Page 68 of Porcelain Lies

My thumb hovers over Sofia’s contact info. Time to make this break permanent, clean. No more of her theatrical scenes or possessive demands. The party tonight will be the perfect opportunity to make it public — ensure everyone understands exactly where things stand.

I start typing out instructions to have her removed from all guest lists when another call comes through. Time to focus on business. The rest can wait.

As I speak, I adjust my cufflinks, the platinum catching the light.

“Da,” I tell Dimitri as he checks in with a question about the catering. “Sasha has the details.” I wave him off then examine my reflection. The Tom Ford fits perfectly, its severe lines emphasizing authority. Power. Control.

My phone buzzes again — another message from Diana. I don’t need to read it to know she’s furious about Sofia. My twin has always been protective of our family’s alliances, even at the cost of my sanity.

The tie slides through my fingers as I knot it with practiced precision. Tonight needs to send a clear message.

No more arranged marriages.

No more political games.

The other families can whisper all they want about tradition and obligation.

I slide on my watch, the weight familiar against my wrist. The sound of cars arriving draws my attention to the window. Early preparations for tonight’s event are already underway. Security teams doing their sweeps, caterers setting up in the kitchen below.

I straighten my tie one final time, push thoughts of Diana’s disappointment aside. Tonight isn’t about family politics. It’s about maintaining control. And Sofia and the Novikovs need to learn exactly who holds that control. Because I’ve already had a taste of the kind of woman I want to have in my life.

And it’s not her.

Chapter Twenty

Stella

My hands tremble on the steering wheel as I approach the towering iron gates of Blackwood Manor.

The security booth’s harsh spotlights illuminate my face, making me squint. The guard’s expression remains impassive as I roll down my window.

“I have an urgent delivery for Mr. Tarasov.” My voice wavers despite hours of practicing this line in my car. “Time-sensitive materials.”

The guard’s eyes narrow. “Name?”

“Stella Fer- uh, Verona,” I say, remembering my brother’s instructions to go along with his alias. I grip the black bag tighter on my lap.

He speaks into his radio in rapid Russian. My heart pounds as I catch fragments — words that remind me of childhood in St. Petersburg before everything changed. Before Dad…

“ID,” he demands.

I fumble with my purse, dropping my wallet. “Oh… oops,” I mumble. “Sorry. I could have sworn that I had it in here.” I fumble some more, the guard growing increasingly impatient.

Finally, I emerge holding a card embossed with balloons and clowns. The name “Miss Stella Bear” is printed in the middle.

“Gosh, I can’t find it. Will this do?” I ask him meekly. “It’s from the foundation I work for.”

“Stella Bear?” He stares at me.

“It’s a children’s foundation,” I say. “For kids with severe diseases.”

The guard studies me while I fight to keep my breathing steady.

“Purpose of visit?”

“Like I said, an important delivery that can’t wait until morning.” I force confidence into my tone. “Mr. Tarasov is expecting it.”

Another burst of Russian into his radio. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the evening chill.

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