He likes to pretend he’s my father and Luka’s brother, but he’s neither to us. He’s his cousin and my co-worker friend.
For some reason, his words really rile me. It touches a deep place in my gut that was ready to enflame. In this moment, Dimitri represents Aerial Ethereal, those strict contracts, and every other hand that has clawed Luka and I apart.
On my stool, I spin more towards Dimitri—Luka looks at me. I feel him staring right in my direction.
“You can’t tell me when to stop drinking. You can’t order me around at all.”
Dimitri raises his brows. “I think I can. I throw my balls, you catch my balls. That’s how it works, Baybay.”
Luka hates when Dimitri refers to them as his balls more than me. I usually don’t care, but when he uses it as an attack, it’s annoying.
So I’m not surprised when Luka retorts in Russian, right at Dimitri.
“Stay out of it,” Dimitri tells Luka.
Before Luk replies, I say, “You’re not my dad, Dimitri. I had one.” They all hush and stare at me intently. My passion returns but in a more painful way. “His name was Neal Wright and he was a brilliant novelist, and not you or anyone could ever replace him.”
At this, I stand off my stool. And I wobble. Luka reaches out to catch me, but I spin into someone else’s chest.
My brother.
Shit.
Brenden holds me close and looks murderous, not just at Luka—but at all the Kotovas. Like they’re an extension of Luka’s bad influence on me.
“I’m leaving,” I say to my brother, fisting the back of his shirt so my knees don’t buckle.
Brenden points at Luka. “You owe her a grand.”
“Stop,” I force, about to break away from him now. I can’t bring myself to meet Luka’s eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Luka asks, sounding confused.
“You stole her box and then put it in another room.”
Luka says, “You were fined?” I think he’s asking me. He’s talking to me. He shouldn’t be…the contract…
A pit lowers in my stomach. I’m staring off at the wall—at the exit. I’m leaving. I try to pull away from my brother, but he clasps my hand like I need support.
I do, but not in the way he’s providing. It’s not his fault. He’s doing what he thinks is right.
“I told you he did it,” Brenden says to me.
Luka interjects, “What? No. No, I didn’t steal anything of hers. I wouldn’t…”
“Wait,” Sergei chimes in. “What box are you talking about?”
My head whips up to Sergei. He’s the only person still sitting, and behind him, Zhen starts to step on a tall stool to make an announcement.
“A cardboard box,” I say.
“Her name was on it,” Brenden adds.
“Right.” Sergei nods in realization. “That was me.”
What? I’m dumbfounded. Jaw unhinged, eyes big. He’s not apologetic, but maybe because he’s not aware of what happened.
“You stole her box?” Brenden is disbelieving. I think he wanted the thief to be Luka.
Zhen stands on a stool. “Infini artists!” he calls, barely catching anyone’s attention.
“I was helping a cousin move, and I remember taking the wrong box. I thought I put it back in the right room. Didn’t I?”
“At midnight.” I gape.
“You owe her a thousand bucks,” Brenden says.
Sergei’s eyes widen in shock, and he raises his hands. “No. I don’t have that kind of money. Aerial Ethereal didn’t even pay for my flight to the US.”
“You think my little sister has an extra grand lying around?”
“Little sister,” Sergei repeats under his breath, looking between us. “Right. I’m sorry, but I can’t help her. It’s not my problem.”
Luka shakes his head repeatedly. Over and over.
“What?” Sergei snaps.
Luka fumes silently, trying not to start something. He starts to walk away.
Sergei hops off his stool and grabs Luka’s shoulder. “No, what do you have to say? Tell me.”
Luka faces him. “You don’t want me to tell you what I think.”
“I do. I just asked.”
Luka grimaces, features brutally pained. He runs a hand down his face like he hates feeling this, like he’s trying to wipe it all off. I wince at the sight.
“Luka,” Sergei growls.
“Nothing’s ever your problem,” Luka tells him. “Nothing’s ever your responsibility—”
“Everyone!” Zhen shouts and snaps his fingers, wine in his other hand. “Look here!”
The bar quiets, just as Sergei snaps, “That’s not true.”
Luka’s brows jump. “That’s not true? You just told her it’s not my problem.”
“It’s not.”
“Is that what you said when Mom and Dad asked you to take care of us?” Luka questions. “It’s not my problem. You just shirked everything onto Nikolai without a second thought. I know you did. Look at your face. It says you don’t care about anyone but yourself, which is fine. You don’t care about me, and guess what, I don’t give a fuck about you.”
It hurts.
Every word he says bleeds into the air.
“I was twenty-two,” Sergei retorts.
“I was thirteen,” Luka says with the shake of his head. “Timo was twelve, and you know, Kat, she was ten.” He stretches his arms. “I’m done.” The bar is utterly quiet as Luka heads to the exit, but then he pauses and spins back again.
I can’t read Sergei’s expression. My vision not only blurs, but he keeps his emotions bottled.
Everyone in the bar stares at Luka, not Zhen.
“Don’t you dare fuck with Timo,” Luka says coldly. “Dimitri and whoever might be okay with you here, but I’m not. And that girl, right there”—he points at me but glares at Sergei—“is way too good for a piece of shit like you.”
At this, Luka walks tensely out of the bar.
Leaving me iced-over and stunned. I don’t attempt to follow him, even if I want to—because there are multiple men who’d physically restrain me from reaching Luka’s side.
Zhen raises his wine glass and clears his throat. “Here’s to a new season,” he announces. “May we all work together and set aside our differences. Because…it might be the only way we can save Infini.”
Act Seven
Luka Kotova
The elevator beeps.
I exit onto the lobby floor at 5:30 a.m.—and no one’s out and about except for gamblers that can’t quit and hotel employees. Quiet, mostly, I reach the enormous Dionysus fountain that parades over the entrance’s revolving doors.
My little brother waits on the edge of the fountain. His dark hair is damp from a circuit workout before his actual practice in the performance gym.
I carry two plates of breakfast food over to Timo, and he plucks out his earbuds while I sit beside him.
His face lights up. “You didn’t burn my pancakes. Miracles do happen.”
I pass him the paper plate of egg-white oatmeal pancakes that I did almost burn. It’s not a secret that I suck at cooking and baking, but Timo asked me to whip these up since he wanted to hit the gym early.
Usually we eat breakfast together in our suite, but we don’t share one anymore. Our options are pretty pathetic. Hotel food is way too expensive to eat every single morning. So that’s out.
Timo’s room contains Sergei. Who we can’t stand.
My room contains Brenden. Who I’ve successfully avoided since the secret cast party weeks ago. (I’m keeping it that way.)
And then Nikolai and Katya’s suite also includes a girl I’ve promised I wouldn’t touch. Promised I wouldn’t look at—and I recognize, more than anyone can tell me, that I fractured these promises in one night.
In one impulsive moment.
I did it. I saw Sergei, of all people, speaking to the one girl I’ve never been able to truly forget. And something snapped in me. I just moved. I just walked over there and butted in—and you know what, I don’t regret it.
I looked at Baylee. No one can even understand what that felt like. For my eyes to latch onto hers, for us to really see one another after years of avoidance.
It was like I’d just taken my first breath. Maybe I was dreaming. I don’t even care if I imagined our fingers touching. Because it felt real to me.
Breaking a part of the contract and getting away with it—it fuels me.
In the worst way.