Page 19 of Porcelain Lies

“Spasibo,” he says, the Russian word rolling naturally off his tongue. The maitre d’ disappears with another bow.

I haven’t even opened the menu when a waiter materializes with an ice bucket and bottle. The label catches the light — vintage Dom Pérignon. My mysterious dinner companion doesn’t consult me, just nods his approval as the waiter presents the bottle.

The gentle pop of the cork seems to echo in our private corner. Crystal flutes appear, the champagne flowing golden in the dim light. I watch the bubbles dance upward, trying toprocess how I ended up here — in this temple of luxury with a stranger who speaks my native tongue when just hours ago, my world imploded.

“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass. His dark eyes hold mine, and something electric passes between us.

“New beginnings,” I echo, taking a quick sip to hide my nerves.

He raises his glass to his lips, drinking deeply before sitting back in his seat. “So,” he begins, “you organized the event tonight?”

I nod quickly, relieved that he’s guiding the conversation into safe territory. “It’s one of our most important fundraisers.”

“A big responsibility,” he murmurs, his eyes on me.

I nod again, then stop myself, trying not to look too jittery. Which isn’t easy, because I am. “The event supports children with serious illnesses,” I explain, warming to the topic. “We partner with local hospitals to bring joy to families going through unimaginable struggles.”

His intense focus makes my skin tingle. He doesn’t just nod politely like most donors — helistens, asking thoughtful questions about our programs and impact metrics.

“How did you become involved?” His voice is deep, resonant.

“I started volunteering at hospitals during college. There was this little girl…” I pause, remembering her bright smile despite everything. “She changed my whole perspective on what matters.”

As I speak, I notice more details about him. The way his broad shoulders fill out his clearly bespoke suit. How his hands — strong but elegant — cradle his champagne glass. A small scar above his right eyebrow catches the light when he tilts his head. It’s hard to take my eyes off of him.

“You speak from experience,” he says softly. Not a question.

Before I can respond, our waiter approaches with understated grace. “Are you ready to order, sir? Madam?”

The spell breaks, and I realize I haven’t even glanced at the menu.

I watch, mesmerized, as he speaks to the waiter in fluid Russian. The familiar cadence of my childhood language washes over me, bringing back memories of family dinners in St. Petersburg. His accent is pure Moscow — cultured, refined.

“Beluga ikra,” he orders, among other dishes I can’t quite catch. The waiter nods efficiently, scribbling notes.

“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” I say, half-teasing.

His lips curve. “Trust me?”

The question carries weight beyond our dinner choices. I meet his gaze, finding myself nodding.

Minutes later, the first course arrives — a mother-of-pearl spoon nestled beside black pearls of caviar on ice. My mouth waters at the sight. It’s been years since I’ve had proper Russian caviar.

“Like this.” He demonstrates, scooping a small amount onto a blini. His hands move with unusual grace for a man as he adds a touch of crème fraîche.

I mirror his movements, bringing the bite to my lips. The caviar bursts against my tongue — briny, rich, decadent. A small moan escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes darken. “Good?”

“Divine,” I breathe, reaching for another bite. The familiar taste breaks something loose inside me. My shoulders relax, and I find myself leaning forward slightly.

“Tell me more about your work,” he says, pouring more champagne.

“I love it.” I take another sip of champagne, feeling warm and lighter than I have all day. “It feels good to do something that has real value, you know?”

His fingers brush mine as he passes the caviar, sending electricity up my arm. “Indeed, it does.”

The caviar gives way to a parade of dishes that transport me back to family dinners from my childhood — tender pelmeni swimming in butter, perfectly seasoned stroganoff, and delicate blini that melt on my tongue. Each bite unlocks memories I’ve kept locked away since our family fled Russia. It suddenly occurs to me that it’s been hard to hide my roots for so long. All the years of speech lessons to get rid of the accent. I barely think of lineage anymore.

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