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TASH

I raise my champagne glass, scanning the ornate Renaissance hall filled with Boston and European elite. The frescoed ceiling of the Palazzo Vecchio catches the golden light, making everything feel like a fairytale, though knowing the Ivanovs, it’s more Brothers Grimm than Disney.

“When Sofia first told me about Nikolai, I warned her that dating a Russian oligarch was like adopting a bear—impressive to look at, but likely to eat you alive.” Polite laughter ripples through the crowd. Sofia, radiant in her couture gown, shakes her head at me with a smile. “But watching them together this past year, I’ve realized she didn’t adopt the bear—she tamed it.”

My gaze drifts to Nikolai, who’s looking at Sofia like she’s a priceless masterpiece he’s finally acquired. The man may be powerful and too rich, but his devotion to my best friend is undeniable.

“To the happy couple—may your love story continue to defy expectations, and may Sofia keep Nikolai wrapped around her little finger for many years to come.”

The guests raise their glasses. As I take a sip of champagne, I feel eyes on me. Dmitri Ivanov sits at his brother’s side, his piercing gaze locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Unlike Nikolai’s obvious power, Dmitri’s danger lies in his subtlety—in the calculated way he’s watching me over his champagne glass, like I’m a puzzle he’s deciding whether to solve.

I’ve spent enough time around collectors to recognize when I’m being assessed for value. But two can play at that game. I meet his stare directly, arching one eyebrow in challenge. The corner of his mouth ticks up—barely perceptible, but there.

Sofia catches my eye, her gaze darting between me and Dmitri. She gives me that knowing look she’s perfected since her college days. A flutter ignites in my stomach when I sense Dmitri still watching me as I sit back down.

The string quartet strikes a waltz, and I weave through the crowd toward the bar. These heels might be Louboutin, but they’re murder after standing through the ceremony.

“Martini, extra dirty,” I tell the bartender, leaning against the polished mahogany.

“Make that two.” Dmitri Ivanov materializes beside me. “Though I doubt anything here could be as dirty as that speech.”

I turn, giving him my best debutante smile. “If you found that dirty, you must be very sheltered.”

“On the contrary.” His eyes glide over me with a calculating assessment I expect he gives his business acquisitions. “I simply expected more sophistication from old money.”

“And I expected better manners from new money, but here we are.” I accept my martini, taking a deliberate sip. “Though I suppose that’s what happens when wealth comes too quickly—no time to learn proper etiquette.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You have strong opinions about me, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Just observations. Sofia might be starry-eyed about all this, but some of us remember what the Ivanovs were before they got ‘respectable.’”

“Careful.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Those observations could be dangerous.”

I refuse to back down, even as my pulse quickens. “Is that a threat, Mr. Ivanov?”

“Just an observation.” He mimics my earlier tone perfectly. “And please, call me Dmitri. We’re practically family now.”

“I’d rather not.” I set down my glass. “Family implies trust, and I make it a point never to trust men who think intimidation is foreplay.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks.

“And yet you seem determined to draw attention.” Dmitri’s posture is relaxed but his eyes sharp. “That speech wasn’t exactly keeping a low profile.”

“Oh, was I supposed to give some bland, forgettable toast? ‘Here’s to the happy couple, may they live long and prosper’?” I gesture with my glass. “Sofia deserves better than beige platitudes.”

“Sofia deserves discretion from those closest to her.”

“Funny, I didn’t realize you were the authority on what my best friend deserves.” The olive in my martini suddenly seems fascinating. “Though I suppose that’s the Ivanov way—deciding what’s best for everyone else.”

“You have quite the sharp tongue, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Family trait. Though unlike some, we earned our reputation through wit rather than—” I pause deliberately “—strategic business acquisitions.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve formed strong opinions about business practices you know nothing about.”

“I know enough. Being a curator isn’t just about brushstrokes and provenance. You learn to spot patterns, inconsistencies.” I lock eyes with him. “Things that don’t quite add up.”

“Dangerous hobby, looking for patterns where none exist.”

“Who said they don’t exist?” I finish my martini but continue to hold the glass. “Though I’m sure a legitimate businessman like yourself has nothing to hide.”

“Everyone has something to hide.” He steps closer, and despite myself, I feel my breath catch. “Even sharp-tongued museum curators with trust funds and designer shoes.”

“The difference is, my secrets don’t make headlines.” I straighten my spine, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. “Or require quite so many lawyers.”

Dmitri leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Speaking of secrets, that dress leaves little to the imagination.”

My skin prickles with awareness. “I thought we were having a civilized conversation about business practices.”

“We can discuss whatever you’d like.” His fingers brush my bare shoulder, a touch so light it could be accidental. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Ivanov.” I step back but find myself against the bar.

“Does it?” His eyes darken as he closes the distance. “And what exactly have you heard?”

“That you treat women like objects—pretty things to be collected and displayed.”

“Maybe I just appreciate beauty in all its forms.” His gaze drops to my lips. “And you, Ms. Blackwood, are quite the masterpiece.”

“And you’re quite the pig.” I push against his chest, but he catches my wrist.

“Careful. Some men might take offense to that.”

“Some men should learn to handle rejection better.”

“Hey, Tash!” Alexi appears, slinging an arm around Dmitri’s shoulder. His presence breaks the tension like a splash of cold water. “Dmitri’s not boring you with hostile takeover stories, is he?”

“Alexi.” Dmitri’s jaw tightens as he releases my wrist.

“We were discussing museum curation.” I grab this escape route with both hands.

“Sounds thrilling.” Alexi rolls his eyes. “Almost as exciting as watching paint dry. Come on, Dmitri, Nikolai needs us for the family photos. You can terrify Sofia’s friends later.”

Dmitri shoots me a look that promises this isn’t over but allows his younger brother to steer us away.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I mutter.

Alexi winks. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got his attention now—and Dmitri’s like a dog with a bone when something interests him.”

Alexi’s warning settles like ice in my stomach. I’ve heard whispers about Dmitri’s obsessions—how they consume everything in their path. What Dmitri wants, Dmitri gets.

I watch him stride ahead, his shoulders set in that perfect posture that screams old money—though I know it’s learned, not inherited. The photographer arranges the Ivanov brothers near the grand staircase, and their dynamic unfolds like a silent play.

Nikolai stands center, with natural authority in every line of his body. Sofia fits against his side like she was crafted for that exact spot. Erik takes position slightly behind them, scanning the room even during what should be a relaxed family moment. Alexi fidgets with his phone until Dmitri snatches it with a sharp Russian reprimand.

“Ms. Blackwood.” The photographer waves me over. “Next to the bride, please.”

I move to Sofia’s side, catching Dmitri’s gaze as I pass. That calculating look is back like he’s already deciding where I’ll fit in his world. It makes my skin crawl—not entirely unpleasantly but that only makes it even more disturbing.

“Closer together,” the photographer instructs.

Sofia squeezes my hand. “You okay?” she whispers. “You look spooked.”

“Fine.” I smile, very aware of Dmitri’s presence on my other side. “Just wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.”

“Welcome to the family,” Alexi mutters behind me, his tone caught between amusement and warning.

The camera flashes, capturing this moment—Sofia radiant, Nikolai possessive, Erik vigilant, Alexi amused, and Dmitri... I feel his hand brush my lower back, too deliberately to be accidental.

I resist the urge to step away. After all, isn’t this what I warned Sofia about? The Ivanovs don’t just collect art—they collect people. And now, watching Dmitri’s reflection in the massive, gilded mirror across the room, I realize I might have caught the attention of the most dangerous collector.