NICOLEA team arrived exactly on time Friday afternoon. I was given no choice in the matter, only a cold, silent instruction from the housekeeper to be ready. I was ushered into my bathroom, where a stylist and a makeup artist began their work, treating me with the detached, meticulous care one would apply to a very expensive porcelain doll.

They didn’t ask me what I liked; they only followed a precise vision that had clearly been dictated by Kirill’s staff. My hair was swept into an intricate, elegant style that made my neck feel long and exposed. The makeup wasn't too heavy and wasn't too light, emphasizing my eyes.

After my makeup was done, I slipped on a black velvet dress cut in a stunning silhouette that emphasized my waist and fell into a smooth column to the floor.

Then came the centerpiece. The maid brought in a black velvet case, and with a reverence that spoke volumes, she revealed the heirloom: a necklace of white diamonds and sapphires, shaped like a stylized crown.

"This belonged to Mrs. Maria," the stylist whispered, her voice hushed with awe. "The Master insists you wear it. It is for the public display."

I felt the immense pressure of the jewels. For Ivan to let me wear something that belonged to his mother, he must really plan to put me on display.

Ivan was already waiting at the foot of the stairs. I hurriedly went down to meet him.

He didn't offer a compliment. He merely looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the necklace.

"You will not embarrass me tonight, Ms. Baker," he commanded. "You will keep your gaze low, and your answers brief."

He didn't wait for a reply, merely offered his arm, and we descended into the vast, waiting car.

The Gala was held in one of St. Petersburg’s oldest palaces, a monument to Imperial Russia. The ballroom was overwhelming—a flood of light, music, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of Dominants mingling in the air.

I did as I was told, keeping my eyes down and my face perfectly neutral. I overheard snatches of Russian and cutting English comments, all focused on my presence:

"The Baker girl. Heard she has no real worth, save for her family's influence.”

"And Kirill accepted her? A known… recessive? Perhaps he has finally lost his edge."

"It's a business move. Nothing more, but the illegitimacy is still poor taste."

My cheeks burned, but I kept my focus on a spot just past Kirill’s shoulder, reminding myself that this was normal and that I'd only hear worse if I keep paying attention.

The worst moment arrived during a lull in the receiving line. Kirill was momentarily distracted by a powerful Minister. It was then that Pavel appeared.

Pavel was dressed in a suit that was too flashy and too eager. He was bad news.

“My dearest Nicole, how are you enjoying this splendid evening? You are the jewel of the evening after all,”

he crooned, his smile wide and unnatural. "You make Kirill look positively human, which is a miracle in itself."

I offered a tight, polite smile. "Thank you, Mr. Pavel. Ivan is quite focused on the Minister right now."

"Of course, he is," Pavel scoffed, his gaze drifting over the room.

The music swelled, and Pavel, without waiting for permission, took my hand.

"A man cannot take a woman to a gala and deny her a single dance. Let us give them something to whisper about."

Before I could protest, he pulled me onto the edge of the dance floor. Panic flared in my chest. I couldn't disobey Ivan's instruction to be invisible, but resisting Pavel felt equally dangerous. Pavel pressed a little too close, his hand resting on my back in a position that was immediately, subtly invasive.

As we swayed stiffly, Pavel leaned in. He wasn't whispering sweet nothings; he was performing an act of provocation.

"A simple message, sestra," Pavel murmured, using the Russian word for 'sister,' which felt like an insult coming from him. “Watch your steps now, like Omega. Ivan hates shared property,” he smirked. What was he talking about?

I didn't know when Ivan grabbed my wrist and dragged me from the dance floor. He didn't bother speaking to Pavel or even acknowledging him.

He pulled me into a shadowed alcove behind a velvet curtain, his chest heaving slightly. I was convinced he was about to unleash a tirade about disrespect and incompetence.

But he didn't shout. He yanked me against him, crushing me to his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist with surprising, sudden force. He rested his chin on my shoulder, burying his nose for a split second near my neck.

“W-what do you think you're doing?” I stuttered, completely flabbergasted by his behavior. Who was this and what had he done with the real Ivan?

“Don't get the wrong idea. It's just so disgusting perceiving his smell off you,” he stated and for some reason, I felt disappointed. “It's disgusting,” he added in pure disgust as he let me go. Why had I gotten my hopes up?

I hadn't realized that Pavel deliberately smeared me with his pheromones during the dance.

"Go to the bathroom and wash yourself thoroughly. I do not want that filth near me for the rest of the evening. Clean your neck. Now."

The moment shattered. My foolish, hopeful delusion evaporated like mist. It wasn't jealousy; it was repulsion. He was furious that his property had been touched by a rival's scent.

"Y-yes, Kirill," I stammered, my cheeks flaming with shame and confusion.

I hurried away, fighting the urge to cry. I found the private washroom, my fingers fumbling with the faucet. I washed my neck and arms desperately, the shame of his revulsion making my movements clumsy.

I stared at my reflection thinking of how stupid I was. Perhaps, I really was dumb.

“Now's not the time to wallow in self-pity, any more mistakes tonight and I'm…” I let out a sigh, not even wanting to finish my sentence.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, splashing cold water on my face until the blush subsided.

I took one final, steadying breath and opened the washroom door.

The moment I stepped into the secluded corridor, two large men in perfectly fitted black suits were waiting. They were not Kirill’s usual guards; they were too large, too crude, their eyes devoid of the professional Volkonsky reserve.

“W-who are you?” I said, trying to steady my voice as I took a step back.

They launched at me and before I could scream, one man clamped a hand over my mouth, the other grabbing my arm. I fought, kicking out with my heel, but my strength was meaningless against them.

A cloth was pressed over my nose and mouth. The air felt sweet, sickly, and my senses swam. I dimly registered the flash of the necklace, the heirloom on my throat, before darkness claimed me.