Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

“Where’s Ruslan?”

I’m busy adjusting my seatbelt so it doesn’t mess with my dress, so I miss Kirill’s facial expression. “He’ll be on his way to the gala now as we speak.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh. Does he have press to do on his own or something?”

Kirill’s forehead wrinkles. “Press?”

I’m starting to feel a little hot despite the fact that the air conditioning is blasting. “Well, um, I mean, I thought we were supposed to walk in together. Doesn’t he usually enter these galas with his dates?”

His eyebrows rise but he gives me only a nod. “Usually, yeah, he does.”

Am I missing something?

“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a country bumpkin or anything. It’s just that this is my first gala and I’m not sure how it all works. I was kinda hoping Ruslan would be with me to talk me through the whole thing.”

Kirill shifts to the side and clears his throat. “Well, the thing is, there’s a certain… protocol at these kinds of events.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

He gives me a glance that I can’t quite read. Is he nervous for me? Does he feel sorry for me? Does he think Ruslan made the wrong choice in choosing me as his date?

“The crowds at this type of thing are different than what you’re used to, Emma,” he explains gently. “Ruslan will be forced to be different, too.”

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.

And damn, 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 boss needs me, 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 and come hither lipstick 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.

I flag down a bartender who’s wearing a scarlet bow tie the same color of my dress. Fitting.

“What can I get you, ma’am?” he asks.

“A cab home would be great.”

“What was that?” he asks distractedly.

I clear my throat. “Gin and tonic, please. And if you go heavy on the gin, I won’t complain.”

It’s not my usual drink of choice, but I need something to jolt me out of the funk that I’m sinking into. I need to drum up at least enough energy to get me through a couple of hours of this thing. Either that or enough apathy.

The moment the drink is set down in front of me—on a crystal coaster no less—I pick it up and take a big and very unladylike sip. The burn scours its way down my throat but it doesn’t do a damn thing to lighten the heaviness in my chest.

Jessica is smoothing out Ruslan’s collar now. I can’t see his face clearly, but I know him well enough to know that he’s not the kind of man who likes being groomed in public.

“That’s a hefty pour there, chica.”

I roll my eyes as Kirill takes the stool next to me. “I can do what I want. No one’s paying attention to me.”

“Emma, you look ravishing tonight. Half the men in this room are locked onto you.”

I give him a skeptical glare. “Is this flattery you overcompensating for the fact that your boss is a total douche?”

“Two things can be true at once.”

I take another sip of my G&T. “I don’t need you to babysit me tonight, Kirill. I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.”

“Fair enough.” He holds up his hands in self-defense. “I’m just here for the free drinks.”

I take another sip. “Urgh.” I scowl directly at Jessica Allens. “She’s awful.”

Kirill raises his glass once the bartender brings it over and we cheers to that. “He’s on the clock right now, Emma. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“I wouldn’t have if he’d just told me. He had weeks to break it to me and instead, he made me believe that I was gonna be his date to this thing.”

Kirill cringes. “I’m sure he just assumed that—”

“I know he’s your boss and all, but I really, really need you to not defend him right now.”

Kirill nods and buries his face behind his drink. After he’s done, he pops off the stool. “I’ll check back in a bit.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

He gives me a wink that says he’ll do it anyway and disappears into the crowd. When I tear my attention away from Jessica and Ruslan long enough, I notice that he was right: I am getting a few looks. Women who are admiring my dress. Men who seem to be admiring me. It gives me a little burst of satisfaction that I’m fully aware is horrifically petty, but at this rate, I’ll take more of whatever helps me get through the night.

“Hello there.”

The man at my back is standing a little too close to be Kirill. He glides around my stool and takes the empty spot next to me. “Can you help me solve a little mystery?”

I arch an eyebrow and brace myself for a cringey pick-up line. “I can try.”

He smiles. He’s not unattractive. In fact, with his slicked-back white-blonde hair and hollow cheekbones, he’s working the whole Game of Thrones, Targaryen vibe. “I’ve been watching you for a few minutes now—”

“Hm, not creepy at all. Go on.”

“—and I can’t for the life of me figure out why a woman as gorgeous as you is sitting all by herself with that permanent frown on her face.”

As pick-up lines go, it’s not bad.

“Guess I’m just not in the mood for—” I gesture to the ballroom. “—all this hoopla.”

“I can’t blame you. These functions tend to be a lot of pompous, self-aggrandizing millionaires, each one desperate to outdo the other. Either that or insufferable social climbers.”

“Which one are you?”

He chuckles. “I’ll give you the chance to figure that one out while we dance.”

I stare at the hand he’s offering me. “I don’t know. I kinda like my quiet little stool in the corner.”

“Oh, come on. You’re far too pretty to be sitting here all by yourself.”

I glance past the dancefloor and catch Ruslan’s back. Jessica, of course, is not far away from him. Her hand glides over the back of his coat before she loops it through his arm.

I’ve been sitting here for more than an hour and he hasn’t so much as glanced my way. Not even once. It really does feel like a “gotcha” moment. Here’s a beautiful red dress and a gorgeous pair of shoes, Emma. Now, come sit and watch while I tote around New York’s most obnoxious daddy’s girl while I ignore you completely.

Yeah, well—I don’t have to sit and watch. I don’t have to play the wallflower. If I have to endure this evening, I can do it on the dance floor with a man who seems more than willing to shower me with the attention and compliments that Ruslan is cruelly withholding.

I slip my hand into his and give him a decisive nod. “Fine. Let’s dance.”