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He gestures to the man behind him, who steps forward with the gift. “This is for Lily.”

Mrs. Harrington takes it, looking pleased and curious and nervous at the same time. “That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”

Irina moves toward him before anyone else can say anything. “Nikolai, I need to explain. I had no idea she was in the car. Elara made me think you had approved it, and I would never have⁠—”

“Not here,” he says.

Irina stops, then lowers her voice. “I understand, but I need you to know I was also tricked.”

“Irina.”

She presses her lips together.

“Not here,” he repeats.

For once, she listens. Then his eyes come to me.

I wish he looked angrier; I wish he blew up at me. Because what he does now feels worse.

That would have been easier. Shouting would have given me something to react to. Instead, he only looks at me from across the room, steady and quiet, and I know immediately that whatever he has to say to me is not going to be said in front of these people.

“Papa!” Anya runs across the room before anyone can stop her. Nikolai bends as she reaches him, and she throws her arms around his neck. He holds her with one arm around her back and the other hand on her hair.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says.

“I know.”

She pulls back just enough to look at his face. “Are you angry?”

“Yes.”

Her smile disappears.

“But I’m not taking you home right now unless Kirill says we need to leave.”

Her eyes widen. “I can stay?”

“For now.”

She hugs him again immediately. “Thank you, Papa.”

He closes his eyes for one second, then opens them and pulls back. “You stay where Kirill can see you. No courtyard, no upstairs, no closed rooms. If Kirill calls you, you come right away.”

“I will.”

“Anya.”

“I promise.”

Lily calls her name from near the cake table, and Anya looks at him for permission. When he nods, she runs back.

For the next half hour, Nikolai stays near the wall and watches the room. He doesn't hover over Anya, but I can tell he knows where she is every second. Kirill stands on the other side of the room with the same expression. Sergei speaks quietly to one of the guards outside the door.

The mothers notice him almost immediately.

Nikolai is broad everywhere, through the shoulders, chest, arms, even the way he stands, like his body has been built for force first and expensive tailoring second. His black shirt is simple, but it fits him too well, pulling slightly across his upper arms when he folds them and stretching over his chest when he turns. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, and the tattoos there are impossible to ignore, dark lines disappearing beneath the fabric as if the shirt is barely managing to cover the rest of him.

He hasn’t shaved today. There is a rough shadow along his jaw, and it makes him look even less like the sort of man who should be standing near a table full of pink cupcakes and juice boxes. His hair is pushed back, dark except for the silver at his temples, and his face is calm, serious, controlled.