas yours."

"Is that what we're calling it now? My portfolio?"

"What else would we call it?" He steps closer. "If I know anything about an artist's portfolio, it's that she'll only ever showcase her best work."

My cheeks burn at his insinuation. "I'd hardly call last night's photos mybestwork. The lighting was terrible."

"Are you saying you can do better?" His eyes dance with amusement.

"That's not—I mean—" I stumble over my words as he takes another step towards me. Close enough that I catch a whiff of his light and spicy scent beckoning me to lean in closer. "A proper portfolio would have better composition. Better staging."

"In that case, I think I prefer animproperportfolio." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down my spine as he steps closer until I'm craning my neck up at him. "They're so much more intimate, wouldn't you agree?"

His hand rises, and for a dizzying moment, I dare to imagine that he's about to pull me in for a kiss.

But then his fingers—thick and powerful—plucks a flute of champagne from my tray, and I feel disappointment rush through me again.

Eyes never leaving mine, Vadim lifts the glass to his lips and takes a slow, deliberate sip. A drop of champagne lingers on his bottom lip before his tongue darts out to catch it.

My breath hitches. "I should get back to?—"

"Sit with me for a moment." He gestures to a nearby table with several people sitting around it already.

Panic seizes my throat at his offer.

"I'm working." I stammer. "I can't just?—"

"You can. And you will." His tone brooks no argument as he pulls out a chair. "And if anyone tries to give you trouble, I'll tell them that I made a special request."

Looking around, I see no one paying attention to us. The other servers are busy with their own sections, and the guests are wrapped up in their own conversations.

"Does that line usually work for you?"

"I don't know. Does pretending you don't want to spend time with me usually work for you?"

"Who says I'm pretending?" I say, setting down my tray on a nearby service station. "But why not? Five minutes."

5

LACEY

Vadim's handsettles on my lower back, warm and steady, as he guides me through the crowd. Even through the cheap polyester of my uniform, every brush of his fingers sends sparks dancing across my skin.

At his table, crystal glasses catch the light and designer labels peek out from every sleeve and neckline. I sink into the chair Vadim pulls out, hyper-aware of how my Kohl's uniform stands out among their cocktail attire.

"Irina Savinovna, I'd like you to meet someone," Vadim says to a woman as soon as I sit down.

Through my catering shifts, I've seen plenty of beautiful women, but Irina is something else entirely. Her scarlet hair cascades down her back in perfect waves, catching the light like spun fire. Her emerald eyes sparkle with intelligence and warmth as she turns toward me, and her smile lights up her whole face. Even in a room full of models and actresses, she stands out—not just for her beauty, but for the genuine kindness in her expression.

"And who might this be?" She turns to me with keen interest.

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