Chapter 22: Gala, Shopping and Dinner
The boutique in Monte Carlo was a symphony of soft lighting, polished marble floors, and the faint, intoxicating scent of expensive perfumes lingering in the air. The walls were adorned with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, reflecting the warm glow of the chandeliers above, while mannequins in sleek, tailored gowns stood like silent sentinels, watching as Violet and Sascha moved between racks of silk and satin.
Violet’s fingers trembled slightly as she brushed against the fabric of a deep emerald dress, the material cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. She had never been one for high-end shopping—her usual style leaned toward practical, comfortable tennis wear—but this was different.
The Australian Open gala was different. And Sascha was different.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching as he effortlessly flipped through a rack of suits, his long fingers brushing over the lapels with practiced ease. He looked like he belonged here—like he was born to stand in boutiques with price tags that made her stomach twist. But then he caught her looking, and his sharp, knowing smile softened into something warmer.
"You like that one?" he asked, nodding toward the emerald dress she still hadn’t let go of.
Violet swallowed. "I don’t know.
It’s just… a lot," Violet admitted, running her fingers over the delicate beading along the bodice. The dress was stunning—elegant, timeless, the kind of thing she’d only ever seen on celebrities or in magazines. But the price tag made her stomach flip.
Sascha stepped closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he examined the dress. "You’d look incredible in it," he said, his voice low, almost intimate. "The color would bring out your eyes."
Violet’s cheeks warmed. "You think so?"
"Absolutely." He reached out, his fingers lightly grazing the fabric before meeting her gaze again. "But if you don’t like it, we can keep looking.
There’s no rush," Sascha said, his tone casual but his eyes lingering on the way the light caught the emerald fabric. He stepped back slightly, giving her space, but his presence still filled the air between them like an electric charge.
Violet hesitated, her fingers tightening around the hanger. "I do like it. I just…" She exhaled, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I’ve never worn anything like this before. What if I look ridiculous?"
Sascha’s lips quirked into a smirk. "Trust me, you won’t." He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers as he took the dress from her.
"Let’s try it on," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "No pressure. If you don’t love it, we’ll find something else."
Violet hesitated, her pulse quickening. "What if it doesn’t fit?"
Sascha’s smile widened. "Then we’ll keep looking. But I have a feeling it will."
She bit her lip, torn between excitement and nerves. The boutique was quiet, the sales associate discreetly hovering near the fitting rooms, giving them space. Sascha’s confidence was infectious, but Violet still felt out of her depth.
"Okay," she finally said, taking the dress from him.
"But if I look like a swan that’s been stuffed into a sausage casing, I’m blaming you."
Sascha laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Deal. But I have a feeling you’re going to look like something out of a fairy tale."
Violet rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. "You’re ridiculous."
"Only when I’m not being charming," he shot back, following her toward the fitting rooms. The sales associate, a tall woman with sleek black hair and an air of quiet efficiency, glided over to open the door for them.
"Would you like any assistance, miss?" she asked, her accent faintly French.
Violet hesitated, glancing at Sascha. "No, I think I can manage," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The truth was, she wasn’t entirely sure she could manage—her fingers felt clumsy as she clutched the emerald dress to her chest.
Sascha leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. "Take your time," he said, his voice low and warm. "I’ll be right here if you need anything."
Violet nodded, stepping into the fitting room.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving her alone with the soft hum of the boutique’s ambient music and the distant murmur of other shoppers. The emerald dress hung in her hands, its weight surprising her—heavier than she expected, the fabric rich and substantial.
She took a deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she unzipped the back of her sundress. The boutique’s air conditioning brushed against her bare skin, raising goosebumps. She stepped out of the dress, folding it carefully over the chair before reaching for the emerald gown.
The moment she slid it over her head, the fabric settled like liquid around her body, clinging in all the right places.
The emerald silk hugged her curves with effortless grace, the delicate beading catching the light like scattered jewels. She turned slightly, watching her reflection in the three-way mirror, barely recognizing herself.
The neckline dipped just low enough to be daring but not vulgar, the fitted waist accentuating her figure before the skirt flared out in soft, flowing layers. The sleeves were sheer, sheer enough to tease but not reveal, and the back dipped low, exposing the delicate curve of her spine.
Violet exhaled, her fingers tracing the delicate embroidery along the bodice. She looked—different. Elegant. Like someone who belonged in a ballroom, not on a tennis court.
The woman in the mirror was poised, confident—nothing like the awkward girl who had stumbled into the boutique an hour ago.
She turned slightly, watching the way the fabric moved with her, the way the emerald color made her brown eyes glow like polished wood in firelight. The dress was perfect. Too perfect.
A soft knock at the door made her jump.
"Violet?" Sascha's voice was muffled but warm. "You okay in there?"
She hesitated, then smoothed her hands over the dress. "Yeah. I just—" She swallowed. "I think I need help with the zipper."
The door opened a crack, and Sascha slipped inside, his gaze immediately locking onto her.
His eyes darkened with something unreadable—admiration, desire, or maybe just shock. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, his fingers still on the doorknob, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look.
Violet shifted awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed she felt. "Well?" she asked, her voice coming out softer than she intended. "Do I look like a swan in a sausage casing?"
Sascha exhaled sharply, his lips curling into a slow, appreciative smile. "You look…" He shook his head, as if searching for the right word.
"Breathtaking."
Violet's cheeks flushed at the intensity in his voice. The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the room—made her pulse quicken. She smoothed her hands over the dress again, suddenly self-conscious. "Really?"
Sascha stepped closer, his fingers brushing against the delicate fabric at her waist. "Really," he murmured. "You were right about the color. It brings out your eyes."
Violet bit her lip, her fingers nervously adjusting the sleeves. "I don’t know if I can pull this off," she admitted.
"I feel like I’m playing dress-up."
Sascha’s fingers lingered at her waist, his touch warm through the thin fabric. "You’re not playing," he said softly. "You’re just discovering what you look like when you let yourself shine."
Violet exhaled, her fingers tightening around the delicate beading. "I don’t know if I can do this."
Sascha’s hand moved to her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the bare skin where the dress dipped. "You can," he said firmly. "And you will. Because you’re Violet, and you’re incredible, and you deserve to feel like this."
She met his gaze, her pulse quickening at the sincerity in his voice.
The way he looked at her—like she was something precious, something worth admiring—made her chest tighten.
"You really think so?" she asked softly, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate embroidery along the bodice.
Sascha’s thumb brushed against the curve of her shoulder, his touch light but deliberate. "I don’t just think it. I know it." His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he were sharing a secret. "You’re beautiful, Violet. And not just because of the dress. Because of who you are."
Her breath hitched. No one had ever looked at her like this before—like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.
Violet’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached up to adjust the delicate strap of the dress, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin like a trapped bird.
Sascha’s gaze followed the movement, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. "You’re nervous," he observed, his voice soft. "A little," she admitted. "I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. Dressing up, being the center of attention…"
Sascha stepped closer, his fingers brushing against hers as he gently took her hand. "You don’t have to be good at it," he said. "You just have to be yourself.
And you’re already perfect that way."
Violet exhaled, her fingers tightening around his. "That's easy for you to say. You're used to all this. I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."
Sascha's thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles. "You're not playing. This is your life now too. And you're handling it better than you think."
The boutique's soft chandelier light caught the emerald fabric, making it shimmer like liquid jewels. Violet turned slightly, watching the way the dress moved with her. "I just don't want to embarrass myself," she admitted. "What if I trip? Or spill something?
Or say something stupid to someone important?" Violet's fingers nervously traced the delicate beading along the bodice of the emerald dress. "I'm not exactly a natural at this whole glamorous socialite thing."
Sascha's lips quirked into that infuriatingly charming half-smile that always made her stomach flutter. "First of all, you're not a socialite. You're Violet. And second of all, who cares if you spill something? The real question is—would you rather spill red wine or champagne?"
Violet let out a startled laugh, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I don't know. I've never spilled either.
I'm too nervous to even hold a glass properly at these things," Violet admitted, her fingers nervously adjusting the delicate fabric at her waist. The emerald dress felt both luxurious and alien against her skin, the weight of its elegance pressing down on her shoulders like an expectation she wasn't sure she could meet.
Sascha's fingers brushed against hers, stilling her restless movements. "Then we'll practice," he said simply, as if it were the easiest solution in the world. "We'll go to dinner tonight, just the three of us. You can wear this dress, and I'll teach you how to navigate these events without feeling like you're performing."
Violet's breath hitched at the mention of Andrey.
She hadn't seen him since their awkward but charming encounter at the French Open. The memory of his intense blue eyes and quiet confidence made her stomach flutter in a way that felt both exciting and terrifying.
"Dinner with Andrey?" she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. "That sounds... nice."
Sascha smirked, his fingers still tracing slow circles on her bare shoulder. "Nice? Come on, you can do better than that. Andrey's one of my closest friends. He's actually the one who convinced me to ask you to the gala in the first place."
Violet's eyes widened slightly.
"Andrey convinced you to ask me to the gala?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "I thought you just... decided to do it on your own."
Sascha's smirk deepened, his fingers still tracing slow circles on her bare shoulder. "Well, let's just say he gave me a little push in the right direction. He's got a way of seeing things clearly when I'm too stubborn to admit I want something."
Violet felt a warmth spread through her chest at the admission. The idea that Sascha had wanted to ask her to the gala—and that Andrey had played a part in it—made her heart flutter in a way she couldn't quite explain.
She smoothed her hands over the emerald fabric, the cool silk grounding her as her thoughts spiraled.
"You really wanted to ask me?" she asked softly, her fingers tracing the delicate beading along the bodice.
Sascha's gaze darkened, his thumb brushing against the exposed curve of her shoulder. "I did," he admitted, his voice low. "But I didn’t want to pressure you. I know how you feel about these kinds of things."
Violet exhaled, her pulse quickening. "I’m not sure I know how I feel about them anymore," she admitted. "I just… I don’t want to mess this up."
Sascha’s fingers stilled, his expression softening.
"You won’t mess it up," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Because you’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re just being you. And that’s more than enough."
Violet swallowed, her fingers tightening around the delicate fabric of her dress. The emerald silk shimmered under the boutique’s soft lighting, catching the glow of the chandeliers in a way that made her feel like she was standing under a starry sky.
"You make it sound so simple," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sascha’s thumb traced slow circles over the back of her hand, his touch warm and steady. "Because it is.
You overthink everything," Sascha said, his voice low and teasing. "Just breathe, Violet. You're not on a tennis court here. No one's judging your backhand."
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers still nervously tracing the beading on her dress. "That's where you're wrong. Everyone's judging something. My outfit, my manners, the way I hold my fork—"
Sascha's fingers caught her chin gently, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "Then let them judge. You're the one wearing the dress, not them. And you look stunning." His thumb brushed her lower lip, sending a shiver down her spine.
"You're overthinking again," he murmured. "Just breathe."
Violet exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I know. It's just... this is all so new to me. The dresses, the galas, the... everything."
Sascha's lips quirked into that infuriatingly charming half-smile. "And yet here you are, handling it like a pro. You should see yourself right now. You look like you belong on a red carpet, not in a boutique in Monte Carlo."
Violet rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile tugging at her lips.
"You're ridiculous," she said, but the warmth in her voice betrayed her amusement. "I look like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."
Sascha's fingers lingered at her waist, his touch warm through the thin fabric. "You're not playing," he said softly. "You're just discovering what you look like when you let yourself shine." "I don't know if I can do this."
Sascha's hand moved to her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the bare skin where the dress dipped.
Because you're Violet, and you're incredible, and you deserve to feel like this." "You're beautiful, Violet. The way his fingers traced slow circles on her bare shoulder sent shivers down her spine, each touch more intimate than the last.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the delicate beading of the emerald dress. "I don't know if I can do this," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
The emerald silk clung to her like a second skin, the delicate beading catching the light with every nervous movement of her fingers.
Sascha's hand moved to her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the bare skin where the dress dipped low. No one had ever looked at her like this before, as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Violet's pulse fluttered wildly beneath her skin, her breath catching in her throat as she met Sascha's intense gaze.
"You're beautiful, Violet," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "The way the light catches your eyes, the way the dress clings to you... you look like a goddess."
Violet's cheeks burned, her fingers nervously adjusting the delicate fabric at her waist. "You're just saying that," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"I don't just say things," he murmured, his voice low and husky. No one had ever looked at her like this before, as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered. She swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin.
The way Sascha’s fingers traced slow circles on her bare shoulder sent shivers down her spine, each touch more intimate than the last.
Sascha's thumb brushed against the exposed curve of her shoulder, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through her.
Sascha's lips quirked into a slow, knowing smile. "I mean them." His fingers traced the delicate beading along the bodice, his touch feather-light against her skin. "You're the most beautiful woman in this boutique. In this city.
In the world."
Violet's breath hitched as his fingers traced the delicate embroidery along her collarbone. The emerald silk felt suddenly too thin, too revealing, as if the dress itself were conspiring with him to make her feel this way.
"You're making me blush," she murmured, her fingers nervously adjusting the delicate fabric at her waist.
Sascha's smile deepened, his thumb brushing against the exposed curve of her shoulder. "Good. It means you're alive. You're feeling something real." His voice was low, almost a whisper, and it sent a shiver down her spine. The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—made her pulse quicken.
The air between them felt charged, electric, as if the boutique itself had become a cocoon of intimacy. The soft hum of the air conditioning, the distant murmur of other shoppers, the faint scent of expensive perfumes—it all faded into the background, leaving only the two of them, suspended in this moment.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the delicate beading along the bodice. "But what if I trip? Or say something stupid? Or—"
Sascha's thumb brushed against her bare shoulder, his touch warm and grounding.
"Or what?" he murmured, his voice low and steady. "You're overthinking again."
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the delicate fabric of her dress. The emerald silk shimmered under the boutique's soft lighting, catching the glow of the chandeliers in a way that made her feel like she was standing under a starry sky.
Sascha's thumb traced slow circles over the back of her hand, his touch warm and steady. You overthink everything." It's just...
this is all so new to me," Violet admitted, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate beading along the bodice of the emerald dress. The fabric felt like liquid against her skin, clinging to her curves in a way that made her feel both powerful and exposed. "I've never been someone who belongs in places like this."
Sascha's fingers stilled on her shoulder, his expression softening. "You belong wherever you want to," he said, his voice low and certain. "And right now, you want to be here. With me."
Violet met his gaze, her pulse quickening at the intensity in his eyes.
The way he looked at her—like she was the only person in the room, the only person who mattered—made her breath catch in her throat. She swallowed hard, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate beading along the bodice of the emerald dress. The fabric felt like liquid against her skin, cool and smooth, clinging to her curves in a way that made her feel both powerful and exposed. "Because it is," he said, his voice low and teasing. "You overthink everything. Just breathe, Violet.
Sascha's fingers slipped inside her dress, tracing the curve of her shoulder blade with deliberate slowness. The intimacy of the touch made her breath catch—this was different from the playful teasing of earlier, more deliberate, more *real*. His thumb brushed the delicate lace of her bra strap, sending a shiver down her spine.
Violet's fingers stilled on the beading of her dress, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin. The boutique's soft lighting seemed to dim around them, the world narrowing to the warmth of his touch and the way his breath hitched when she leaned into him. "Sascha," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "We're in the middle of a boutique."
His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, his fingers tracing the edge of her collarbone.
"And yet here we are," he murmured, his voice low and warm. "Still standing. Still breathing. Still *feeling*."
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the delicate fabric of her dress.
"You overthink everything," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.
The boutique door chimed, and a familiar voice cut through the intimate haze. "Zverev, you’re late. Again."
Andrey Rublev stood in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space, his sharp blue eyes taking in the scene with quiet amusement. His reddish-blonde hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d just stepped off the court, and his fitted black shirt clung to his athletic frame.
The way he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, made him look like a statue carved from marble—cool, composed, and utterly unreadable.
Sascha didn’t even flinch at the interruption. His fingers lingered on Violet’s bare shoulder, tracing slow circles as if to ground her. "Andrey," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused. "You’re early."
Andrey’s lips quirked into a smirk. "I could say the same about you. But I see you’ve been… busy." His gaze flicked to Violet, lingering just long enough to make her pulse stutter.
"Violet. You look…" He hesitated, as if searching for the right word. "Different."
Violet’s fingers tightened around the delicate beading of her emerald dress. "Different bad or different good?"
Andrey’s smirk deepened. "Different *interesting*." His eyes flicked to Sascha’s hand still resting on her shoulder. "I see you’ve been practicing your charm."
Sascha’s thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle on Violet’s bare skin. "I don’t need to practice. It comes naturally."
Violet exhaled sharply, her cheeks flushing. "You two are impossible."
Andrey chuckled, pushing off the doorframe.
"I’ll take that as a compliment." His blue eyes flicked back to Violet, assessing. "You look stunning, by the way. That dress was made for you."
Violet’s fingers nervously adjusted the delicate beading along the bodice. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The emerald silk clung to her like a second skin, the weight of its elegance pressing down on her shoulders like an expectation she wasn’t sure she could meet.
Sascha’s hand slid from her shoulder, but his fingers lingered at her waist, grounding her. "See? Even Andrey agrees."
Andrey smirked, his gaze lingering on the way the dress hugged her curves.
"I don't just say things," he said, echoing Sascha's earlier words with a knowing glint in his eye. "But I *do* know fashion. And that dress? It was made for you."
Violet's fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the delicate beading along the bodice. The emerald silk felt suddenly too thin, too revealing, as if the dress itself were conspiring with them to make her feel this way. "You're both impossible," she muttered, but there was no real heat in her words.
Sascha chuckled, his fingers brushing against the small of her back. "Come on, admit it.
You love the attention," Andrey said, his smirk deepening as he stepped further into the boutique. The scent of his cologne—something sharp and masculine—mingled with the boutique’s floral perfume, creating an intoxicating mix that made Violet’s head spin.
Sascha rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. "I don’t need to admit anything. The truth is obvious."
Violet let out a breathless laugh, her fingers still nervously tracing the beading of her dress. "You two are insufferable."
Andrey’s blue eyes gleamed with amusement.
"You’re blushing, *krasavitsa*." His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something warmer, more genuine. "It suits you."
Violet’s fingers stilled on the delicate beading of her dress. *Krasavitsa.* She knew the word—Russian for "beautiful." The way he said it, so casually, as if it were just another word, made her pulse quicken.
Sascha’s fingers tightened slightly at her waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against her bare skin. "Ignore him," he murmured, though there was no real edge to his tone.
"He's just jealous I got to see you in this dress first."
Andrey smirked, stepping closer to the rack of suits. "Jealous? Of what? Watching you two play dress-up like children?" He plucked a dark navy suit from the rack, examining the fabric with clinical precision. "Though I suppose if anyone could make a boutique fitting room look like a tennis court, it would be you, Zverev."
Violet's fingers tightened around the delicate beading of her dress as she glanced between them. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a racket. "Are you two always like this?"
Sascha exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back.
"We're not *always* like this," he said, though the way his fingers tightened at Violet's waist suggested otherwise. "But when we are, it's usually Andrey's fault."
Andrey smirked, his blue eyes glinting as he draped the navy suit over his arm. "And yet you still invite me everywhere. You must enjoy the entertainment."
Violet's fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the delicate beading along the emerald bodice. The air between the three of them felt charged, like a tennis court moments before a serve. "I don't know if I can handle both of you at once," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
The way Andrey had said *krasavitsa*—so casually, like it was nothing—had lodged itself in her thoughts, replaying in her mind like a secret melody. Was it just a compliment, or something more? The way his eyes had lingered on her, the way his voice had softened just slightly... it made her stomach flutter in a way that felt both thrilling and dangerous.
Sascha's fingers tightened at her waist, grounding her. "You're handling it just fine," he murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles against her bare skin. "Andrey's all talk. He wouldn't know how to flirt if it bit him in the ass."
Andrey smirked, adjusting the navy suit over his arm. "Says the man who just spent twenty minutes convincing her she belongs on a red carpet." His blue eyes flicked to Violet, lingering just long enough to make her pulse stutter.
"You're blushing, *krasavitsa*."
Violet's fingers stilled on the delicate beading of her dress.
The way Andrey said *krasavitsa*—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made her pulse quicken. The way his blue eyes lingered on her, the way his voice softened just slightly... it made her stomach flutter in a way that felt both thrilling and dangerous.
The emerald silk of her dress suddenly felt too thin, too revealing, as if the fabric itself were conspiring with them to make her feel this way.
Sascha's fingers tightened at her waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against her bare skin.
"Andrey's all talk," he murmured, though there was something in his voice—some unspoken challenge—that made Violet's pulse quicken. "He wouldn't know how to flirt if it bit him in the ass." His blue eyes flicked to Violet, lingering just long enough to make her breath catch. The way he said it—so casually, like it was just another word—made her pulse quicken.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the delicate beading of her emerald dress. The fabric felt suddenly too thin, too revealing, as if the dress itself were conspiring with them to make her feel this way.
Andrey smiled, his blue eyes lingering on Violet with an intensity that made her breath catch. The way his lips curved—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring a private joke—sent a shiver down her spine. Sascha's fingers tightened at her waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against her bare skin as if to ground her.
Andrey's gaze flicked to Sascha, his smirk deepening. "You're right," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "I don't flirt. I just state facts." His eyes returned to Violet, that unreadable heat still simmering in his stare. "And the fact is, you look incredible in that dress."
Violet's fingers trembled against the delicate beading.
The way Andrey's gaze held hers—unblinking, intense—made her pulse flutter like a trapped bird against her ribs. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "You're both impossible," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sascha's thumb traced slow circles at the small of her back, his touch grounding her. Even Andrey agrees you look stunning," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.
Andrey's smirk deepened as he stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—something dark and woody—mingling with the boutique's floral perfume.
The way his navy suit hugged his lean frame made him look like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine, all sharp angles and quiet confidence. "You're blushing again, *krasavitsa*," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "It's becoming a habit."
Violet's fingers tightened around the delicate beading of her emerald dress, the fabric suddenly feeling too thin, too revealing. The way his blue eyes lingered on her, the way his voice softened just slightly...
as if he were sharing a secret. "Even Andrey agrees you look stunning," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.
The words sent a shiver down Violet's spine, and she could feel Sascha's fingers tighten slightly at her waist in response.
The soft hum of the air conditioning, the distant murmur of other shoppers, the faint scent of expensive perfumes—it all faded into the background, leaving only the three of them, suspended in this moment.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers trembling against the delicate beading of her emerald dress.
"Then let's get out of here before we make a scene," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "I'll pay for the dress. You look like you need some air."
Andrey smirked, stepping back to give them space. "I'll meet you outside," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "I need to make a phone call." His blue eyes flicked to Violet one last time before he turned and disappeared through the boutique's door, leaving them alone in the intimate glow of the chandeliers.
The air between them felt charged, electric, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
Sascha exhaled sharply, his fingers still tracing slow circles at the small of her back. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice low and warm.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers still trembling against the delicate beading of her emerald dress. "I think so," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I don't know what to make of him sometimes."
Sascha's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "Andrey's like that. He says what he thinks, when he thinks it.
No filters, no games." "But he means well. And he’s right—you *do* look stunning in that dress."
Violet exhaled, her fingers still nervously tracing the delicate beading along the bodice. "I just don’t know how to take him sometimes," she admitted. "One minute he’s teasing, the next he’s saying things like *krasavitsa*—"
Sascha chuckled, his breath warm against her temple. "That’s just Andrey. He’s blunt, but he’s not cruel.
And he’s got a soft spot for you—even if he’d never admit it."
Violet exhaled, her fingers still tracing the delicate beading of her emerald dress. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, the weight of its elegance pressing down on her shoulders like an expectation she wasn’t sure she could meet. she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sascha’s thumb traced slow circles at the small of her back, his touch grounding her. "I know so," he murmured. "Andrey doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. If he calls you beautiful, he means it."
Sascha's fingers traced the curve of her shoulder blade through the thin fabric of her dress. "And if he calls you *krasavitsa*, well... that's just Andrey being Andrey."
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the delicate beading of her emerald dress. The boutique's soft lighting seemed to dim around them, the world narrowing to the warmth of Sascha's touch and the distant murmur of Andrey's voice through the glass doors . "He's... intense," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sascha chuckled, his thumb tracing slow circles at the small of her back. "That's one way to put it. But don't let him intimidate you. Andrey's all bark and no bite—well, most of the time." His lips quirked into that infuriatingly charming half-smile that always made her stomach flutter. "Besides, you handled him just fine." "I don't know if 'handled' is the right word.
More like... survived," Violet admitted, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate beading along the emerald bodice. "You did more than survive. You held your own. Andrey respects that." His voice was low, warm, like melted caramel. "He doesn't give compliments lightly, you know. Especially not in Russian."
Violet swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin. "Then why did he say it? Just to...
what?" Sascha's fingers stilled against her back, his gaze searching hers. The boutique's soft lighting cast golden highlights in his dark hair, making him look like a Renaissance painting come to life. "To what, Violet?" he prompted gently. "You think he was just teasing you?"
Violet hesitated, her fingers tightening around the delicate beading of her emerald dress. The fabric felt suddenly too heavy, too real, as if it were pressing down on her shoulders like an expectation she wasn't sure she could meet. "I don't know," she admitted softly. I don't know how to take him sometimes.
One minute he's teasing, the next he's saying things like *krasavitsa* in that low voice of his, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't make my pulse jump every time."
Sascha's fingers stilled against her back, his dark eyes searching hers. "Andrey doesn't say things he doesn't mean," he said quietly. "If he calls you beautiful, he means it." Sascha's voice was low, his thumb tracing slow circles at the small of her back. "Let's get out of here before we make a scene," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers still trembling against the delicate beading of her emerald dress. The boutique's soft lighting seemed to dim around them, the world narrowing to the warmth of Sascha's touch and the distant murmur of Andrey's voice through the glass doors. "You're handling it just fine," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.
Violet let out a breathless laugh, her fingers still nervously tracing the delicate beading of her emerald dress. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, the weight of its elegance pressing down on her shoulders like an expectation she wasn't sure she could meet. "You look stunning," he repeated, his voice low and certain. "Andrey was right about that." "You look like you need some air." Sascha's fingers tightened slightly at her waist as he guided her toward the boutique's exit. The emerald silk of her dress whispered against the polished marble floor with every step, the sound strangely intimate in the hushed atmosphere of the boutique.
Violet exhaled sharply as they stepped into the warm Monte Carlo evening. The Mediterranean air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of luxury yachts in the harbor. Andrey stood a few paces away, his phone pressed to his ear, his profile sharp against the golden glow of the setting sun. He ended the call as they approached, his blue eyes flicking between them with quiet amusement.
"Ready for dinner?" he asked, pocketing his phone with deliberate slowness.
Violet adjusted the delicate straps of her emerald dress, suddenly hyperaware of how the fabric clung to her curves. "As ready as I'll ever be," she said, forcing a smile.
Andrey's lips quirked. "That's the spirit." He gestured toward a sleek black sports car parked along the cobblestone street. "My treat. I know a place with excellent wine and even better company."
Sascha raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you pay for anything?"
Andrey smirked. "Since I decided to be charming.
At least for tonight," Andrey said, his blue eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. The way he said it—so effortlessly confident—made Violet’s stomach flutter. She smoothed her hands over the emerald silk of her dress, the fabric cool and smooth under her fingers. The boutique’s air conditioning had left her skin prickling with goosebumps, but the Monte Carlo evening was warm, the air thick with the scent of salt and jasmine.
Sascha’s fingers brushed against the small of her back as they walked toward the car. "You’re overthinking again," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.
"You look stunning. Andrey was right about that." His blue eyes flicked to Violet, lingering just long enough to make her pulse quicken.
Sascha pulled her closer gently, his fingers tracing slow circles at the small of her back as if to ground her. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of her emerald dress, sending a shiver down her spine.
Andrey’s smirk deepened at her blush, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he held open the passenger door of the sleek black sports car. "After you, *krasavitsa*," he murmured, the Russian endearment rolling off his tongue like a secret.
Violet hesitated, her fingers tightening around the delicate beading of her dress. The way he said it—so effortlessly, like it was nothing—made her pulse flutter. Sascha’s hand pressed gently against the small of her back, guiding her forward. "Don’t overthink it," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "Just enjoy the ride."
The leather seats were cool against her bare legs as she slid into the car, the scent of Andrey’s cologne—something dark and woody—mingling with the leather and the faint saltiness of the Mediterranean air.
The engine purred to life beneath her, a low, powerful hum that vibrated through the seat and into her bones.
Sascha settled into the back beside her, his thigh brushing against hers as he buckled in. His fingers found hers, lacing them together in a way that felt both possessive and protective. Violet swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering beneath his touch.
Andrey glanced at them in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. "Comfortable?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk.
Violet nodded, her fingers tightening around Sascha’s. "Very," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Andrey smirked, shifting the car into gear.
The engine growled as he pulled away from the curb, the sleek black sports car gliding through Monte Carlo’s golden evening like a predator on the prowl.
Violet’s fingers tightened around Sascha’s, her pulse fluttering as the city blurred past the window. The Mediterranean air rushed in through the open top, tangling in her hair, carrying the scent of salt and distant jasmine. The emerald silk of her dress clung to her legs, the fabric whispering against her skin with every shift of the car.
Sascha’s thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles, grounding her. "You’re quiet," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
His thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles, grounding her. The Monte Carlo evening blurred past the windows—golden light on marble facades, the distant glitter of yachts in the harbor, the occasional flash of a paparazzi camera as they passed. "I’m just… processing," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The way Sascha’s fingers laced with hers—possessive but gentle—made her pulse flutter.
Andrey’s smirk deepened in the rearview mirror.
"Processing? Or overthinking?" His voice was light, teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something sharper, more knowing.
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around Sascha’s. "A little of both, maybe."
Sascha chuckled, his thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles. "That’s Violet for you. Always thinking too much."
Andrey’s blue eyes flicked to her in the mirror again, lingering just long enough to make her pulse quicken. "There’s nothing wrong with thinking," he said, his voice smooth as silk.
"But sometimes, *krasavitsa*, you have to let yourself feel instead."
Violet’s breath hitched at the endearment, her fingers tightening around Sascha’s. The way Andrey said it—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made her pulse flutter. But there was something in his voice, something unreadable, that sent a shiver down her spine. "He’s right, you know," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "You overthink everything."
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers trembling slightly against the delicate beading of her emerald dress.
The car hummed beneath them, the Mediterranean evening air rushing past like a whispered secret. Andrey's words lingered in the space between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
"You're right," she admitted softly, her voice barely audible over the wind. "I do overthink things. But it's hard not to when everything feels so... intense."
Sascha's thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles, grounding her. "It doesn't have to be intense," he murmured. "We can make it whatever we want it to be."
Andrey's smirk deepened in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.
"Intense is good," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Intense means you're alive. Means you're feeling something real."
Violet's fingers tightened around Sascha's, her pulse fluttering at the way Andrey's gaze lingered on her in the mirror. The way he said *intense*—so effortlessly, like it was nothing—made her stomach flip. The emerald silk of her dress whispered against her bare legs with every shift of the car, the fabric cool and smooth under her fingers.
Sascha's thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles, his touch warm and grounding. "He's right," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.
"Intense is good. The car hummed beneath them, the Mediterranean air rushing in through the open top, tangling in her hair, carrying the scent of salt and distant jasmine.
Andrey’s smirk deepened in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes glinting with something unreadable.
Even Zverev agrees with me. You should listen to us more often, *krasavitsa*." The way he said it—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made Violet’s pulse flutter. "He’s right," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. It means you’re alive. It means you’re feeling something real."
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around his.
The memory of Sascha’s breath against her skin flashed through her mind—the way he’d called her beautiful in that low, rough voice, the way his hands had traced the curve of her waist like he was memorizing her. The intensity of it all had left her breathless, her pulse still echoing in her ears like a secret she couldn’t shake.
Now, here he was, his thumb circling slow, deliberate patterns against her knuckles, his dark eyes flicking between her and the road ahead. The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—made her stomach flip.
She felt a surge of desire for Sascha, so sharp it stole her breath. She smiled, remembering how he had undone her nights ago and put her back together in ways she still didn’t fully understand. Andrey was unraveling her in a way too, thread by thread, with his sharp words and sharper gaze.
The car hummed beneath them as they sped through Monte Carlo’s golden streets, the Mediterranean air rushing past like a whispered secret. Violet’s fingers tightened around Sascha’s, her pulse fluttering at the way Andrey’s eyes kept flicking to her in the rearview mirror.
"You’re quiet again," Sascha murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles.
The warmth of his touch seeped through her skin, grounding her as the Monte Carlo evening blurred past the windows. The city was alive with golden light—marble facades glowing under the setting sun, the distant glitter of yachts in the harbor, the occasional flash of a paparazzi camera as they passed.
Violet exhaled, her fingers tightening around his. The way his fingers laced with hers—possessive but gentle—made her pulse flutter.
Violet’s heart raced as she turned to look at Andrey, his profile sharp against the golden glow of the setting sun. His blue eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, holding her gaze just a beat too long before he smirked and returned his attention to the road. The way he said *krasavitsa*—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made her stomach flip.
Sascha’s thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles, his touch warm and grounding.
"You’re quiet again," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. Then, leaning in so close his lips brushed the shell of her ear, he whispered, *"You look so gorgeous, Violet. You have no idea how much I want you right now. Just like the last time we were alone."*
Violet’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around his. The memory of his hands on her skin, his mouth against hers, flooded back in a rush—his weight pinning her to the bed, the way he’d undone her with such deliberate slowness, like he was savoring every second. The car hummed beneath them, the Mediterranean air rushing past like a whispered secret, but all she could focus on was the heat of his breath against her neck, the way his fingers tightened possessively around hers.
Andrey’s smirk deepened in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes flicking between them with quiet amusement.
"You two are *adorable*," he murmured, though the way his fingers tightened on the steering wheel betrayed something sharper beneath the surface. "Like a couple of teenagers on a first date."
Violet’s cheeks burned, and she tightened her grip on Sascha’s hand. The memory of his lips against her skin, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over her bare waist, made her pulse stutter. The way he’d looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—had left her breathless, her body still humming with the aftershocks of his touch.
Sascha’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, his voice low and teasing.
"Jealous, Rublev?"
Andrey’s smirk didn’t falter, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly. "Of what? Watching you two melt into each other like a bad rom-com?" His blue eyes flicked to Violet in the mirror, lingering just long enough to make her pulse stutter. "Besides, I think *she* can handle herself just fine."
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around Sascha’s. The way Andrey looked at her—like he was seeing something no one else could—sent a shiver down her spine.
Was he really into her, or was she just imagining the heat in his gaze, the way his voice dropped when he called her *krasavitsa*?
Violet’s fingers tightened around Sascha’s, her pulse fluttering as the car hummed beneath them. The Mediterranean air rushed past, carrying the scent of salt and distant jasmine, but all she could focus on was the way Andrey’s blue eyes kept flicking to her in the rearview mirror. The way he said *adorable*—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made her stomach flip. But then again, maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe he was just teasing, like always. But the way his fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the way his jaw clenched just slightly when Sascha’s hand brushed against her bare knee—it made her wonder.
Maybe Andrey wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be.
The car slowed as they approached a sleek, modern restaurant perched on the edge of the harbor. The Mediterranean sunset painted the sky in shades of gold and lavender, the water shimmering like liquid silver beneath the fading light. Andrey pulled into a private parking spot, the engine purring to a stop as he turned to face them, his blue eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Here we are," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Best view in Monte Carlo. And the best wine."
Sascha smirked, his fingers still laced with Violet’s as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
"And the best company," he added, his voice low and teasing.
Violet’s pulse fluttered as she caught the way Andrey’s jaw tightened just slightly at the words. His blue eyes flicked to her, lingering for a heartbeat too long before he smirked and pushed open the car door. The Monte Carlo evening air rushed in, carrying the scent of salt and distant jasmine, mingling with the faint hum of luxury yachts in the harbor.
Andrey stepped out first, his tall frame moving with effortless grace as he rounded the car to open her door. The way his navy suit clung to his lean muscles made him look like he’d stepped out of a fashion magazine—sharp, polished, untouchable.
But when his blue eyes met hers, there was something in them that made Violet’s breath catch. Something unguarded. Something *real.*
She hesitated for just a second before placing her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Sascha’s hand pressed against the small of her back as he stepped out behind her, his presence like a grounding force in the whirlwind of Andrey’s intensity. The three of them stood there for a moment—Violet sandwiched between them, the Mediterranean breeze tangling in her hair, the distant hum of the harbor blending with the low murmur of the restaurant’s patrons.
The air smelled of salt and expensive perfume, of polished leather and something darker, something that made her pulse quicken.
Andrey’s fingers lingered on hers just a beat too long before he released her, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a way that felt deliberate. "After you, *krasavitsa*," he murmured, his voice low, almost intimate.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the delicate straps of her emerald dress.
The Monte Carlo evening air was warm against her bare arms, carrying the scent of salt and distant jasmine, mingling with the faint hum of luxury yachts in the harbor.
Andrey’s blue eyes lingered on her, his gaze unreadable, before he turned toward the restaurant’s entrance. The sleek glass doors slid open automatically, revealing a world of polished marble and soft lighting. The hum of conversation and the clink of crystal glasses filled the air, blending with the distant sound of live piano music.
The restaurant was a study in modern elegance—high ceilings, sleek black tables, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering Mediterranean. The view was breathtaking: the harbor glittered under the fading light, yachts bobbing gently against their moorings, the distant lights of Monte Carlo twinkling like scattered diamonds.
Andrey led them to a secluded corner table, his hand brushing the small of Violet’s back as he guided her forward. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through her, making her pulse stutter. Sascha’s fingers tightened around hers in response, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles.
The warmth of his touch grounded her, steadying the way her pulse fluttered beneath Andrey’s lingering gaze. The three of them moved as one toward the table, the restaurant’s soft lighting casting golden highlights over Andrey’s sharp features and Sascha’s effortless confidence. The emerald silk of Violet’s dress whispered against her bare legs with every step, the fabric cool and smooth under her fingers.
Andrey pulled out her chair with a flourish, his blue eyes flicking to hers as she settled into the seat. “Comfortable?” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. The way he said it—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made her stomach flip.
The emerald silk of her dress whispered against her bare legs with every shift in her seat, the fabric cool and smooth under her fingers. The restaurant’s soft lighting cast golden highlights over Andrey’s sharp features and Sascha’s effortless confidence, making them look like they’d stepped out of a high-end fashion shoot.
Sascha’s fingers lingered at the small of her back as he took the seat beside her, his thumb tracing slow circles against her bare skin. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, grounding her as the waiter approached with a bottle of wine.
Andrey leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes flicking between them with quiet amusement.
"You two look like you’re about to devour each other at the table," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Should I order an extra plate?"
Sascha smirked, his fingers tightening at Violet’s waist.
Andrey’s smirk didn’t falter, but his grip on his wine glass tightened just slightly.
The way his knuckles whitened against the crystal made Violet’s pulse flutter. She shifted in her seat, the emerald silk of her dress whispering against the leather chair.
Sascha’s thumb traced slow circles at the small of her back, grounding her. “Jealous, Rublev?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.
Andrey’s blue eyes flicked to Violet, lingering just long enough to make her breath catch. “Of what?
Watching you two melt into each other like a bad rom-com?” His blue eyes flicked to Violet in the mirror, lingering just long enough to make her pulse stutter.
It was clear Andrey felt something more than what he was letting on. Violet was new to this, but it felt like Andrey liked her more than he was letting on. The way he held her hand briefly earlier and then looked at Sascha. Maybe there was something going on.
The way he looked at her, the way he said her name. But before she could think too much about it, Andrey’s phone buzzed sharply against the table. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he stood, smoothing his suit jacket with deliberate precision. "Excuse me," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. "Duty calls." The way he said it—so effortlessly, like it was just another word—made Violet’s stomach flip. But there was something in his blue eyes, something unreadable, as he stepped away from the table.
Sascha watched him go, his dark eyes lingering on Andrey’s retreating figure before turning back to Violet. His thumb traced slow circles at the small of her back, grounding her. "He’s always getting called away," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.
"You’d think he’d learn to turn his phone off for dinner." His fingers tightened slightly at the small of her back, his thumb tracing slow circles against her bare skin.
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate beading of her emerald dress. "Do you think he’s okay?"
Sascha chuckled, his breath warm against her temple. "Andrey? He’s fine.
He always is. Probably just some sponsor drama or another interview request. You know how it is."
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.