Page 15 of Porcelain Lies

Blyad.

My fingers twitch at my sides. Her skirt clings to generous curves, highlighting a figure that’s all soft femininity. Not the usual plastic surgery-enhanced Los Angeles type — this woman has natural beauty that makes my mouth go dry.

I try to shake it off, to recenter. I’m here for business, for Bobik. This reaction I’m having is… inconvenient.

But my body betrays me. Heat spreads through me as I walk toward her. It’s like being drawn to a magnet. My jaw clenches. I haven’t felt this immediate pull toward a woman since… Ever.

Get it together, Tarasov.

Thank fuck, she turns away again, and that emerald stare is torn from mine as she moves from the small group, her head bending toward someone before she moves off toward a sitting area.

I start off after her, forcing my breathing to steady, squaring my shoulders and fighting the urge to adjust my tie.

As I draw closer, the scent of jasmine reaches me — subtle, feminine, nothing like the overpowering perfumes most women here wear. It hits something primitive in my brain, making my fingers itch to touch. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks.

Stop.

I’m the fuckingPakhan. I don’t lose control over a pretty face. Yet here I am, my heart rate picking up like some teenager’s.

Fuck.

My feet almost refuse to move as I process this… reaction. Heat pools low in my gut, primal and demanding.

Chert voz’mi.

What the fuck is happening to me? I’m engaged to Sofia — a strategic match that will strengthen our position in Moscow. The families expect it. Diana wants it.

Yet one look at this woman makes Sofia fade to a ghost in my mind.

Suka.

I grind my teeth, fighting the urge to loosen my tie. The room feels too warm, too close. Those green eyes hit me like a physical blow. No artifice, no calculation — just pure, natural allure that bypasses all my defenses.

Sofia’s face floats through my thoughts — her carefully maintained beauty, the calculated way she touches my arm at social functions. Everything about her screams “shallow socialite.”

But this woman… The gentle curves of her body beneath that tailored suit suggest softness, vulnerability. Things I can’t afford to want.

Focus, mudak.

I’m here for Bobik. For all the children who need help. My help. I’m not here to lose my shit over some American event planner.

The donation. Right. One million dollars, then I leave. Delete this moment from memory.

My feet carry me forward while my mind wages war. Each step closer to her intensifies this… disruption. Like a magnetic field warping my reality.

Get your shit together.

I’ve faced down rival families, orchestrated takeovers, eliminated threats without blinking. Yet this woman’s mere presence sets my pulse racing like some untestedvor.

She turns slightly, profile catching the light. Natural beauty that makes the overly-processed women here look like plastic dolls. The gentle slope of her neck draws my eye to where her pulse beats steady beneath delicate skin.

Stop looking, dolboyob.

My hands clench at my sides. I force them to relax, adjusting my cuffs instead. The familiar motion grounds me, reminds me who I am. What I am.

She sinks into a seat and for a moment, there’s an air of such vulnerability to her that I falter yet again. She looks fragile. Like something precious that needs… protecting. And God help me, but for some reason, I find myself wanting to be the one to do it.

Blyad.

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