Chapter One

KATJA

“Welcome to the Met, Mr. & Mrs. Miller. You’ll be seated at table nine this evening.”

I give Tristan the side-eye before responding.

“That’s Mr. Miller and Ms. Belov,” I inform the flustered organizer tasked with checking in the fashionable elite to the biggest event of the year.

The panic on the chick’s face is comical. It’s unlike Anna to put such an inexperienced girl out front in one of the most important jobs at the gala.

“Em… okay…,” she says, momentarily dazzled by Tristan’s charming smile.

Of course, he’s grinning, enjoying the entertainment.

“Mr. Miller is both my husband and my guest, not the other way around.” Realizing the girl has absolutely no clue whatsoever, I finally give her my name. “Katja Belov, owner of The Whitney, my hotel, and sponsor of the entirety of table nine.”

If I wasn’t so excited to get inside, I’d laugh at the shock plastered all over her face as she sputters apologies for not recognizing me.

Stuck waiting, I notice the newbie’s hands shaking as she frantically taps and swipes the tablet.

Christ, I can find information in my handwritten notebook faster than this Gen-Z girl can on an iPad.

“Ah yes, I see it here. I’m sorry for the mix-up.”

I wave to Tristan to make himself useful by carrying the gift bags she is foisting in our direction as I sail past her.

“Mrs. Miller… em… Ms. Belov… You can’t go in just yet. We have to leave space between—”

I turn, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“Sweetie, I’ll make it easier for you. I’ve been attending The Gala for more than enough years to know how this works.”

Turning back to the gauntlet in front of me, I put on my best it’s showtime smile for the high-powered cameras that start flashing the minute we step out of the arrivals tent.

Hundreds of photographers and journalists line the mammoth staircase, jockeying for photographs of A-list celebrities in their elaborate costumes. I don’t play the game of who can wear the most outrageous gown, opting for classic opulence instead, which is more on brand for me.

“Ms. Belov! Over here!” a seasoned paparazzo at the bottom of the steps shouts. “Who are you wearing?”

“Gucci, and my jewels are Tiffany,” I purr loud enough to be heard over the clicking of the cameras. I may not be a celebrity in Hollywood, but here in New York City I’m fucking royalty and I have the gown and jewels to prove it.

Words like gorgeous, stunning, and beautiful make it to my ears as I slowly climb the stairs, stopping often to pose here and spin there. I may have never walked the runway, but my father made sure I was trained nonetheless, understanding the position our family held in NYC society.

For his part, Tristan plays his role perfectly. More handsome than the Academy Award-winning actor we’re following up the steps, the photographers clamor for his picture every bit as much as mine. Individually, we take beautiful photos, but together… it’s the main reason we’re still married. I’m not vain, it’s simply a fact.

We’re a stunning couple… at least aesthetically.

Behind the curtain of marriage, not so much.

But I’m not going to think about that tonight. I have too many people to rub elbows with to waste time contemplating how I’ve somehow ended up in a marriage of convenience in the twenty-first century.

We aren’t ten feet inside the Great Hall when we’re greeted by the first of hundreds of roaming servers peddling expensive champagne. Ever the gentleman, at least in public, Tristan grabs two flutes, offering one to me while holding out his bent arm for me.

Neither of us say it out loud, but I know we both think ‘it’s go time’ as we step into the throng of attendees. Unlike the attention hungry celebrities, I time my arrival perfectly, just shy of fashionably late. Not only does it ensure I’m not sandwiched between publicity hogs, but more importantly, it gives me the advantage of deciding who I want to stop and acknowledge as we move deeper into the room toward table nine.

“Katja, darling. It’s been ages,” the forty-something princess of a tiny micro-country in Eastern Europe says, greeting me with air-kisses on my cheeks.

“Leizel, I didn’t expect to see you here.” I hesitate before realizing why. “I didn’t see your name on The Whitney’s VIP list.”

Tags: Alta Hensley Crime
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