Page 17 of Porcelain Lies

He hands the phone back, dark eyes meeting mine. “My…” He pauses, something vulnerable flickering across his face, but only for a fraction of a moment. “Children’s causes are important to me.”

The admission catches me off guard. My carefully maintained professional distance wavers. “Do you have experience with children’s hospitals?”

His gaze softens slightly, and I find myself leaning forward, drawn by the hint of personal story behind his businessman exterior. The movement brings his scent closer — I inhale deeply, and my head spins.

It’s the champagne.

That’s all it is.

“You’ve barely had a glass,”Boyana’s voice slips in.

“Are you unwell?” His blunt question jolts me from my muddled thoughts. The gentleness I’d imagined in his expression vanishes, replaced by something more clinical, assessing.

My chest tightens as reality crashes back. Gianni. The other woman. I shift in my seat, heat flooding my cheeks.

“No. I… I’m fine.” The words run into each other. “Just tired from organizing the event.”

His dark eyes narrow, unconvinced. “You’re shaking.”

I glance down at my hands. He’s right — they’re trembling against my lap. “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly.” His tone carries a hint of sarcasm that makes me look up. He tilts his head. “Bad day?”

A laugh escapes me, brittle and harsh. “You could say that.” I press my lips together, surprised by my candor. Something about his direct approach breaks through my carefully constructed walls. “Found out my fiancé has been…” The words stick in my throat.

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, he pulls up a chair, his movements deliberate and contained. The action shouldn’t feel comforting — he’s a stranger, after all — but somehow it does.

“Been?” His accent wraps around the word, making it sound more like an invitation than a question.

“Living a double life.” The admission comes easier than expected. Maybe it’s because he’s a stranger. Maybe it’s the champagne. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at me — like he sees past the professional mask to the mess underneath.

“Ah,” he says.

I don’t know why I’m telling him this. The words spill out before I can stop them. “He’s been seeing someone else. For months, apparently. I found out when I called him today — right before the event started.”

My fingers twist in my lap. “She knew everything about our relationship. Our engagement. Our plans to move in together.” I pause, swallowing hard. “Even the apartment we were looking at.”

The stranger’s expression shifts — not to pity like I expect, but to something harder. Dangerous. His jaw tightens, and those dark eyes flash with an intensity that makes me catch my breath.

“He discussed your private affairs with another woman?” His accent thickens, voice dropping lower.

“Yes.” The word comes out hoarse. “All of it.”

He leans forward slightly, and I catch another whiff of that intoxicating cologne. “This man — he sounds like apizda.”

My eyes widen. “A- apizda?” I may have been just a teenager when our family left St. Petersburg, but I know enough to recognize that word.

“A cunt.” A dark brow lifts.

I choke a little, and my champagne flute slips between my fingers. I catch it before it falls.

“You’re fortunate to discover his true nature now, rather than after marriage,” he continues smoothly.

His reaction isn’t the sympathetic murmur or awkward platitude I’ve come to expect. Instead, there’s something almost… protective in his response. As if Gianni’s betrayal personally offends him.

“I suppose I am,” I say slowly, studying his face. The harsh lines of his features have softened slightly, but there’s still that dangerous undercurrent in his expression.

“Have dinner with me.” His voice cuts through my thoughts, direct and commanding.

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