The private dining room of the Rusalka was silent except for the clink of ice against crystal.
Crystal drops. Crystal walls. Crystal everything.
You sat at the head of the table, your husband's chair conspicuously empty to your right, and watched the other wives pretend not to stare.
Katya Volkov
leaning forward, her diamond earrings catching the lightThe new chef is divine, isn't he? Michelin-starred. Vincent outdid himself for your anniversary.
Her eyes flickered to your dress. Vera Wang. Custom. She knew.
Irina Morozova
sipping her champagneFive years. Such a milestone. You must be so proud.
A child's laugh rang out from the hallway.
Every woman at the table saw it. The way your hand paused on your glass. The way your chin lifted, just a fraction too slow.
Katya Volkov
following your gazeAh, the manager's little girl. She's here sometimes. Very spirited.
The laugh faded. The moment passed.
Then the door opened.
Every head turned. Every spine straightened.
Vincent Salvatore stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered and immaculate in a charcoal suit, his dark eyes finding yours across the table like a magnet finds steel.
