Page 69 of Porcelain Lies

The guard’s stony expression doesn’t change as he hands back the card. “Follow the main drive. Park in front of the right wing. Don’t deviate from the path.”

The gates slide open on oiled tracks, barely making a sound. I edge my car forward, hyperaware of the security cameras tracking my every move. The winding driveway seems endless, manicured hedges looming on either side like prison walls.

Two identical buildings emerge from the darkness — one gleaming white and modern, the other more traditional with stone facades. The right wing blazes with light, every window a reminder that I’m walking straight into the den of the man who wants my brother dead.

I park where instructed and then get out of the car, trying not to cringe at how it sticks out like a sore thumb alongside the rows of Bentleys and Ferraris already parked there.

The stairs to the front doors are lit up. A red carpet is set down the middle, leading up to wear a burly man is standing with a clipboard.

Shit.

Gathering my wits, I head toward him, trying not to trip up the stairs. His eyes run over my simple black dress and plain black court shoes.

God, why didn’t I dress up?

It’s not like I haven’t attended events like this before. Although I have to admit, this shindig is next level.

“Name?” he says, glancing down at the board.

“Um… Stella,” I say. “I- I’m not on the guest list. I’m here to deliver a package.” I nod down at the bag. “They called ahead from the security gate?”

His eyes narrow. “Service entrance is ‘round that way.” He jerks his head to the right, where a path leads to a side door.

Geez.

“Oh. Right. Of course. Silly me.” I turn awkwardly and scurry toward the door, my cheeks flaming as a gathering on the landing watches me.

There’s another guard at the service entrance who listens as I go through the story again.

“Through the side entrance, and then off to your left,” he says as I sign in. “There’s a room there. Someone will meet you to take you to Mr. Tarasov. Keep it short. He’s busy tonight.”

“Of course,” I murmur before making my way through the door. A short corridor leads through to an empty room with a desk on one side and two doors leading out. I wait there for a couple of minutes, my nerves stretching thin.

“What are you waiting for, idiot?”Boyana asks.

“Screw it,” I mutter, then open one of the doors. My head spins as I step into a cacophony of sound. I’ve walked straight into the heart of the party.

I weave through the crowd, clutching the black bag to my chest like a shield. The glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos make my simple black dress feel like a cleaning lady’s uniform. A woman in a red Valentino gives me a dismissive once-over before turning back to her champagne.

“Excuse me… pardon me…” I murmur, dodging waiters with silver trays. The opulent ballroom seems endless, a maze of crystal chandeliers and marble columns. My practical court shoes squeak against the polished floor.

“You don’t belong here,”Boyana whispers.“Everyone can tell.”

“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath. A nearby couple gives me an odd look.

The scent of expensive perfume is overwhelming, making my head spin. Or maybe that’s just anxiety. I spot what looks like a quieter hallway and make a beeline for it, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

I’m so focused on my escape that I don’t notice the woman in front of me.

I stumble and time slows as my shoulder collides with her, the wine glass in the woman’s hand tilting at a deadly angle.

“Blyat!”The shriek pierces my eardrums as red wine blooms across pristine white silk. “You stupid littlesuka! Do you know how much this Balenciaga costs?”

I step back, horrified, as the statuesque woman rounds on me. Her grey eyes flash with cold fury, perfectly manicured hands clawing at the spreading stain.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Who let this clumsy peasant in here?” She switches to rapid Russian, drawing a growing circle of onlookers. “Security! Get this woman out of here immediately!”

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