### Chapter 3 Anastasia I cannot afford to disregard Mr. Williams when he calls for me. Breaking the social conventions expected of someone in my position would raise too many eyebrows. He stands as a Saint in the Order of Saints and is a trusted ally of my father— which means he bears witness to the transformation my family has undergone since my mother’s departure. A shiver crawls up my spine as he wraps an arm around my waist, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my back. Note to self: attire that covers me from neck to toe is a wise choice for future gatherings. With my father absent, the men around me have become increasingly presumptuous. “Mr. Williams. How are you this evening?” I manage to utter, my smile tighter than a drum. I attempt to inch away, and to my relief, he grants me the mercy of letting go. Even he acknowledges the necessary boundaries, however tenuous they may be. “Wonderful, wonderful, my dear. You’re in for a treat. I have someone I believe you should meet.” With a flourish, he motions for a young man lurking in the shadows behind him to step forward. He cannot be older than eighteen, yet the aura surrounding him screams Unsainted— the lowest realm within the Order. Internally, I groan at the way he gazes at me, his interest far too blatant. As customs dictate, introductions should wait for the elder. Yet, Mr. Williams forgoes such protocol. “Miss Volkov, allow me to introduce my nephew, Martin Williams. An emerging star! A splendid match for any woman fortunate enough to capture his interest.” I barely suppress my irritation, clenching my jaw as I maintain my composed façade. He isn’t even attempting to mask his ambitions. Martin takes my hand, his moist lips pressing against my knuckles in a manner that sends shivers down my spine. Resisting the urge to withdraw, I manage to say, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Williams.” I reclaim my hand and perform a slight bow. “Whoever you choose will surely be fortunate.” The words taste foul on my tongue, but at least they provide an opening to escape. “If you’ll excuse me, I must mingle with a few guests.” “Already?” Martin's expression shifts to one of displeasure, but it’s too bad for him. Women may not hold the same power as men within the Order, but we possess the ultimate authority to choose our associations. Anyone who tries to force an arrangement without mutual consent risks losing their position— a lesson well ingrained in Mr. Williams. He offers me a curt nod. “Of course, dear. We’ll catch up later.” More an assertion than a suggestion. I will have to tread carefully around both him and his uncle in the future. “I look forward to it.” This time, I allow my false enthusiasm to show before weaving my way into the gathering throng. I glide past the various clusters of individuals, offering only a polite wave—no invitation for conversation. My aim is singular: to locate the tiara. Each moment wasted flirting with their trivial discussions is akin to searching for a needle in a haystack. The ballroom buzzes with revelers clad in their finest, all eager for glances that might forge alliances among families— an echo of the extravagant balls of centuries past. Every woman here is an exhibit, maneuvering under the watchful eyes of men who utilize us as pawns in their relentless quests for power. Avoiding too much scrutiny, I make several circuits around the room. If there’s one silver lining in our family’s financial demise, it’s the absence of guards shadowing my every movement, liberating me to slip away unnoticed. A sigh escapes my lips as I pass by another unremarkable wall, nothing seemingly amiss. Did I truly believe I might stumble upon a hidden passageway in this ornate ballroom? As despair creeps in, I suddenly glimpse the silhouette of a door. There’s no handle—just a subtle rectangular seam that eluded me during my earlier passes. As I approach, glancing about to ensure no one observes me, I tentatively trace my fingers along the seam. The door doesn’t budge against my attempts to push it. Time is slipping away, and I’m veiled only by a lengthy red curtain, which will hardly conceal me for long. Am I losing my mind, feeling along the wall as if it holds secret levers that might grant me passage? Of course, there’s nothing there. An exasperated sigh escapes my lips. I’ll need to return another time to avoid detection. But with a one-month deadline looming, waiting for the next ball simply isn’t an option. As I turn to leave, my foot catches on the thick puddle of drapery, and I lurch forward, reaching out to stabilize myself. Heart in my throat, I grasp the brass chandelier above, but the world tilts, and a gasp escapes me as the door cracks open just wide enough for light to spill through, and I stumble to capture its edge. My heart races as I scan the room for watching eyes, finally exhaling in relief as everyone remains engrossed in their own conversations. I slide my fingers into the crack of the now-vaguely ajar door, cautiously widening it, when an intense heat prickles across my shoulder blades and settles at the nape of my neck. An eerie sensation envelops me, the unmistakable pang of being observed. I draw a steadying breath, searching the space yet again for whatever might be lurking. No one is watching, but the paranoia lingers as I step through the hidden entryway, reclaiming my sense of calm. The passage opens into a dimly lit corridor, narrower than the main hall, the somber wallpaper indicating this space was never meant to see the light of day. I glance back, ensuring no one follows before approaching the first door adjacent to me. My hand grips the handle, but I hesitate. I need to discover where the tiara is hidden, and this convoluted area seems the perfect start. Yet, what if the room holds unexpected dangers? My pulse quickens as I turn the knob, only to find it locked. I should have known. The next door bears the same fate, my heart racing for all the wrong reasons. I’m a fool—this search would not be as simple as I had hoped. Suddenly, a door swings wide open before me. I press against the wall, narrowly evading the door that nearly strikes me. Blood pounds in my ears as an Unsainted I’ve seen in passing steps into the hallway. I am utterly trapped. If he catches me here, I’ll be backed into a shameful corner, forced to make excuses for my presence. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought this was the restroom!” As if I didn’t know every nook and cranny of this venue. My breath catches, my chest tightens, and time seems to slow as I await my fate. Yet, much to my surprise, there’s no confrontation. The man stumbles, unsteady on his feet, and saunters past, oblivious to my presence. Relief floods through me, and I lean back against the wall, my thoughts racing—what in the world am I doing? “Surprised to see you here, Miss Volkov. Or should I say, Stasia?” The voice, rich and familiar, draws my attention. I turn slowly to meet the piercing gray eyes of Bash Everette. My throat constricts, and I bite my lip to stifle my instinctive anxiety. A confident grin curls his lips, his demeanor deceptively casual, yet everything about him— the way his jaw tightens, the intensity of his gaze— tells me he is not here merely to exchange pleasantries; he is dissecting me. A chill rolls down my spine, realization sinking in. Of all the people to stumble upon me, it had to be him—a Lord. My hands instinctively clasp together, nails digging into my palms, the burst of pain anchoring me in the moment. If I am to navigate this encounter, I must project an air of innocence—play the role of a bewildered girl caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time. “I... I got lost,” I stutter, utterly aware of how ridiculous I sound. A dimple flashes in Bash’s cheek as he leans closer. “Lucky me, then, that I found you.” I clear my throat, shaking off the warmth his proximity stirs within me. “I… I’d better be on my way.” “And where exactly is that?” His gaze brightens with mischief, a wolf sizing up its prey. “How about this, Stasia: accompany me for a moment, and afterward, I’ll escort you back to the festivities.” He doesn’t buy my flimsy excuses—why should he? I feel like a simpleton for thinking I could deceive him. “I really must return to the party,” I insist. “And you will,” he replies, amusement dancing in his eyes, “but we could both use a break from the boredom of it all.” He extends his hand toward me. “Come with me.” A thrill runs through me as I accept his invitation instinctively, drawing me closer into his world of danger and intrigue. My mind protests, urging me to run away, yet my feet follow him through the doorway on silent agreement. A quick glance around the room fills me with dread. Surely, he cannot be serious.