Page 76 of Silken Chains
Two hours in, I’m frozen in place, like a rag doll set out for show.
Finally, our twelfth dish makes its grand entrance, a delicate dessert that looks more like art than food.
The Michelin Star chef himself emerges from the kitchen. This culinary wizard, with sleeves rolled up over tattooed arms and stubble shadowing his jaw, looks like he’s just won a battle as he sets down a plate of tiny, almost laughable pastries.
“Our finale,” he announces, “a deconstructed tiramisu, paired with a raspberry coulis and a quenelle of white chocolate mousse. And for our young miss,” the chef declares, “we’ve specially prepared an alcohol-free Chocolate Degustation. Please, enjoy.”
I bite back a laugh, puzzled by the tiny portions.
Mental note: Rich folks have weird standards for what counts as food.
In my head, I’m calculating if I’ve eaten enough to qualify as a full meal by any standard. Spoiler: I haven’t. The thought crosses my mind that anyone normal would find this dining experience utterly ridiculous. Twelve courses, and I’m still fantasizing about a late-night burger run.
I scowl, realizing a late-night burger run is off the table. I’m trapped here; no two ways about it. I did all this, walked straight into danger, now putting Ser and her family in danger because of me.
Sitting here, surrounded by the Morozov Bratva clan, I never thought I’d be breaking bread—or tiny, artistic twelve-course meals—with gangsters.
Ser would’ve penned an entire novel by now, something about a vampire preparing for a wedding feast where the bride unknowingly stars as the main dish.
Thinking about Ser squeezes my heart tight, sparking a silent wish to see her again.
I let out a covert sigh, messing with the cutlery like it’s a puzzle.
I feel them around me; the table’s under a spotlight of glares, especially from the far end where a brunette and a dark-haired woman sit, their thick makeup hiding any genuine emotion. The weight of their stares makes my skin prickle.
They catch my eye, whispering something to each other before erupting into fake laughter.
“Yeah, thrilled to be here too, ladies,” I silently jeer. Victor skips the introductions, diving straight into the meal like it’s just another Sunday brunch.
But then, what’s the point? We’re only pretending. I’m not his real bride-to-be.
I dodge the icy stares with a swift glance, my eyes quickly shifting away from the mean girls.
Among them, a man catches my attention—quiet, his gaze fixed ahead, not with the chill of a hitman, but with a blend of sorrow and strength.
I take a nervous sip of water and follow his gaze to the head of the table, to Andrey Morozov himself. He’s talking to Victor, both of them holding themselves like they own the world.
Clearly, Victor inherited his stunning looks from his father.
Despite his years, Andrey exudes an air of command that’s hard to ignore, his suit crisp, his bearing one of innate leadership. His whole vibe screams “battle-hardened,” but it’s the unexpected softness in his eyes tonight that throws me.
My eyes wander, settling on Victor. He’s undeniably handsome, features cut sharp and unmistakably masculine.
Holy smokes! Is that jawline chiseled out of marble, or what? Looks like it could cut glass.
The way it clenches when he’s focused. Heat crawls up my cheeks, uninvited.
Then, abruptly, he turns, our eyes lock, and I’m caught.
Fuck, fuck, shit.
Panic flutters in my chest, and I blink rapidly, turning away as my fingers find refuge in twisting a lock of my hair
Thank God Eli’s excitement rescues me from being busted for ogling Victor. “Look at this, Laura!” Her wonder’s infectious. Her eyes light up like it’s Christmas, almost bouncing in her seat. “Wow, they’re so pretty!” she bursts out when the server places the plate before her.
I lean toward her, forcing a smile. “They really are, aren’t they?”
It’s the least I can do, giving her a moment in this madness. My mind’s racing, still struggling to make sense of it all.
