Page 16 of Porcelain Lies

What the fuck is happening to me?

Chapter Five

Stella

I breathe a sigh of relief as I escape into a dimly lit corner of the venue.

The sound of clinking glasses and donor chatter fades behind me. Maria’s got things under control — she’s been my assistant long enough to handle the wind-down.

I sink into a plush armchair, my legs finally giving out after hours of standing. The weight of maintaining appearances crashes over me like a wave. My phone sits heavy in my clutch — that awful conversation with Gianni’s ‘girlfriend’ playing on repeat in my mind.

“You held it together well tonight.”Boyana’s voice echoes in my head, familiar and soothing.

I press my fingers against my temples. “Did I? Because I feel like I’m falling apart.”

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. I snatch a glass, not caring how it looks. The bubbles burn my throat.

“Remember when Papa used to say, ‘Stand tall even when you’re breaking’?”My imaginary sister’s words make my eyes sting.

“Stop.” I gulp more champagne. “I don’t feel like standing tall anymore tonight.” The thought of escaping from this place is growing increasingly appealing.

The elegant wallpaper blurs as tears threaten again. I’ve spent the whole evening nodding, smiling, directing — being the perfect event organizer while my personal life crumbles. Nick’sworried glances from across the room only made it harder to maintain the facade.

I kick off my heels under the small side table, flexing my aching feet. The physical pain is almost welcome — it gives me something concrete to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.

My fingers trace the empty spot on my left hand where Gianni’s ring used to sit. I’d slipped it off in the bathroom earlier, unable to bear its weight anymore. It sits in my clutch now, heavy as betrayal.

The champagne glass trembles in my hand. I set it down before I drop it, watching condensation bead on the crystal surface. Like the tears I refuse to let fall.

A subtle whiff of cedarwood cuts through my champagne haze. My skin prickles with awareness before I even look up.

Dark eyes lock onto mine.

A stranger towers over my chair, his broad shoulders blocking out the chandeliers behind him. His presence fills the space, making my quiet corner feel suddenly intimate. Too intimate.

I straighten in my seat, painfully conscious of my bare feet tucked beneath the chair. Is my make-up smudged? His gaze is intense, almost searching, and I resist the urge to touch my face.

“You are the organizer?” His voice is deep, with a Russian accent that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. “I need to arrange the transfer for my donation.”

“Of course.” I scramble to appear professional, reaching for my clutch with trembling fingers. My hands brush againstGianni’s ring, and I flinch. “I have the banking details right here.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow slightly at my reaction. Heat creeps up my neck as I fumble with my phone, knowing I must look completely unprofessional. But there’s something in the way he’s watching me that makes it hard to focus.

That accent… Images flash through my mind — Papa’s stern face as he taught me Russian vocabulary, Mama humming folk songs in the kitchen. I push the memories away. Now isn’t the time.

“I apologize,” I say, finally pulling up the banking information. “It’s been a long evening.”

His cologne envelops me as he leans closer to see the screen. The scent is subtle but masculine — cedarwood and something darker, more complex. For a moment, I forget about Gianni’s betrayal, about maintaining appearances. I’m just aware of this man’s overwhelming presence and the way my pulse quickens in response.

I force my fingers steady as I pull up the donation form on my phone. “We can process this right now if you’d prefer.” My voice comes out professional, detached — a stark contrast to the chaos in my head.

His hand brushes mine as he takes the phone, and I catch a glimpse of an expensive watch peeking from beneath his crisp shirt cuff. The sleeve pulls back just enough to reveal a tattoo — something dark and intricate disappearing under the fabric.

“The children’s ward needs new equipment.” The words tumble out as I try to distract myself from how his presence seems to fill my personal space. “Every donation helps us—”

“I’ll pledge a million.” His voice is quiet but firm. Long fingers tap the screen, entering numbers that make my eyes widen. The sharp line of his jaw flexes as he concentrates, and I notice a small scar near his temple, partially hidden by dark hair that looks impossibly soft.

“That’s… very generous.” I swallow hard, watching him work. There’s something methodical about his movements, precise and controlled. It draws me in, making me forget about that woman’s voice on the phone.

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