ANYA
Our guests have already arrived.
The large ballroom of the Ritz Carlton hotel is filled with everyone already chatting, dancing, and eating. I feel like I walked in on a party I don’t belong at, even though this party is for me.
Erik and me.
He holds my hand in his firm grip as we walk into the ballroom. Men and women clap for us. I spy my father in the crowd, and for the first time in his life, he looks moderately happy. I know it’s not because of me. It’s because he just gained even more power with Erik at his side.
Nadia is beside him, still looking just as afraid as she did at the church. I want to run over and comfort her, but Erik whisks me onto the dance floor. Everyone gives us space for our first dance.
The music becomes slow and romantic. It’s not a song I would have picked out. I want a song I can run to so I can get as far away from Erik as possible.
Settling his hand on my waist, he pulls me in close. His other hand grabs my hand, and I’m forced to rest my other hand on his chest to steady myself.
We begin to waltz around the floor.
“You can dance,” he murmurs into my ear.
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Your father never mentioned you could dance.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot my father didn’t tell you about me.”
His eyes speak something dangerous. “I’m sure.”
I stumble, but Erik catches me and smoothly helps me recover. I glance around at our guests and find many of them watching us. Some are completely ignoring us as they talk among themselves. My father’s eyes haven’t left us since we arrived.
Even though Erik terrifies me, I need to make an effort with him. For Nadia’s sake.
“I was put into lessons when I was a girl.”
Erik looks down at me. “Did you just tell me something about yourself?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
He pulls me in closer so we’re chest to chest. I swear, I can feel his heart beating through his suit. At least that means he has a heart. But the question is: Is he capable of love?
And do I care if he is? I have no desire to love a monster like him, so it shouldn’t matter if he loves me or not.
“Tell me more,” he says.
“My father thought it would be good for my sister and me to know how to dance. So, we spent countless hours learning how to waltz and do ballet. But I haven’t practiced in years.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Because my father also thought it would be inappropriate for a young woman to be flinging her body around, so he stopped my dance classes.”
We glide around the floor with ease. It’s almost as easy as breathing, but the second I realize this, my body tenses. I can’t believe I’m casually conversing with a man like Erik Koslov. A man who has a reputation for doing unspeakable things to people.
“Were you sad to stop your classes?”
I was, but I don’t want to tell Erik that. I’m afraid he’ll use any weakness against me.
So, I choose to lie again. “No. I hated dance. In fact, I hate it right now.”
“Then, too bad we’re dancing. I’m sure this is torture for you.”