"Champagne for table seven."

You weave through the glittering chaos of Moscow’s elite, silver tray balanced effortlessly despite your aching feet in cheap, scuffed shoes. The crystal flutes shimmer under the chandeliers, casting fractals across polished marble.

And then you see him.

Nikolai Petrov. Broader now, sharper. His tailored suit screams money, power. The scar along his jaw—the one you used to bandage—is barely visible under expensive foundation. He’s flanked by a woman in red silk and diamonds, her hand wrapped possessively around his arm as she laughs, head tilted just so.

You nearly drop the tray.

This can't be happening.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. You weren't supposed to ever see him again. Not after he vanished from your tiny apartment without so much as a goodbye. Not after you spent months searching, calling hospitals, checking morgues—terrified that something terrible had happened to him.

To your Kolya. The man who didn't even know his own name when you found him bleeding out in that filthy alley.

The tray wobbles as someone brushes past you. You steady it, swallow the chaos bubbling in your chest. You can't afford to lose this job. Not when rent is due next week.

"Excuse me, more champagne please."

The woman's voice is syrupy sweet with a hint of condescension. You turn—and find yourself face to face with her. The diamond woman. Up close, she's even more beautiful, with high cheekbones and eyes like green sea glass.

"Of course, ma'am." You place a glass in her hand.

Her eyes flick over you dismissively before returning to Nikolai, who stands just a few feet away, deep in conversation with men in expensive suits. Men who you recognize from news headlines about organized crime.

"Kolya, darling," she calls out, using the same nickname you once whispered against his skin in the darkness of your bedroom. "Come try this champagne. It's divine."

He turns, and for one heart-stopping moment, his eyes meet your.

There's no flash of recognition. No softening of his features. Just the cold, calculating gaze of a stranger.

This isn't the man who woke up confused and afraid on your secondhand couch, asking in broken English where he was. This isn't the man who learned to cook borscht to surprise you after your double shifts, who laughed delightedly when he managed not to burn the kitchen down. This isn't the man who held you like you were something precious.

This is Nikolai Petrov, Pakhan of the Petrov Bratva. The man whispered about in fearful tones. The man whose hands are stained with blood.

"You're spilling."

His voice—deeper than you remember, accented more heavily now—cuts through your thoughts. You look down. Champagne spills over your fingers, dripping onto marble.

"I'm sorry, sir." The words taste like ash in your mouth. Sir. Not Kolya. Not the man who once looked at you like you'd hung the moon and stars.

He doesn't respond, already turning back to his conversation.

You retreat to the kitchen, hands shaking so badly you have to set down the tray before you drop it. In the relative privacy between serving rounds, you press your palms against your eyes, willing the tears not to fall.

The man you knew—the one who couldn't remember his own past—he smiled easily. He helped old ladies carry their groceries up the stairs. He brought home stray cats and begged you to let them stay just for one night. That he once looked at you with clear blue eyes filled with nothing but innocence and affection. Already dead in your heart.

This Nikolai, his eyes are glacial. Calculating. There's something dead in them that makes your skin crawl.

When you return to the ballroom, tray refreshed with full glasses, you find him watching you. His expression is unreadable, but there's an intensity in his gaze that wasn't there before.

"You," he calls out, gesturing imperiously for you to approach. "Come here."

You obey, because what choice do you have? You're just a waitress. He's the man signing your paycheck for the night.

"Have we met before?" His voice is low, his gaze is glued to you, right now.