Chapter 4 - The Society Gala at the Drake
By Thursday morning, the city of Chicago had ceased to function normally.
The high-society columns of the Chicago Tribune and the Sun-Times had exploded into a frenzy of rumors, leaked texts, and breathless headlines:
“FEDOROV-VULOV ALLIANCE COLLAPSES: ROMAN DUMPS SOCIALITE NATALYA FOR RECLUSIVE ARCHIVIST SISTER.” “THE GHOST IN THE ARCHIVES: WHO IS PAULINA VULOV?”
At 7:00 PM, the Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel on Michigan Avenue was an arena of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and three hundred of the most ruthless billionaires, politicians, and syndicate capos in the Midwest.
The annual Autumn Charity Ball was the premier event of the social calendar—and tonight, it was ground zero for the greatest public scandal the city had seen in forty years.
The Vulov family had arrived forty minutes early.
My mother, Svetlana, was draped in an ostentatious emerald satin gown that looked like it had been chosen to project nonexistent financial stability, while my father stood near the bar, downing scotch with three nervous bankers who were currently looking at him like a man standing on a gallows trapdoor.
And standing at the center of the VIP circle, surrounded by five of her high-society sycophants, was Natalya.
She wore a strapless, crimson silk gown that hugged every curve of her body, five hundred thousand dollars in rented Harry Winston diamonds dripping from her throat and wrists, her blonde hair styled into a magnificent, architectural wave. She was holding court, laughing loudly, assuring everyone who would listen that Roman’s sudden erratic behavior was the result of temporary exhaustion and that the wedding would proceed as planned once the "family misunderstanding" was cleared.
"Roman is under immense pressure with the port expansion," Natalya purred, sipping vintage Dom Pérignon. "Men of his stature sometimes suffer from temporary panic before the altar. He will be back on his knees by Sunday."
Suddenly, the brass double doors at the main entrance of the ballroom did not swing open.
They were thrown wide by two security liaisons in charcoal livery.
The string quartet playing near the marble fountain stuttered mid-measure, dying into absolute, suffocating silence.
Three hundred guests turned as one.
Walking into the ballroom, flanked by four armed Fedorov security operatives, was Roman Fedorov.
He looked devastatingly lethal in a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo, his white silk dress shirt open at the throat without a tie, his dark hair swept back, his storm-gray eyes sweeping over the room with the sovereign arrogance of an emperor inspecting a conquered province.
And on his arm was me.
At twenty-six years old, I took the breath from the room.
I wore an impeccably tailored dark emerald velvet evening gown that skimmed my curves like liquid moss, falling into a subtle train behind my high black heels. My dark hair was swept up into a severe, elegant chignon secured by an antique silver hairpin shaped like a double-headed eagle. Around my throat rested the legendary Fedorov Blue—a fifty-carat sapphire surrounded by three tiers of flawless white diamonds that had belonged to Roman’s great-grandmother, a jewel that had not left the family vault in sixty years.
I didn't slouch. I didn't look at the floor.
I held my chin high, my posture straight, my slate-colored eyes meeting the staring faces with the cold, absolute indifference of an auditor inspecting an insolvent warehouse.
Natalya’s champagne glass slipped from her manicured fingers.
CRASH.
The crystal shattered against the parquet floor, spraying vintage champagne and foam across the hem of her crimson gown.
She stared at the sapphire around my neck. She stared at Roman’s hand resting possessively over mine on his forearm.
"Paulina...?" my mother gasped from near the bar, her voice cracking so loudly that three judges turned to look at her in disgust.
Roman did not acknowledge my parents. He did not acknowledge the mayor standing thirty feet away.
He guided me straight down the center aisle of the ballroom, the crowd parting before us like the Red Sea, until we stopped three paces from where Natalya stood trembling in her spilled champagne.
Natalya looked up at Roman, her face draining of every drop of color beneath her contour, her eyes swimming with pure, feral humiliation.
"Roman..." Natalya whispered, her voice shaking violently. "What... what is this? Why are you wearing the family sapphire on her?"
Roman looked down at her with that cold, unsparing gaze that had terrified federal prosecutors for a decade.
"I am wearing the family sapphire on my fiancée, Natalya," Roman said, his deep baritone carrying effortlessly to every corner of the dead-silent ballroom.
May you like
"And next week...
she becomes the Donna of this city."
