Chapter Text
The evening air carried the last traces of autumn through the open gallery windows, and I was pretending to care about Konstantin Petrov's opinion of my brushwork.
"—the emotional depth is remarkable, truly remarkable," Konstantin was saying, his mustache twitching with each emphatic word. He was a critic, middle-aged, and wearing a scarf that cost more than most people's rent. "But I wonder, Oriel, have you considered that the crimson undertones might be *too* confrontational for the Seoul gallery next spring?"
I kept my expression pleasant, tilting my head as if considering his words with great seriousness. The movement sent my black hair sliding across my shoulder, and I caught several people in my periphery glance over.
"The crimson is intentional," I said, letting my voice remain soft, unhurried. "Confrontation is sometimes the point."
Konstantin looked uncertain whether to be offended or impressed. I smiled at him—warm, disarming, the smile that made people believe I was agreeing with them even when I wasn't—and he relaxed immediately.
"Well, of course, you would know your vision best."
Yes. I would.
I excused myself gracefully, drifting through the crowd of attendees who filled the main hall of the Laurent Gallery. My exhibition—*Silk and Bone*—had opened three hours ago, and by every measure, it was a success. Red dots marked sold pieces across the walls. Champagne glasses clinked. Voices hummed with the particular energy of wealthy people who felt cultured for having attended.
I found Celeste near the bar, her platinum-blonde hair catching the warm lighting as she scrolled through photos on her camera.
"Konstantin Petrov is trying to give me artistic advice," I said, sliding up beside her.
Celeste looked up, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising. "That man once wrote a three-page review about a blank canvas he thought was profound. It was a delivery error. The actual painting was in the back of the truck."
"That's exactly the kind of expertise I value."
She snorted, then tilted her camera toward me. "I got some incredible shots of you near the triptych. The way the light hit your face—" She stopped, her gray eyes sharpening as she looked past my shoulder. "Who is that?"
I turned.
An older woman stood before my largest piece—*The Weight of Silence*, a three-panel oil painting exploring the spaces between spoken words. She was elegant, clearly wealthy, with dark hair streaked with silver and striking green eyes that studied the painting with the focused attention of someone who actually saw it, rather than someone who simply wanted to be seen looking at it.
"I don't know," I said. "But she has good taste."
"You should go talk to her. Anyone who stares at your work that long deserves a personal introduction."
I agreed.
I crossed the gallery floor, weaving between clusters of attendees, and stopped at a respectful distance beside the woman. She didn't notice me immediately—she was too absorbed in the painting, her gaze tracing the lines of the central figure, the way I'd rendered his hands half-reaching, half-withdrawing.
"It's about my father," I said quietly.
She turned. Her green eyes met mine, and something in her expression shifted—warmth, recognition, the particular brightness of someone who had just found something she'd been looking for.
"You must be the artist," she said. Her accent was Russian, refined, the kind that came from decades of wealth and education. "Oriel Narelle."
"I am. And you are?"
"Elena Volkov." She smiled, and it transformed her face from elegant to genuinely warm. "I came on a whim. My daughter recommended this gallery, and I—" She looked back at the painting. "I wasn't prepared for this."
I studied her for a moment. The name Volkov was familiar—one of those Russian surnames that appeared in business magazines and society pages. But Elena Volkov didn't carry herself like a woman who needed to announce her importance. She carried herself like someone who already knew she mattered.
"Your father," she said. "He passed away?"
"Several years ago. Yes."
"The painting feels like grief, but not the sharp kind. It's the kind you've learned to carry."
I blinked. "Most people say it's sad."
"It is sad. But sadness and carrying aren't the same thing." She smiled again. "I lost someone too, a long time ago. A brother. I know the difference."
Something passed between us in that moment—a quiet understanding, the recognition of shared territory. I found myself smiling back, genuinely.
"Mrs. Volkov, would you like a glass of wine? I find the commentary is always better when you've had time to look without interruption."
"I would love that."
---
An hour later, I had learned that Elena Volkov was brilliant, sharp-witted, and possessed of an energy that made people gravitate toward her. She asked about my techniques, my inspirations, my process—not the superficial questions people usually asked, but real ones, the kind that showed she'd been paying attention.
And she told me about her children.
"Three of them," she said, swirling her wine. "Valeria is the youngest—she's a jewelry designer, terribly talented. Adrian drives cars very fast for a living. And Viktor—" She paused, something flickering in her expression. "Viktor is my eldest. He runs the family business."
"The heir."
"That's one word for it." Her smile turned wry. "He's... difficult. Brilliant, but difficult. He inherited his father's intensity and none of his father's patience."
"Difficult how?"
Elena considered the question. "He doesn't know how to let people in. He protects everyone and trusts no one, and he's convinced that showing weakness is the same as dying." She laughed softly. "Listen to me, telling a stranger about my son's emotional deficiencies. I apologize."
"Don't apologize. It's refreshing."
She looked at me with renewed interest. "Is it?"
"Most people at these events only want to talk about themselves. You're the first person tonight who's actually been interesting."
Elena laughed—a real laugh, warm and surprised—and I caught sight of my mother crossing the gallery toward us.
"Oriel, darling," Evelyn said, her silver-streaked hair gleaming under the lights. "I was looking for you. I wanted to introduce myself to—" She stopped, her amber eyes landing on Elena. "Oh. You must be a friend of Oriel's work."
"I'm Elena Volkov. And I have to say, your son is extraordinarily talented."
The two women shook hands, and I watched something pass between them—the particular recognition of two people who operated in similar social circles, who could place each other within seconds.
"Evelyn Narelle," my mother said. "Oriel's mother."
"Elena Volkov."
"Oh." My mother's eyebrows rose. "*The* Volkov family?"
"The very same. Though I prefer to be known as myself, rather than my husband's name."
"So do I."
They smiled at each other, and I felt the faintest prickle of something I couldn't quite name.
I should have recognized it then.
I should have run.
---
Three months later, I still hadn't run.
I'd had dinner with Elena Volkov four times. She'd attended two more of my exhibitions. She'd invited my mother to lunch, to tea, to a charity gala, to a weekend at their country estate. They'd become inseparable in the way that wealthy women with time and purpose on their hands often did—swiftly, completely, and with coordination that suggested military-level planning.
I hadn't met Viktor.
I hadn't particularly wanted to.
I knew of him, of course. Viktor Volkov appeared in business news with the regularity of a man who didn't know how to be quiet. His reputation preceded him: ruthless, brilliant, cold. A predator in tailored suits.
None of it interested me.
What interested me was the way Elena's voice softened when she mentioned him. The way she told stories about his childhood—the stray cat he'd hidden in his room for two weeks, the time he'd punched a boy for teasing his sister, the way he still sent flowers to his grandmother's grave every year on her birthday.
The man in the business articles and the man in Elena's stories didn't match.
I found myself curious, despite my better judgment.
Which was how I ended up standing in front of my bathroom mirror on a Saturday evening, adjusting the collar of my navy silk shirt, while my brother sprawled across my bed and criticized my life choices.
"You're walking into a trap," Rowan announced. He was eating grapes from a bowl on my nightstand, absolutely shameless. "I've done research. The Volkovs are basically a Russian crime family with nicer branding."
"They're a legitimate business conglomerate."
"That's what they *want* you to think."
I shot him a look in the mirror. "You're eating grapes on my bed."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm not deflecting. I'm having dinner with a family friend."
"A family friend whose son you've never met, who conveniently happens to be an eligible Alpha bachelor, who your mother and his mother have been plotting about for months." Rowan popped another grape into his mouth. "You're being set up, Oriel. This is an ambush."
"Elena hasn't mentioned Viktor once in connection to tonight."
"Exactly. Suspicious."
I turned from the mirror, studying my brother. Rowan was sprawled like an abandoned marionette, his dark hair mussed, his sharp features arranged in an expression of supreme self-satisfaction.
"Are you coming or not?" I asked.
"Absolutely not. I have plans."
"What plans?"
"Important plans. Architectural plans. I'm designing a building."
"You're a first-year student."
"A visionary first-year student."
I shook my head, but I was smiling. "You're impossible."
"I'm protective. There's a difference." Rowan sat up, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Look, I know you can handle yourself. You're the most intimidating person I know, and you smell like flowers. But these rich Alpha families? They play different games. Just... be careful."
I crossed to the bed and ruffled his hair. "I'm always careful."
"You're really not."
"Fair point."
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