Dinner

Kristina

“What's in the envelope?” Callum's voice rings through my head.

With a shaky hand, I hold it, still unable to breathe properly.

I turn to him, and his brows are furrowed. I return my attention back to the first line.

“Callum cannot save you. Telling him worsens your risk.”

I close the envelope then turn to him with a faint smile. “It's nothing serious. I got a ticket, and I guess I haven't paid my fine so I have to show up in court.”

“How much is the fine?”

“Just a hundred dollars.”

His face squirms in confusion, and I can tell he's about to ask a question, so I immediately change the topic.

“We actually need to go through the prenuptial agreement.” I say, taking my seat.

Callum zips up his trousers, and then sits up. “I thought you didn't want to talk about my marriage to your sister,”

“I don't.”

“That is why I didn't tell you.”

I drop the pen, “there's no need for you to defend yourself. I'm not offended.”

He goes mute.

“Now, when is the wedding?”

“In eight days.”

I nearly choke on my saliva. “That's so soon. Why so soon?”

“personal reasons.”

I nod, flipping through the pages. “A hundred million settlement for a divorce is very insulting, I must say. You are a billionaire. My sister deserves at least half a billion.”

He raises his brow slightly in a flirtatious way. His green eyes pierce into mine, as he leans on the desk, revealing his bulging muscles.

“Are you on my side, or hers?”

“Hers.” I respond immediately.

Without a word, he leans back.

I weave through the pages, and eventually come to the final page.

“I've noted the adjustments that seem fair to both you, and her. Your lawyer can look through it.” I say, handing the file to him, “and just to let you know, if this engagement doesn't work out, you have a lot to lose too. Especially in the eyes of your father.”

The last line gets to him, and he retrieves the file immediately. “My lawyer will look for into it immediately,”

“Good.”

He gets to his feet. I gulp down the saliva in my throat, hoping he will just walk out, but he doesn't.

He leans in to place a kiss on my forehead, and for the first time ever, I recline.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I croak out, shaking my head.

“I'll get my lawyer to amend the terms of the prenup,” he says, folding the file.

I nod, and he walks out.

As soon as he is gone, I tear open the envelope.

There are pictures. Candid pictures of me, and my sister's fiance.

I slap my hand on my forehead as the tears begin to flow down. I was careful. I ensured I was careful. How was I stupid enough to let this happen?

I wipe my eyes, and begin to read the letter.

After the first line, it reads, “meet me at the local luxe pub by ten pm. Table seven. You don't want to be a second late.”

That is all.

I squeeze the letter, and throw it into the can.

After that, I stare at the pictures on my table. Five different pictures from five different occasions. There's no way I can deny it. I have to fix this.

I pick up my bag, stash the pictures in it, pack up a few other items, and walk through the door.

I am halfway out of my block, when I hear a voice call me. “Kristina!”

I turn around to find Laura approaching me,”hey, where are you headed to so early in the morning?”

“I have something to pick up.”

“Okay. Could you help me grab a meal from-”

“-sorry, I can't.” I quickly respond, “I'm not sure I'll make it back until evening, that is if I come back today at all.”

“Oh,” she pauses, and then I catch her studying my face.

I look away immediately.

“Are you alright?”

I nod, “I just don't feel like myself today.”

“Sorry, girl. You'll be fine.”

Tired of the conversation, I walk out of the building without another word.

It is almost nine thirty pm when I spray the last ounce of perfume. I walk through the door, waiting for my Uber.

He arrives in less than five minutes, and we set out for the pub.

I am five minutes early when I walk through the doors. The receptionist smiles broadly at me as I approach her. In my black, slit dress, and dark makeup, I know I look different.

“Good evening. How may I help you?” She asks,

“Good evening. A reservation was made for me.”

“Okay. What's your name?”

Did he actually use my name?

“Kristina Evans.”

She types into the computer, and then her smile softens. “Table seven, ma'am. The waiter will take you there.”

The pub is quiet, and intrigued by low music as we walk through. I walk to our table, and for the first time look to the source of the music.

He's a blonde with green eyes, and a soft voice. I listen to his rendition of the song, and despite the tug I feel in my chest, I am impressed.

Thirty minutes go by, and no one approaches me. I stare at my phone, waiting even for a call.

If the person could have access to such information, surely getting my phone number wouldn't be such a turmoil. When I see no text, I switch to email. Nothing suspicious.

I drop down my phone.

I get up from my seat, and am about to walk out of the dinner hall when I spot him walking towards me.

He is in a well tailored black suit, and his hair is gelled backwards. His dark eyes lay on me, and I shiver in my spine.

I watch as he heads to my table, and quietly takes a seat. The entire environment changes. The atmosphere is still.

There is also a sense of familiarity to him, but I can tell I have no idea who he is.

“Good…evening,”

“Good evening, Kristina.” He responds in a low, soft tone.

For a face with a large tattoo on the left side, he sounds too calm.

“You…sent the letter…” I try to start the conversation.

“Shall we get some food?” He asks, ignoring my statement.

He signals a waiter who comes forward to take our orders. I am not asked what I want, but he somehow manages to nail it down to every point.

“You've done your assignment,” I comment, trying to hold up a strong front.

He looks up from the menu, and then at me. “I know things about yourself that you don't.”

His words leave me still.

“Who are you?” I ask,

“Sergei Rachmaninoff, or you can call me Sergei Black. Whatever fits.”

I pause. Then, I see it. The resemblance. He looks familiar because he has a slight resemblance to Callum.

“You're Callum's-”

“-brother,” he completes, “unfortunately. We are only half siblings.”

Wow.

I stare at his face. He has the same resting face as his brother, only that he looks, and sounds like a Russian criminal.

“What do you want? Why are you blackmailing me?”

Before he gets to answer, the food gets to our table.

We are served, and the waiter walks away.

Sergei begins to dig in without a question. He is slow, but every bite, every stab, and every dig is concise.

“I asked a question.”

“Repeat it.”

“Why are you blackmailing me?”

“I am not. I am only using the resources at my dispersal.”

“What do you want?”

“I want my brother dead, and you, his girlfriend, will help me achieve it.”