Page 1 of Shatter Me

1

TASH

Iraise my champagne glass, scanning the ornate Renaissance hall filled with Boston and European elite. The frescoed ceiling of the Palazzo Vecchio catches the golden light, making everything feel like a fairytale, though knowing the Ivanovs, it’s more Brothers Grimm than Disney.

“When Sofia first told me about Nikolai, I warned her that dating a Russian oligarch was like adopting a bear—impressive to look at, but likely to eat you alive.” Polite laughter ripples through the crowd. Sofia, radiant in her couture gown, shakes her head at me with a smile. “But watching them together this past year, I’ve realized she didn’t adopt the bear—she tamed it.”

My gaze drifts to Nikolai, who’s looking at Sofia like she’s a priceless masterpiece he’s finally acquired. The man may be powerful and too rich, but his devotion to my best friend is undeniable.

“To the happy couple—may your love story continue to defy expectations, and may Sofia keep Nikolai wrapped around her little finger for many years to come.”

The guests raise their glasses. As I take a sip of champagne, I feel eyes on me. Dmitri Ivanov sits at his brother’s side, his piercing gaze locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Unlike Nikolai’s obvious power, Dmitri’s danger lies in his subtlety—in the calculated way he’s watching me over his champagne glass, like I’m a puzzle he’s deciding whether to solve.

I’ve spent enough time around collectors to recognize when I’m being assessed for value. But two can play at that game. I meet his stare directly, arching one eyebrow in challenge. The corner of his mouth ticks up—barely perceptible, but there.

Sofia catches my eye, her gaze darting between me and Dmitri. She gives me that knowing look she’s perfected since her college days. A flutter ignites in my stomach when I sense Dmitri still watching me as I sit back down.

The string quartet strikes a waltz, and I weave through the crowd toward the bar. These heels might be Louboutin, but they’re murder after standing through the ceremony.

“Martini, extra dirty,” I tell the bartender, leaning against the polished mahogany.

“Make that two.” Dmitri Ivanov materializes beside me. “Though I doubt anything here could be as dirty as that speech.”

I turn, giving him my best debutante smile. “If you found that dirty, you must be very sheltered.”

“On the contrary.” His eyes glide over me with a calculating assessment I expect he gives his business acquisitions. “I simply expected more sophistication from old money.”

“And I expected better manners from new money, but here we are.” I accept my martini, taking a deliberate sip. “Though I suppose that’s what happens when wealth comes too quickly—no time to learn proper etiquette.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You have strong opinions about me, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Just observations. Sofia might be starry-eyed about all this, but some of us remember what the Ivanovs were before they got ‘respectable.’”

“Careful.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Those observations could be dangerous.”

I refuse to back down, even as my pulse quickens. “Is that a threat, Mr. Ivanov?”

“Just an observation.” He mimics my earlier tone perfectly. “And please, call me Dmitri. We’re practically family now.”

“I’d rather not.” I set down my glass. “Family implies trust, and I make it a point never to trust men who think intimidation is foreplay.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks.

“And yet you seem determined to draw attention.” Dmitri’s posture is relaxed but his eyes sharp. “That speech wasn’t exactly keeping a low profile.”

“Oh, was I supposed to give some bland, forgettable toast? ‘Here’s to the happy couple, may they live long and prosper’?” I gesture with my glass. “Sofia deserves better than beige platitudes.”

“Sofia deserves discretion from those closest to her.”

“Funny, I didn’t realize you were the authority on what my best friend deserves.” The olive in my martini suddenly seems fascinating. “Though I suppose that’s the Ivanov way—deciding what’s best for everyone else.”

“You have quite the sharp tongue, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Family trait. Though unlike some, we earned our reputation through wit rather than—” I pause deliberately “—strategic business acquisitions.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve formed strong opinions about business practices you know nothing about.”

“I know enough. Being a curator isn’t just about brushstrokes and provenance. You learn to spot patterns, inconsistencies.” I lock eyes with him. “Things that don’t quite add up.”

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