Page 72 of Boardroom Sins

The music cuts off mid-song. A feedback whine screeches through the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The emcee’s voice booms across the ballroom. He sounds flustered and confused, like someone just handed him a new script and told him to read itor else. Which, I’m guessing, is exactly what happened. “We have a slight change to tonight’s program!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Everyone on the dance floor stops and looks around.

“As you know, the Lazarev Foundation is committed to supporting causes close to our hearts.” The emcee shuffles some papers. “And tonight, we’re adding a very special event to the evening’s festivities.”

Kir’s hand clamps down on my hip. Hard. I take that as a bad sign.

“We will be holding a bachelor and bachelorette auction! All proceeds go directly to our youth mentorship initiative!”

Gasps ensue, and laughter, excited chatter.

My blood, on the other hand, runs cold.

So does Kir’s, apparently. His face has gone as pale as it did when his father showed up the night in his office. “We have to go,” he says. His voice is hushed and urgent. “Now.”

He’s dragging me toward the edge of the dance floor. His grip on my wrist is bruising.

“What’s happening?” I stumble in my heels. “Kir, what?—”

“Don’t talk. Just walk. Better yet, run.”

He’s yanking me toward the exit. His jaw is tight and his eyes are scanning the room again and again. We’re almost to the door when?—

“And our first participant,” the emcee announces, “generously volunteered by Kir Lazarev himself: Miss Rae Everett!”

A spotlight swings right to me. Blindingly bright. I freeze.

Hundreds of faces turn in my direction. Phones come out. Cameras flash.

I look at Kir. His face is white and bloodless. His lips move soundlessly as he mouths,I didn’t.

“Kir,” I croak, “what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” He’s still clutching my wrist, but his fingers have gone ice-cold. “I swear to God, Rae, I didn’t?—”

“Miss Everett!” The emcee waves from the stage. “Please, join us!”

Two men in black suits appear out of nowhere on either side of us. They’re not like any security guards I’ve ever seen before. One of them leans close to Kir and mutters, “Mr. Lazarev would like you to release her now.”

Kir’s jaw works. His hold on my wrist tightens for a second. Then it falls away, broken.

“Go,” he says hollowly. “Don’t fight. It’ll be worse if you fight.”

“Fightwhat?”

But he’s stepping back. The men in black close ranks around me.

And the spotlight burns down like a falling star.

24

RAE

LUKAS LAZAREV Check #4429

420 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022