Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

"By gaming we lose both our time and treasure:

two things most precious to the life of man."

― Owen Feltham

Caia

My eyes darted around the ballroom, scanning for any possible escape routes. An emergency exit I could bolt through, a dark corner or a VIP room where I could hide, or hell, even a decorative sword to slice off the wandering hands I knew would come my way soon enough.

Despite all my pleading—and the sick, twisted feeling in my stomach that had been there since this morning—my father had insisted I show up.

So here I was, trapped in this deep grey silk dress that hugged me way too tight, high heels that felt like they were slowly breaking my feet, and fake diamond earrings that probably cost twenty bucks but looked like they could cover someone's rent. Oh, and let's not forget the makeup, caked on so thick that I felt like I should be competing in a drag queen contest.

All of it—every last detail—was just part of the armor I needed to survive these nights. My shield against all of this .

I raised the champagne glass to my lips, forcing myself to take a sip even though the second the liquid touched my tongue, I regretted it. I hated alcohol—the taste, the way it burned going down, the way it made me feel the next day. But here I was, sipping it like it was water, pretending it was helping me cope.

I swirled the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles rise like they had a better escape plan than I did. It almost made me laugh—how even something as mindless as champagne bubbles seemed to have more freedom than I did right now. If only I could float out of this nightmare as easily as they did, drifting away from this circus my life had become.

But, of course, I wasn't that lucky. I may hate alcohol, but in moments like these, I needed something to take the edge off. Without it, I was one sip away from an anxiety attack or, worse, feeling like I was a contestant in the "Biggest Whore in Moscow" contest.

So, I brought the glass to my lips, pretending like one more sip was going to magically fix things, even though what I really wanted was to hurl the damn thing at the nearest wall and watch it shatter. At least that way, something would feel cathartic about tonight.

"Miss Mankiev, what's your lucky number?" Gregor Lanchekiev asked as I plopped down next to him at the poker table. The scene was straight out of a bad noir film: four other guys, each with a woman draped over their laps like trophy furniture, all puffing away on cigars.

I pretended to ponder deeply. "Eight."

Eight, as in, I hate being here, but Lanchekiev didn't need to know that. Although, if he had any sensitivity, he'd probably notice how every single one of my pores was practically oozing disdain and disgust.

Lanchekiev grinned, showing off his impressively yellowed teeth, and his hand predictably landed on my thigh. "Eight it is, then."

He signaled to the bouncer, who handed him eight cards.

As his hand began its unwelcome journey further up my thigh, I fought to ignore the creeping disgust. I brought my glass to my lips and finished the champagne in one gulp, grabbing another from a passing waiter and downing it like it was a lifeline.

As the bouncer deftly shuffled and dealt the cards, Gregor Lanchekiev confidently announced, "All in."

When the cards were revealed, his victory was inevitable. The room's atmosphere shifted from tense to celebratory. Applause erupted, the women at the table cheered with exaggerated enthusiasm, and the men roared with laughter. The bouncer handed Lanchekieva substantial pile of poker coins, totaling 80K.

His attention turned to me. With a self-satisfied grin, he seized my chin and planted a theatrical kiss on my cheek. "Thanks for your sweet help, Miss Mankiev."

He then grabbed a handful of coins and let them cascade into my open hands. As if that weren't enough, he leaned in and placed a lingering kiss on my shoulder.

I watched the scene unfold with a detached sense of boredom, my gaze drifting away from the spectacle. I found myself yearning for something—anything—to take the edge off, whether it be another glass of champagne or something stronger.

Lanchekiev's smirk stayed firmly in place as I excused myself, sliding the poker coins into my clutch with a mix of disgust and pragmatic relief. If I could keep them hidden long enough, they might just cover my groceries for the next two years—assuming I could stash them away before my useless father discovered them.

I gave him a flirtatious wave, masking my irritation with a thin layer of charm, and made my way to the ladies' room, desperate for a moment's peace away from the incessant noise.

Navigating through the crowd, I felt the weight of stares burning into the bare skin of my back, exposed by my hair pinned up in a bun. I didn't dare turn around to see who was watching—my nerves were frayed enough as it was.

When I finally reached the ladies' room, I was relieved to find there was no line. I headed straight for the nearest stall, locked the door behind me, and let out a shaky breath.

The toilet was a grotesque display of excess, made of gold with deep green walls and black tiles. It was as if someone thought that opulence could mask the darkness that these walls witnessed night after night. I lowered myself onto the seat and buried my face in my hands.

"Come on, Caia, just forty-five minutes left and you can go to bed and forget about this night," I muttered to myself, trying to summon some last shred of motivation.

But even as I said it, a tight knot spread in my chest.

I took a few more moments to breathe and clear my mind before flushing the toilet and stepping out.

I washed my hands with more force than necessary, catching my reflection in the mirror. Rosy cheeks, red eyes, and quivering lips—yep, I was officially drunk.

Bravo, Caia.

I sighed at my reflection, feeling a pang of disillusionment as I wondered if this was really what adulthood had come to.

Grabbing my clutch, I stumbled out of the stall, phone clutched in one hand as I pushed open the bathroom door. I was so preoccupied with my search that I didn't notice the wall—at least, that's what it felt like—until my forehead met it with a dull thud. I pressed a hand against the pain, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me.

As I blinked away the stars, my eyes slowly focused on the towering figure before me.

There, standing in the doorway like a misplaced statue of intimidation, was Alexsei Romaniev. He had the kind of build that made a tree trunk look scrawny, and his eyes, the bluest I'd ever seen, seemed to pierce right through me.

It was as if someone had decided to personify intimidation and then dressed it up in a designer suit.

What the hell is he doing here?

I stared up at him, my heart racing.

Romaniev's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing on his lips as he reached out and grabbed my chin, his fingers pressing firmly against my skin. The touch was hot and invasive, sending a tingling burn through my face.

"Almost didn't recognize you with all that shit on your face," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "Planning to enroll in a fucking clown school?"

I winced at his grip, trying to ignore the sting while glaring up at him.

I tried to pull away, but his hold was ironclad.

"Careful," he murmured, his smirk widening. "Wouldn't want to mess up all that makeup you've caked on."

His fingers lingered a moment longer, as if he was relishing the discomfort he was causing, before he finally let go.

Bastard.

I shot him a glare, my lips curling into a sarcastic smile that barely masked my irritation. With deliberate slowness, I stepped closer, pressing my palms flat against his chest through his grey suit. The heat of his body radiated through the fabric, and I could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my hands. Rising on my tiptoes, I let my lips graze his ear, my breath warm and tantalizing.

"Keep talking sweet to me, Romaniev," I murmured, my voice a low, sultry whisper. "And I might just start believing you actually like this face of mine."

I could feel his body tense as I lingered in that tight space between us. The air seemed to crackle with the heat of our proximity. When I tried to pull away, he seized the back of my neck, holding me firmly in place. He pressed himself against me, his lips brushing against my ear, his hot breath creating a sensation of molten warmth on my bare neck. The contact was electrifying, and for a moment, everything else seemed to blur into the background.

"I'd have to be fucking blind or high to like anything about you, Caia," he whispered, his breath hot against my skin.

The comment hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water, and I shoved him away with all the force I could muster.

Whether it was the alcohol in my system, the anger burning in my chest, or the bitter taste of self-loathing on my tongue, I was losing all sense of decency and politeness. This man was pushing me to the edge, making me want to hurt him and humiliate him just as much as he had done to me.

I stared at him, my voice low and venomous. "Funny, Romaniev. I was just thinking how someone with such a big ego must have an even smaller—" I let my eyes drop to his body before finishing, "—intellect. But then again, it makes sense. You need something to make up for the lack of anything worth liking about you, too. "

His expression darkened, but before he could retort, I spun on my heel and stormed out.

Of course, in true Alexsei Romaniev fashion, he followed me, his imposing figure towering over me as I tried to make my escape.

"Interesting dress. Trying to snag a rich husband to rescue you from your Papa's clutches?"

I shot him a withering look and turned my attention to finding a server, desperate for one last drink to numb the night. As luck would have it, one of them in a white suit with a black tie approached, his forced smile barely hiding his boredom. I snatched two glasses from his tray, downed them in quick gulps, and shoved the empty glasses back onto the tray, nearly toppling it.

I turned back to Romaniev, a sneer curling my lips. "And you? Still searching for a girl desperate enough to trade a blow job for your bloody fortune? It must be exhausting being you, constantly compensating for that pathetic excuse of a personality."

It seemed I'd hit a nerve, as he looked ready to kill me on the spot. If his eyes were guns, I'd be sprawled on the ground in a bloody heap.

"You seem really obsessed with who's sucking my dick, Caia," Romaniev sneered as he got closer, his breath warm on my skin. He reached out, grabbing a loose strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear like he had every right. "Careful, or I might think you're begging to be next in line to wrap those pretty lips around it."

Freaking bastard.

I glared up at him.

Before I could come up with a retort worse than death, the chaos around us exploded. Just a few tables away, men started yelling, one accusing the other of cheating. Their voices rose, fists slammed on the table, and the sound of shattering glass filled the air. A few women began crying—probably more out of shock than actual concern—and the tension in the room thickened.

The nausea that had been bubbling in my stomach all night finally caught up to me. Drunk, dizzy, and now nauseous, I turned abruptly, pushing through the crowd with one goal in mind: the exit.

Romaniev's presence became a blur behind me as I tossed my way to the door, not stopping until I burst outside into the biting cold of the December night. The snow felt like tiny blades against my skin, cutting through the warmth of my silk dress, but at least it was better than the suffocating heat inside.

I took in a breath of the freezing air, hoping it would stop the room from spinning.

"Your Papa sent you here?"

I closed my eyes, massaging my temples, praying he'd take the hint and go back to being an asshole somewhere far, far away. Maybe find another girl who actually liked the attention. But no, Romaniev was persistent.

"I wonder why he'd send you to one of our casinos alone ," he continued, the sound of a lighter flicking followed by the faint smell of cigarette smoke. The sharp scent invaded my nose, adding to my growing nausea.

I let out a bitter scoff. "Wake up, Romaniev. It's 2020. Women can actually function without some sweaty, testosterone-dripping moron lurking around, asking stupid questions and acting like they're in charge."

I waved down a taxi a few meters ahead, signaling to the driver. The car engine sputtered to life, and it slowly slid through the snow toward me, the tires cautiously gripping the icy road.

Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself, cursing my decision to leave my coat at home. I'd promised myself I'd only stay an hour—just enough to make an appearance and leave unnoticed—but now, with the cold biting through my thin dress, I regretted that choice deeply.

Romaniev took a drag of his cigarette, his eyes never leaving me. "You sure look like you've got it all under control, freezing your ass off out here."

I flipped him off without even looking up and then dug through my bag until I finally found my phone buried at the bottom. No messages from Valeria. Thank God.

With a relief sigh, I slipped my phone back into my clutch, snapping it shut with more force than necessary.

"Where's Mankiev?" Romaniev's voice cut through my thoughts.

I rolled my eyes, barely holding on to what little patience I had left. "Why? Worried he's going to show up and knock you off that pedestal of yours?"

He smirked, flicking his cigarette to the side. "Just curious how much your Papa knows about you slumming it in places like this. You always this desperate for attention, or is tonight special?"

The taxi pulled up, and I stepped toward it, my hand on the door handle. "I'd say tonight's special because I've had the misfortune of talking to you," I shot back.

Romaniev flicked his cigarette to the ground, his gaze still locked on me, half-lidded and unreadable. For a second, I thought I saw a flicker of something—amusement maybe, or curiosity—but I wasn't about to stick around and figure it out. Before he could toss another insult my way, I opened the car door and slid inside, slamming it shut behind me.

Just as I was putting on my seatbelt, Romaniev tapped on the window, and to my dismay, the driver rolled it down. Of course.

He leaned in, his eyes catching mine like a predator sizing up its prey. "Good night, Caia. Try not to miss me too much," he said with a wink.

I gave him a fake smile and reached into my clutch.

Grabbing a poker coin, I leaned out the window, slipping it into his suit pocket with a light pat on his chest. "A little token of appreciation. I figured even Igor's loyal dog deserves a treat now and then—especially after all the dirty work you do fetching his slippers and licking his boots."

Before he could fire back, I leaned back into the cab, told the driver to go, and we pulled away, leaving Romaniev standing there. His silent rage seemed to simmer in the air, warming the car from miles away.