Chapter 44 Chapter 44
Chapter 44
Nina’s POV
“No no, you have to change!”
The voice—low, commanding, laced with barely restrained heat—froze me mid-stride. Crimson satin swirled around my legs like liquid fire as I spun.
Nikolai stood framed in the doorway, golden-hazel eyes devouring me in one unguarded heartbeat. Shock flared first, bright and raw across his features.
Then hunger—dark, molten, pupils blowing wide as they traced the bare sweep of my back, the faint outline of my nipples beneath the thin bodice, the high slit flashing thigh with every breath. Fury followed, jaw clenching so hard the muscle ticked visibly, knuckles whitening at his sides.
He fought to lock it all down, forcing his face back into that cold, impenetrable mask, but the flicker had been there. I had seen it. The beast beneath the control.
Enzo glanced between us, one brow arching. “Wardrobe malfunction,” he said, voice light but edged with steel. “We have to go. We don’t have time to waste.”
Isabella lingered near the chopper door, black silk rippling in the downdraft. She gave a crooked, evil smirk—slow, deliberate, savoring every inch of my exposed skin like she had personally chosen this dress to humiliate me. Her eyes glittered with triumph.
Nikolai’s gaze snapped to her for a split second, then returned to me. He gave one sharp nod. No words. Just command.
We boarded in suffocating silence.
The cabin felt smaller, air thick enough to choke on. I slid into my seat, the gown’s slit parting high, cool leather kissing bare thigh. Nikolai took the opposite spot, legs spread wide, arms crossed tight over his chest. Enzo settled beside me, his knee brushing mine on purpose—possessive, grounding.
Isabella claimed the farthest corner, legs crossed, staring out at the night with that same smug curve to her crimson lips.
No one spoke. Rotors thumped like a death knell. City lights streaked below in golden veins. I kept my chin high, refusing to tug fabric higher or shield my chest. Let them stare. Let them burn.
We touched down on a rooftop helipad that dwarfed every estate I had ever known. A fleet of choppers waited—sleek matte-black predators, smaller silver executive birds, one hulking gray military transport with rotor blades still spinning down.
Floodlights bleached the concrete stark white. Tactical soldiers lined the perimeter, rifles slung low, night-vision goggles glinting like insect eyes.
I stepped out last. Wind tore at the gown, lifting the skirt in teasing flashes, raising goosebumps along my exposed spine.
The skyscraper rose into the black sky like a blade of obsidian and glass, reflecting the city in fractured, infinite mirrors. I had grown up surrounded by wealth—private islands, diamond vaults, superyachts—but this was something else. This was sovereign power distilled into steel and secrecy.
Isabella brushed past, heels clicking like gunshots. She leaned in close, rose-and-blood perfume stinging my nostrils. “Close your mouth, whore,” she whispered, voice honeyed poison, “before someone mistakes you for the evening’s entertainment.”
She swept into the private elevator. Doors hissed shut behind her.
Enzo touched my elbow—warm, steady. “Follow us.”
Nikolai flanked my other side, silent as shadow. The elevator dropped in velvet silence, floors blurring past in streaks of gold and chrome. When the doors parted, opulence slammed into me like a physical wave.
Chandeliers the size of small cars dripped from vaulted ceilings, thousands of crystal facets scattering rainbows across marble floors veined with pure gold.
Waiters in pristine white gloves moved like ghosts, balancing trays of champagne that bubbled like molten sunlight. The air tasted expensive—aged oak, rare night-blooming jasmine, Cuban cigar smoke, and the sharp metallic bite of power changing hands in corners.
Masked guests drifted through the space like predators in silk: feathers curling from temples, gold filigree hiding eyes, black lace veiling mouths. Everyone concealed.
Everyone watching. Soldiers in dress blacks stood at every archway, berets low, earpieces glinting. Military. High command. The kind of presence that made my pulse stutter.
Enzo paused beside a towering champagne pyramid, bubbles rising in endless golden spirals. “Stay here. Wait for me.”
He and Nikolai melted deeper into the crowd, swallowed by masks, velvet drapes, and murmured deals.
I stood alone.
A waiter offered a flute. I took it, glass icy against heated skin. The first sip was crisp acid and effervescence, burning a bright path down my throat. Smoky jazz curled from hidden speakers, candlelight flickering across black velvet walls, shadows dancing like secrets. Everything felt torn from a fever dream—too lush, too lethal.
The mask was my only shield. Lace and dark feathers framed my eyes, hiding enough that I could breathe.
Thank God. In this gown—back naked to the dimples above my hips, nipples shadowing through satin, thigh slit parting with every step—I felt stripped bare. Regret clawed up my throat. What had possessed me to choose the most dangerous one?
Then the thought struck, bright and razor-sharp.
The diamond waist chain.
Still warm against my skin beneath the gown, stolen and reclaimed. In this room full of buyers who traded in secrets and death, I could sell it tonight. Discreetly. Enough cash to vanish. New country. New name. Freedom.
A slow, secret smile curved beneath the mask.
I drained the flute and plucked another from the tower. Alcohol spread liquid heat through my veins, loosening fear into reckless clarity. I started toward the exit, weaving through clusters of masked elite. Laughter tinkled like breaking crystal. Deals hissed in low voices.
That was when I saw them.
Government ministers whose faces I knew from nightly broadcasts—now half-hidden behind ornate masks but unmistakable in arrogant posture. Four-star generals in star-studded dress uniforms, aides trailing with locked briefcases. Foreign diplomats with security details like wolves.
They were not bidding on stolen Rembrandts or Stradivarius violins.
They were here to auction nuclear weapon formulae.
I caught fragments—“…yield optimization exceeds current specs…” “…delivery vehicle compatibility confirmed…” “…non-proliferation clauses are negotiable for the right price…”
Blueprints. Codes. The mathematics of annihilation traded like vintage wine. My stomach lurched. Champagne turned to acid in my mouth. This was not wealth. This was apocalypse for sale.
I walked faster, heels striking marble like gunfire. Double doors loomed ahead—exit, escape, freedom. Almost there.
Then I stopped dead.
Across the room, near a black-velvet-draped pillar, stood my best friend.
And Josh.
My ex. The one who had assaulted me. The one I had buried in the past.
She saw me first. Her silver mask caught the light as her eyes widened in horror. She spun toward Josh, voice cracking. “It’s not what you think, Nina—I swear—”
Josh turned slowly. Simple black leather mask, but that smirk was unmistakable—cruel, knowing, triumphant. His gaze raked over me, deliberate and filthy: lingering on the bare back, the shadowed nipples, the high slit flashing skin.
“Oh wow,” he drawled, loud enough for nearby heads to turn. “Look at the virgin Mother Mary… looking like a fucking slut.”
The words sliced open old wounds. Humiliation crashed through me, hot and blinding. Rage followed, white-hot, choking. My fingers tightened on the champagne flute until the stem cracked with a tiny, audible snap.
Guests paused. Masks tilted in morbid curiosity.
I stood rooted, heart slamming against my ribs, the diamond chain suddenly a burning weight against my skin.