by Sofia Daniel
I glanced at them over my shoulder and stiffened. “What’s going on?”
“They’re bodyguards,” murmured Sergei. “My father made a lot of enemies before he died.”
Oddly, the thought of these enemies didn’t frighten me as much as the notion of photographers piling on top of me and crushing the air out of my lungs. The investigative journalist part of me itched to ask more questions, but I tamped down my curiosity. I hadn’t heard from Mom since leaving New York, and the loss of contact was an ache that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a parent die, and I wouldn’t probe.
I gave Sergei what I hoped was a sympathetic smile, and we followed the red carpet through a grand hallway that boasted pictures of musicians from all eras. Sergei pointed out a photo of a severe-looking man with strong, angular features, cast mostly in shadow. It was his father, Vasily Bachmann. I glanced at Sergei’s softer features. Whoever his father had married, she must have been beautiful.
The Royal Academy ballroom had the feel of a cathedral. Tall pillars on the edges of the dance floor stretched up into arches that supported a vaulted ceiling three stories high. Behind them stretched dining tables and chairs, already occupied by those not dancing. Arched windows ran along the highest levels of the ceiling, which would have brought in a spectacular amount of light during the day. At the far end of the room stood a raised stage for the orchestra with a grand piano.
At the sight of the elegant couples swirling around the dance floor, my stomach flip-flopped. They were all dancing the Viennese waltz, a fast version of the dance where the female partner leaned backward and spun in circles around the dance floor. My dance instructor at Park Prep had said I didn’t have the aptitude for this type of movement and had advised me to feign tiredness to avoid humiliating myself at a ball.
Sergei squeezed my hand. “I never asked…Do you waltz?”
I gave him an embarrassed smile. “Not the Viennese.”
He patted me on the hand. “This piece is nearly finished. If the next one is to your liking, maybe we can dance.”
I was about to ask how he knew the end of the song, then I stopped myself. Someone who went to a fancy music academy in Paris would have picked up the knowledge of more than a few pieces. As the music stopped, and people offered their applause, I spotted a figure who towered above most of the dancers. Blond, broad-shouldered, and breathtakingly stunning in a black tuxedo and a forest green cummerbund with a matching bowtie, he could only be one person: Henry.
The bastard looked even more handsome than I had remembered. His football player’s body filled the outfit, which had clearly been tailored to give him long, sleek lines instead of bulk. Blond waves surrounded his face like gilded frames, setting off chiseled features and those verdant, green eyes.
My heart halted to a stop, and my gaze traveled down to the girl on his arm. It was Charlotte, wearing a silver, lace bodice that accentuated her voluptuous breasts. She’d darkened her long hair, letting it flow over her shoulders and down her back in loose curls. Henry escorted Charlotte off the dance floor, the pair of them chatting like old friends. As they’d known each other since they were eleven, they probably were.
The crowds covered my view, but between the throng, I caught sight of Edward walking off the dance floor with the doppelgänger, Patricia, on his arm, and Blake with Wendy, the girl who had pretended to be friendly with me on my first day.
Nausea with a side-order of jealousy crawled up my throat. A little part of me had taken what Edward had said to heart. That they had been serious about a relationship with me and I had spoiled everything by calling the police. But that tiny flame of hope was now doused by the evidence standing before me. The boys had moved on and had only cared about covering up the fake kidnapping.
“Emilia, are you well?” asked Sergei, his thick brows drawn together.
“Sure.” I gave him my brightest smile.
The orchestra started up another piece. One I recognized from dancing lessons with the triumvirate.
“Ready for a slow waltz?” he asked.
I placed my hand in his and let him sweep me onto the dance floor. The strains of the orchestra filled the room, but my heart felt empty. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had pictured the three boys attending the ball alone. My step faltered, and I muttered an apology, focusing on Sergei’s lead, his aquamarine eyes, and his adoring smile.
“You seem distracted,” he said. “What is wrong?”
“Are you sure you want to hear? It’s a very long story.”
“This is a very long piece.”
As we danced, the sorry tale spilled from my lips, and Sergei listened with avid attention. It took about five waltzes for the story to finish, and by the time the last piece ended, he wrapped his arms around me and pressed a lingering kiss on my forehead. Whether it was out of genuine affection or out of pity, I couldn’t be sure, but I relished in the comfort. Nobody but Rita had cared how much I’d suffered at the hands of the triumvirate and their cronies, and it felt good to have spoken about the ordeal with someone outside the academy.
We drank a few cocktails and glasses of champagne, danced a little more, then Sergei led me to the edge of the stage and kissed my hand. “It’s time for my performance.”
“Are you nervous?” I glanced around at the sea of expectant faces gathered on the dance floor to watch the London debut of the son of the recently deceased composer.
He grinned. “Every performance is nerve-wracking, but I will focus on those I love.”
I offered him a smile and wished him an enjoyable performance. Andreo and the other bodyguards stood by my side. Some fixing their gazes on the stage, and others looking out for potential threats.
Sergei played one of his father’s last compositions, a piano concerto that stirred my blood. It was a fast, angry piece that reminded me of all the injustices I’d endured at the hands of those snobs, and everything I planned to do to the triumvirate when I returned to Mercia Academy. By the time I finished with Henry, Blake, and Edward, the trio’s lives would be in tatters, and they would wish they had never bullied anyone.
How many lives had they ruined with their pranks and taunts, and their incitement of others to victimize innocents? Too many, and soon, they would pay.
As Sergei transitioned to the second movement, a hand wrapped around my bicep. I glared at its owner.
Edward’s wintry, blue eyes met mine. His mahogany hair was slicked off his face, accentuating the twist of his handsome features into a scowl. His tuxedo was a dark, gunmetal blue with black, silk lapels and a matching waistcoat. “What are you doing here with that Russian?”
“What business is it of yours?” I hissed. “As far as I know, you don’t own the Royal Academy.”
Behind him, Henry and Blake pushed through the crowd to make their presence known. For once, Blake didn’t wear his usual mocking or knowing smirk. His brown eyes hardened into obsidian, and his full lips formed a thin, angry line. I clenched my teeth. Why the hell was he angry? As far as he knew, I was moving on with someone else. The boy wore a burgundy, one-button tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist and set off his beautiful, tan skin.
How I wanted to slam my fist in Blake’s face for not properly warning me never to call the police. And for the glee he had expressed when I had been locked in that basement, lonely, miserable, and confused. He had delighted in my shock and anguish when I had guessed that they, and not the stoners, had framed me for the kidnapping.
Edward’s nostrils flared, and his hand tightened around my bicep. “Come with us.”
“What for?” I snapped. We had a plan. I was supposed to return to Mercia Academy, befriend the boys, and ruin them from the inside. But at the sight of their entitled faces and their awful dates, bitter resentment crawled up the back of my throat and coated my tongue. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”
Andreo turned toward me, eyes hard. “Is this man bothering you, Emilia?”
> “Yes,” I hissed. “Him and his two friends.”
Andreo turned to the five men and gave them a sharp nod. A bald-headed brute about six-and-a-half-feet tall surged forward and wrapped his meaty fist around Edward’s wrist. Edward released his grip from around my bicep, and I rubbed it for emphasis. Another equally as large man walked around and grabbed Blake by the back of the neck. His dark eyes widened, but he said nothing. Then two men each grabbed Henry around the arms.
“What are you doing?” hissed Edward. “Call off your thugs.”
“They will not trouble you again,” said Andreo.
Sergei’s bodyguards escorted the triumvirate through the crowds and out of the ballroom. I would have rushed out to watch the spectacle, but I was sure the paparazzi would capture everything I needed to see. Warm triumph made my heart swell, and I turned back to the stage to listen to the rest of the second movement. I hoped the bodyguards hurt the triumvirate as much as they’d hurt me.
Chapter 3
After Sergei had finished his piece, we stayed for more dancing and to meet people in the classical music circuit. I fixed a smile on my face but couldn’t enjoy the rest of the ball. The hostility in Edward’s eyes confirmed everything I needed to know about the boys’ intentions. It had all been a pretense, and my presence at the Royal Academy ball had been a blight on their evening. They had probably wanted to take me aside to threaten me not to reveal their criminal secret.
We stepped into the limo, and I checked my smartphone, expecting a barrage of angry texts and voicemails, but not one of them had gotten in contact. Not even a message from Charlotte and the doppelgängers to demand to know what I had done to their dates. It was as if they didn’t deem me worthy enough for their attention.
The next morning, I arrived at the newspaper office to find Jackie rushing at me, brandishing a newspaper. My picture was plastered all over the society pages. I smiled and wondered if Mom had seen the picture.
“Come on, dish.” Jackie dragged me straight into her office. “What did you find out about Sergei? I want all the gossip.”
I gave her the blandest facts about his time at the Institut, which made her eyes glaze.
She huffed. “Will you be going out again?”
I shrugged. That incident with the triumvirate had been a disaster. I doubted whether a man like Sergei Bachmann would want to associate himself with a girl who had needed her own set of bodyguards.
To my surprise, he invited me to another evening function the next day and the day after that. Since I’d already studied everything I could about our biggest targets: the Duke of Mercia, the Bournevilles, and the former Mrs. Simpson-West, I accepted his invitations and entered London’s society circuit. I found it glamorous at first, but the conversations and the people we met were superficial and dull. I totally understood why Sergei went out on the circuit. He was trying to drum up publicity and additional commissions, but it was hard to believe that Mom had swapped a family for such an empty life.
One morning, Jackie called me into her office. A tall man in a sweatshirt and jeans perched on her desk while she sat behind it on her ergonomic chair.
She leaned forward and steepled her fingers. “You need to put cameras in the school. Tom will show you what to do.”
My stomach dropped, and I clapped my hand over my chest. “W-wait. They’re letting me back in?”
“Rudolph is furious.” Jackie rolled her eyes. “Your headmaster demanded a five-figure sum for your return.”
I bit my lip. Mercia Academy had extorted so much from my stepfather. He would be determined more than ever to ruin them all.
Tom stood and opened his large palm, revealing small, white cubes. “These are wireless cameras that will record continuously and send footage to our servers. Since you’ve already supplied us with the passwords for the academy’s internet service, they’re all ready to go.”
Jackie let out a hacking cough. “I want a few in strategic places like the common room, headmaster’s office, the boys’ bedrooms, and the home occupied by the Duke of Mercia.”
Blood drained from my face and into my churning stomach. I’d agreed to do a little spying and reporting back of what I’d seen, but I’d imagined recording everything on my smartphone, just like I had done with Charlotte’s scheme to ensnare Henry.
I stepped back toward the door. “How am I going to get into places like that without being detected?”
“Find a way,” said Jackie, her voice sharp. “The headmaster has finally named a figure to take you back, and Rudolph is negotiating him down. He’ll be livid if you back out now.”
I eyed the small cameras in the man’s hands. “I’m not backing…” My throat flexed. Rudolph had already threatened me with military school if I failed to follow through with the plan, and nightmares of being imprisoned in bare, filthy rooms made me cry out for vengeance in the middle of the night. “It might take some time.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Rudolph says he’ll return you to New York and pay for a school and an Ivy League university of your choosing if you succeed. How’s that for an incentive?”
“R-really?” My eyes bulged. “I’ll find a way!”
Knowing that I’d soon return to Mercia made every society function more exciting. My pictures were probably all over the Mercia-Net, just as Mom’s had been whenever she appeared in the papers. I’d make my smile extra bright and gaze adoringly into Sergei’s eyes, acting the devoted girlfriend. He’d probably be happy to play along for the publicity.
Once the Saturday Correspondent published my name, all the other papers followed suit. It was no longer ‘Sergei Bachmann and companion’ on the captions. One magazine even dug out some old photos of me at Mom’s weddings and analyzed my fashions.
Dad sent me emails asking about Sergei, but I told him we were just friends. He insisted that a man didn’t keep dating a pretty girl because he wanted to be her pal. I stared at Dad’s message on my smartphone. I liked Sergei, but hadn’t gotten over the triumvirate. Was I leading him on?
One evening, Sergei and I were riding in the limo with Andreo, his blond bodyguard. They were having a hushed conversation in rapid French. Every so often, Andreo would glance at me, giving the impression that I was the topic of their conversation.
I leaned forward, throat drying. “What’s going on?”
“I apologize for fooling you,” said Sergei.
My stomach dropped, and my gaze zoomed onto the passenger seat door. Was he not Sergei Bachmann? He certainly played like the son of a famous composer. After my experience with the triumvirate, I was ready to believe the worst.
The limo sped through London, but the second it stopped at the lights, I could jump out and run for safety. “What do you mean?”
“I cannot offer you anything but friendship.” He nodded toward the bodyguard. “Andreo is my lover, but we cannot be open about our relationship. In Russia, that would mean the end of my career.”
The muscles around my stomach relaxed. Maybe he’d seen something in my eyes, a lack of interest, preoccupation, or sadness that had prompted him to ask me out. “You want a beard?”
His brows drew together, and an incredulous smile curled his lips. “Beard?”
I sat back and explained that the term referred to a woman who agreed to date a gay man so he would appear straight to the rest of the world. They both chuckled and said that was exactly what they were looking for.
Sergei gave me a broad smile. “Emilia Hobson, will you consent to be my beard?”
I raised a shoulder. “As long as you don’t expect me to be faithful.”
Rudolph finally paid Mr. Chaloner’s demand, and I returned to Mercia Academy, armed with mini cameras I’d stuffed into the bottom of a pack of night-time sanitary pads in case someone entered my room and checked my things. The headmaster didn’t even deem me worthy of a meeting. I expect he might have been sheepish at having accepted three sets of bribes: one to place me at the top of the waitlist, another t
o delete my records after he’d already expelled me, and the last to take me back.
Rudolph authorized the paper to pay for a limo to take me to the school in style. I directed the driver through the campus, around the imposing main building with frost covering its four towers, atrium, and huge windows. So much had changed since I had left. Even the magnolia trees that had formed the walkway through to the back of the campus had lost their leaves and now jutted out like naked umbrella spokes.
The limo pulled me into Elder House around first break, and I stepped through the mahogany doors into the warm reception hall, breathing in the warm and familiar scent of wood smoke. Although the crack and pop and sizzle of the fire felt welcoming, a tight band of panic wound around my ribcage. The last time I’d been here, Mr. Carbuncle had dragged me by the arm through a crowd of baying students. It had been harrowing and humiliating, and every part of my body had been hurt from their attacks.
Closing my eyes, I forced deep breaths in and out of my lungs, just as I had learned from a YouTube video on post-traumatic stress disorder. Things would be different, now. I would damage the triumvirate’s reputations with such precision, they would have no time for their vicious plots.
“Emilia?” asked a small voice. I turned around. Rita hovered at the doorway, wringing her hands. Her shoulders curled into her petite frame, and her long braid hung down to her waist, making her appear even smaller.
A little of the tightness unwound itself to allow for a nervous chuckle. “I’m back.”
“Why?” Her eyes widened to emphasize her question. “They haven’t stopped talking about you since you left. Pictures of you are all over the society pages. Underwood and her group are hopping mad.”
“Things will be different, now,” I said. “You’ll see.”
She shook her head. “I would leave this place in the blink of an eye if it wasn’t my best chance of a future. But you have a choice to go somewhere else.”
