Page 120 of Cruel Paradise

I have no earthly idea what that means. Is he trying to tell me that Ruslan’s not gonna be all lovey-dovey with me in public? ‘Cause if so, I’ve got news for him—Ruslan’s not really lovey-dovey with me in private,either.

“I know. Ruslan’s an important man. People want to meet him.”

Kirill nods. “I’m happy to keep you company, though.”

I smile uncertainly. “Thanks.”

Again—weird.

A legion of luxury cars is queued up in a single file line as we near the Met. Photographers line the red carpet just outside the museum’s elegant entrance and flashing lights pop every other second.

“Oh, God,” I breathe, my anxiety clawing its way up my throat. “I’m gonna bust my ass up those stairs for sure.”

Kirill gives me a reassuring wink. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

When our Escalade finally gets to the front of the line, my door is thrown open and I’m hit with a frenzy of flashes. It’s almost enough to make me cower into the back of the SUV and refuse to come out.

The overwhelming thought in the back of my head is,I wish Ruslan were with me right now.

Then Kirill walks around and offers me his hand. I take it gratefully and we walk into the museum together.

“You didn’t trip,” he whispers to me. “Bravo.”

Feeling slightly more relaxed now that we’ve cleared the throng of reporters and photographers, my confidence rises.

That and I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirrors that line the foyer.

Anddamn, I do look good.

The Onyx Ballroom is aglitter with shimmering lights and shimmering people. It’s enough to blind me. I scan the room from side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man I’m here for. Kirill sticks close to my side and escorts me through the ballroom. I assume he’s leading me towards Ruslan, but then I catch a glimpse of him on the other side of the room.

I thought I looked good, but I don’t hold a candle to him. Neither does any other man in this place. Not the politicians or the movie stars. No one wears a tux like Ruslan Oryolov.

“Wait, Kirill. Ruslan’s over—”

I stop in my tracks. I can practically feel the color drain from my face. “I-is that… Jessica Allens next to him?”

She’s not just next to him; she’s practically part of his outfit, hanging off his arm in her sequined champagne cocktail dress. She’s laughing exuberantly, massaging his bicep possessively, glancing around to make sure everyone knows who he’s with.

My gaze veers slowly to Kirill and the look on his face makes everything clear.

Pity.

That’s what I saw back in the car.

“So why am I here then?” I ask Kirill miserably. “The call girl, kept close by for convenience’s sake so he has an easy lay when the night’s over?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re his assistant, Emma. You’re here in case he needs you.”

I scoff. “Right.” I zone in on the bar, which, thankfully, is on the opposite side of the room, far from where Ruslan and his witch of a date are mingling. “Well, if our bossneedsme, I’ll be at the bar. Consider it my address for the rest of the night.”

I zoom off in the direction of the bar and grab the first empty stool I see. But because I’m a masochist, I pick the stool that offers me a bird’s-eye view of Ruslan and the botched Botox version of Miranda Priestley he’s with.

Had I actually been confident when I came up here? Did I really think that putting on a pretty red dress andcome hitherlipstick would change a damn thing between Ruslan and me? Dress or no dress, I’m still just the lowly assistant, the hired help. He’s still the playboy billionaire with the endless roster of options. I’m nothing more to him than a plaything.

A distraction at best.

A charity case at worst.

---