Chapter 1: The Weight of Heavy Paper
The heat from the ornate marble fireplace scorched the hem of my red evening gown, but I couldn't step back. Not while Viktor's dark, tattooed fingers held that folded scrap of paper inches from the leaping orange flames. The room had gone dead silent around the candlelit round banquet table. Even the low murmur of our high-society guests had vanished, swallowed by the sudden drop in temperature between Viktor and me. Emma stood beside me, her black and white maid's uniform trembling, her face stained with tears and smeared mascara. I had ordered her to throw it into the fire, to burn the evidence of a life I had tried so desperately to bury beneath charity galas and crystal chandeliers.
Viktor stared at the childish colored crayon sketch with an expression so blank it made my chest tighten. The thick silence in the formal dining room felt heavier than the ruby necklace choking my throat.
"Enough," Viktor said, his voice dropping an octave as he unfolded the clumsy stick figures of a man, a woman, and a child labeled Our new family. "Who made this?"
I forced my lips into a tight, brittle smile, hoping the shallow depth of field in the warm, chandelier-lit room would hide the tremor in my jaw. "It's nothing, darling. Just some discarded scrap Emma found in the gallery trash. Children leave things everywhere during these charity events."
Viktor didn't look at me. His gaze remained fixed on the blue crayon stroke representing the child standing between two adult figures. "This isn't gallery trash, Evelyn. The paper is heavy stock. The kind we keep in the private writing desk upstairs." He turned his bearded face slowly toward Emma, whose knees seemed ready to buckle. "Emma. Where did you find this?"
Emma let out a ragged sob, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle the sound. She looked at me, pleading with wide, terrified eyes. I stepped forward, sliding my hand over Viktor's forearm, feeling the coiled muscle beneath his black suit sleeve.
"Leave her alone, Viktor," I said, pitching my voice to sound smooth, almost playful, though my pulse roared in my ears. "She's just emotional tonight. You know how sensitive the staff gets when the press is outside."
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Viktor slid his arm away from my touch with deliberate slowness. He folded the paper again, tucking it inside the inner pocket of his jacket. "We're going to have a quiet conversation about this upstairs as soon as dessert is served. Don't leave the table."
He turned back to the guests, resuming his host persona with terrifying ease, laughing quietly at a remark made by the city councilman across the table. But I knew the truth. The fragile peace I had built in this house had just shattered against the mantelpiece.
