Page 68 of Devil In A Suit

Dinner with his family. It’s daunting, to say the least. The mother is horrible, the sister worse, and I like the brother, but Ivan seems to hate him. I change out of the shorts into the only demure black dress I could find in my new wardrobe and pair it with dark red lipstick. I look at my reflection in the mirror and feel satisfied. Leila would approve. Taking a deep breath, I steelmyself for what’s to come. My phone rings and Ivan says he is stuck on the computer and will not be able to make it for drinks, but he will meet me in the dining room at eight.

I decide to skip the drinks too and sit on the balcony and watch night fall as I will probably never again be able to witness such a beautiful sight. At five minutes to eight I rise reluctantly, and taking one last look in the mirror, I leave the room.

As I walk downstairs, my heart grows heavier with the anticipation of what’s waiting. The dining room is stunning, set on a wide terrace overlooking the vineyard, the soft glow of the setting sun casting everything in hues of gold and pink. The table is long, covered in fine damask linen and candles, and each place setting has a gold plate with a crest on it. It’s as if every detail was carefully designed to impress.

I count fifteen people already seated, their quiet murmurs filling the space, and I feel a pang of self-consciousness as I approach. To my horror the butler announces me.

“Miss Lara Fitzpatrick,” he says, his voice ringing in the still air.

His mother courteously acknowledges me, but her voice lacks warmth and like me, everyone at the table must have felt it too, because they smile and nod politely, but I feel their eyes on me, assessing, weighing. A waiter steps forward and shows me to my seat.

There’s a formality to it all that makes me feel like more of an outsider than ever. Natalia, in particular, seems even colder than back at the event. This time, though, she doesn’t completely ignore me as her eyes flick over me with an almost reptilian-like interest. I can’t quite tell what she is thinking, but it makes me uneasy. She reminds me of a half-submerged crocodile waiting patiently in the water for its prey to arrive.

The seat next to mine remains empty. Ivan’s seat.

I sit down, trying to look as if I’m not shaking like jelly with nerves inside. My mind is stuck on Ivan—the tension that’s clung to him ever since we boarded the jet, the way he’s been glued to his phone, and now he’s disappeared, probably to handle even more troubles.

Everyone around me starts talking in different European languages or maybe even Russian. I can’t tell the difference. All I know is I don’t understand a word. I can’t help wondering if it is deliberate.

The first course is served, and the dishes are as exquisite as the view. Foie gras with fig compote, thin slices of herb bread still warm from the oven, and a light salad with delicate dressing that smells like summer. It tastes as rich as it looks, but I can barely focus on the food. My fork moves automatically, but my mind is elsewhere—drifting between worrying about Ivan and the strangeness of being here at all.

And then Nikolai arrives.

His easy, charismatic smile is like a balm against the awkwardness. He greets me warmly, his eyes twinkling as if he’s genuinely glad to see me. I can’t help but feel a wave of relief wash over me. At least there’s one familiar face in this sea of strangers.

“Lara!” he exclaims, taking the seat beside me with an effortless charm. “I’m so glad to see you again. How are you finding France?”

I smile at him gratefully, finally, someone I can actually talk to. “It’s beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking.”

He grins boyishly, leaning back in his chair. “I knew you’d appreciate it.”

He introduces me to the others, his sister Natalia, and a few other relatives whose names I instantly forget. They’re polite, offering smiles and nods, but they look at me with speculationand curiosity as if I was a strange creature that they cannot comprehend.

Just as Nikolai settles into the conversation, there’s a voice behind us. It’s cold and clipped.

“Move,” Ivan demands, his expression unreadable, but his tone so harsh that everyone at the table stops their conversation and watches us.

I hate to admit it, but I feel so happy now that he’s here. I try my best to hide my smile that he has returned. I like Nikolai, but without Ivan, the last place I want to be in this world is at this table.

Nikolai laughs lightly, making a joke about Ivan being possessive, but he obliges, moving to the seat on the other side of the table while the waiters quickly move his plate, glasses and cutlery for him. Ivan takes the seat next to me, his presence immediately commanding the space. I can feel the tension rolling off of him, but he doesn’t say a word, just nods briefly as a server pours him a glass of wine.

The silence between us is thick, and for the first time, I wonder if I should get involved with his affairs. Something is clearly very wrong. Should I ask him what is going on? But the words don’t come, I guess, because it is not part of our deal and he looks so forbidding I’m afraid he will tell me to fuck off and mind my own business.

Chapter Forty-Three

IVAN

As we continue to eat, I catch Lara sneaking glances at me. Each time her eyes flick towards mine, I can feel the weight of her concern, and it stirs something inside me, but the last thing I need is to have her worried about me. I don’t want my burdens to become hers. I want her to be how I found her. Innocent, sexy, kind-hearted.

"I’m fine," I say softly, glancing at her.

Her lips part slightly as if she wants to say something, but instead, she nods, her eyes dropping to her plate. I catch a glimpse of my sister Natalia watching us from across the table, her gaze sharp as she looks between the two of us. I don’t have the time or patience to figure out what her scrutiny means.

As the plates are cleared away our champagne glasses are filled and Nikolai rises, clinking his knife on his glass. He’s always liked being the center of attention, and tonight is no different. His smile is full of effortless charm, the kind that he wears when he’s about to take the spotlight.

"Everyone," he begins, his eyes sweeping over the family and the few close guests gathered, "it’s rare that we’re all togetherlike this. So before the evening takes us away into more wine and conversation, I want to take a moment to honor someone very special."

He raises his champagne glass high. “To my stepmother, Svetlana Ivanovich, the heart of this family. Your grace, strength, and love have held us together, and tonight, we celebrate not just you, but the legacy you’ve built for us."

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