Morning light spilled through the high windows.
The dining table was set with white linen, fresh fruit, and warm bread. A small cake with candles sat on a plate—simple, elegant.
Grandfather sat at the head of the table. He cleared his throat, slow and proud.
"Happy birthday grandfather," Elena said, voice soft but steady.
Irina reached across and squeezed his hand. "Many happy returns, Father."
Tatiana chimed in, loud and bright. "Happy birthday, Grandpa! We love you."
They all smiled. The grandfather's eyes crinkled. He looked pleased, not used to fuss but glad for it. He lifted his cup.
"To many more," he said, and they clinked their glasses.
They ate slowly, talking about small things.
Irina told a story about when Grandfather tried to bake a cake and nearly burned the kitchen.
Tatiana laughed and made a show of scolding him for the story.
Elena listened, smiling, a soft hush inside her that felt safe for a few stolen hours.
Hours later,
Makeup artist arrived first, pulling out brushes and small pots of color.
Then the stylist came with racks of dresses—silks, satins, dresses that caught the light. Assistants followed with shoes and jewelry boxes.
They led Elena and Tatiana to the room prepared for them. The stylists worked like careful artists: gentle hands, quick decisions, friendly chatter.
Elena sat at the vanity and watched the small mirror as someone mixed the makeup.
A little powder to dull the shine. They used soft tones on her eyes, a touch of shimmer that caught when she blinked.
A sweep of color on her cheeks so she looked healthy, not made-up. A gentle lip stain, just enough to make her lips look natural and alive.
Tatiana was a whirl of movement. The stylist teased her hair into waves that fell like a curtain over one shoulder. She laughed as the stylist pinned a strand and teased the look in the mirror.
Elena watched herself change slowly. The brush strokes were small, careful.
The mirror showed a woman with softer edges: the same face, but luminous and calm — like someone stepping out of the rain into warm light.
When the stylist finished, Elena's dress was ready. It was a fitted gown in deep green that flattened and hugged in the right places showing her curves, simple but elegant.
The fabric caught the light and warmed her skin. She slipped into shoes that fit like they were made for her feet.
Tatiana glanced over, lip curling in a teasing smile. She stepped close, pretending to inspect Elena like a rival.
"Wait until Damian sees you," she said, voice low and playful. "He won't know what hit him. He'll be helpless."
Elena's cheeks warmed at the words. She tried to look annoyed. "Stop it, Tia." Her voice came out softer than she intended.
Tatiana smirked, stepping back to admire the whole look. "I'm serious. You look stunning.
He's not going to keep his hands to himself when he sees you." Her tone was bold, a little wicked, but full of cheer.
Elena swallowed, fingers twisting the fabric at her waist.
The tease made something flutter in her chest — a nervous, hopeful feeling that she couldn't name. She caught her own reflection and smiled, small and uncertain.
Tatiana laughed and gave her a playful nudge. "Go practice your smile, then. You'll need it tonight."
Elena took one last breath and looked at the mirror again.
***
After dressing up they went downstairs to where the cars were packed for them.
Inside the first car, Elena sat beside Irina, Tatiana beside her, all dressed like royalty.
The air smelled faintly of perfume and fresh flowers. Elena's fingers brushed her gown nervously as the city lights began to glow outside.
When they arrived, the grand hall was already filled with guests — businessmen in sharp suits, women glittering in jewels and silk. Cameras flashed, laughter echoed, and waiters carried trays of champagne.
Elena stepped through the grand doors, her arm looped with Tatiana's.
Elena inhaled slowly, her gaze sweeping the room.
She wasn't looking at the jewels, nor the golden chandeliers, nor the dignitaries she recognized from magazines. She was looking for only one person.
Damian.
Her heart skipped at each tall figure in a suit, but none of them were him. Her chest tightened. Where was he? Why wasn't he here yet.
Elena managed a small smile but her chest was restless, unsettled. And then—
A familiar perfume. A pair of sharp heels clicking against the marble. A cold, venomous voice.
"Well, well."
Elena turned, her stomach dropping slightly when her eyes met Isabel's.
The woman looked breathtaking, as always—her crimson dress clinging to her curves, her lips painted to match, her eyes glittering with something darker than the diamonds at her throat.
"Look who we have here," Isabel purred, circling Elena slowly like a predator admiring prey.
Her gaze swept from Elena's hair to her gown, her smirk deepening.
"You clean up well, I'll give you that. But silk and diamonds don't make you a queen."
Elena said nothing. She tilted her chin, her eyes narrowing slightly, refusing to give Isabel the satisfaction of a response.
Isabel stepped closer, her perfume sickly sweet, her whisper sharp.
"Enjoy this little fairytale while it lasts. But don't fool yourself… Damian is mine."
Tatiana's eyes flashed, ready to jump in, but Elena lifted a hand—silent, calm, dismissive. She wasn't going to let Isabel think she rattled her.
Instead, she rolled her eyes slowly, gracefully, as if Isabel's words were beneath her notice. Then she turned slightly away, giving her back to Isabel.
Her nails dug into her champagne glass.
"You'll regret that," Isabel whispered, venom laced in her tone.
But Elena had already walked a step forward, inhaling deeply, her gaze once again scanning the crowd. For Damian.
Minutes later, a hush rippled through the crowd, as if the music itself bent to his presence. Damian Volkov had arrived.
He moved with that cold authority that made people instinctively part before him—tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed in a tailored black suit that fit him.
His steps were unhurried but commanding, every inch of him radiating power and danger.
Women whispered behind jeweled fans, their eyes following the sharp cut of his jaw, the dark glint of his eyes, the aura that seemed to draw the air tight around him.
A few of them sighed openly, and more than one nearly tripped over her gown trying to catch his attention.
But Damian's gaze didn't wander.
He wasn't looking at them.
Across the glittering hall, half-hidden by curious onlookers, stood Elena.
The moment his eyes landed on her, something shifted in him. His breath caught.
For a second, even he felt it—that jolt in his chest, sharp and uninvited. He had seen her countless times, but tonight… tonight was different.
She stood in a gown that clung to her, the soft shimmer of fabric tracing every curve of her body, her beauty glowing beneath the golden chandeliers.
And when she lifted her eyes, meeting his across the distance—
She smiled. Just a little. Soft. Shy. Enough to undo him.
Damian's expression didn't change on the surface—his mask of cold power remained.
He began moving toward her, parting the crowd. Each step was deliberate, his dark gaze never leaving her. For once, he didn't care who watched, who whispered.
But then—
"Damian."
The spell broke.
Isabel slipped in front of him like a shadow, her crimson gown swaying as she blocked his view.
She positioned herself too close, tilting her chin up at him with a rehearsed smile that dripped with possession.
"My love," she purred, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Her hand nearly brushed his arm, desperate for contact. "You look so breathtaking tonight."
Her perfume hit him, thick and cloying, but it only made his jaw clench harder. He didn't even glance at her.
Because behind her shoulder, he could still see Elena.
And Elena had stopped smiling.
Her gaze dropped, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hand curling slightly at her side.
Damian's eyes darkened, something sharp and possessive flashing there.
He hated that Isabel stood between them. He hated even more that Isabel had made Elena's smile vanish.