Chapter 7 Delilah

• Delilah Harrow was not used to hearing no.
• She was used to rooms pausing when she entered them. To men stammering, to women shifting uncomfortably in her presence. Her smile was saccharine, her words as polished as her patent leather heels, and when she chose to look at someone, it was with the precision of a scalpel—not for affection, but for analysis. To understand what made them tick. And how to make them break.
• Delilah had always been cold. Not cruel, exactly—though she didn’t mind the word—but focused. Calculating. The kind of girl who always came out on top, not because she was lucky, but because she made damn sure she did.
• And she wanted Konstantine Volkova.
• It started as curiosity. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by a man like him? Young. Powerfully built. Quiet. The kind of man you didn’t hear coming until he was standing behind you. When she learned he was the CEO of Volkova Holdings, she made it a game to get on his radar. She hadn't known then that he was the Pakhan of the Volkova Bratva. That tidbit had come later—overheard whispers, rumors at charity galas and black-tie affairs.
• Danger thrilled her.
• Tonight, she’d followed that thrill through Manhattan’s crooked arteries to a club she'd never imagined stepping foot in—Midnight Maidens. It was easy enough to sneak in. Money and a cut-glass smile could get you anywhere.
• The club smelled of perfume and secrets. Velvet booths hugged the walls, candles flickered at low tables, and smoke curled in the air like something alive. The navy walls glowed against golden spotlights and a soft pulse of music that hummed beneath your skin.
• Delilah adjusted her fur-lined coat and moved toward the main stage.
• She didn’t have to search for him. Konstantine was already there.
• Even in the dim haze, he was unmistakable. Sitting beneath a crimson chandelier, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a tumbler of amber brandy cradled in his hand. Grigori sat beside him, slightly slouched, talking low. Their posture made them seem relaxed—but the air around them was razor-sharp.
• Delilah followed his gaze to the stage.
• "And now," the DJ crooned over the mic, "welcome back our sinful seductress... Brandy."
• Delilah’s breath caught.
• Brandy.
• The woman stepping onto the stage was impossible.
• But she was real.
• Milady McAllistor—delicate jaw, full cherry lips, and those eyes. Amber fire. Her hair, that unmistakable chocolate brown, cascaded in curls over bare shoulders. Delilah would recognize her anywhere.
• Alive. Here. Dancing.
• Delilah blinked as the gold lights spun over the room and Milady—no, Brandy—wrapped herself around the golden pole at the stage’s center. She moved like smoke and silk. Fluid. Controlled. Deliberate.
• Konstantine never looked away.
• For a beat, Brandy's gaze swept the crowd.
• And landed on Delilah.
• It was the briefest moment. A flicker. But it was enough.
• Brandy faltered.
• Just slightly. Her fingers tightened on the pole. Her legs trembled before catching themselves. She continued the dance, but something in her rhythm fractured. She avoided Konstantine’s eyes for the rest of the song, but he noticed. His brows knit. His glass lowered.
• Grigori said something, but Konstantine didn’t respond.
• Delilah smiled.
• ---
• In the penthouse, Celeste Harrow looked like royalty.
• Wrapped in a red silk robe, her hair pinned in an immaculate twist, she sipped from a crystal flute of champagne as Delilah walked in.
• "Did you find him?" Celeste asked, her tone bored but sharp.
• Delilah shrugged off her coat. "I found something better."
• Celeste turned, one brow arching.
• "She's alive."
• The flute slipped in Celeste’s fingers. She caught it mid-fall.
• "Who?"
• Delilah’s lips curved slowly. "Milady."
• There was a beat of silence. Not shock. Not horror. Something darker.
• "Where."
• "A club," Delilah said, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time. "Calling herself Brandy. She's dancing. Volkova was there tonight. Watching her like he owned her."
• Celeste sat slowly. Her face remained blank, but her knuckles whitened around the glass.
• "Does he know?"
• "Not yet," Delilah said, voice velvet. "But I have an idea."
• ---
• Back at Midnight Maidens, Brandy all but fled to the dressing room after her set.
• Her pulse hadn’t slowed. Her palms were slick with sweat. The sight of Delilah—perfect, poised, unblinking—had her stomach twisted into knots.
• She tore open her locker, fingers shaking.
• "Hey," came Chardonnay’s voice, concern soft beneath the buzz of fluorescent lights. "You okay?"
• Brandy tried to nod, but her head moved too fast, too jittery.
• "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
• "I might have."
• Chardonnay didn’t press. She just leaned against the locker beside her, arms crossed, eyes watchful.
• "That bad, huh?"
• Brandy slumped onto the bench, running both hands through her hair. "She was there. Delilah. My stepsister."
• Chardonnay whistled. "The uptown ice queen?"
• "The same."
• "Shit."
• Brandy looked up. "She saw me."
• "Did she recognize you?"
• "Oh yeah."
• They were silent for a long moment. The air felt too still, the room too small.
• Chardonnay finally asked, "You think she’ll tell?"
• "Worse," Brandy said, voice tight. "She’ll tell Celeste."
• Chardonnay exhaled. "What are you gonna do?"
• "I don’t know."
• She didn't mention how Konstantine had looked at her. Or how he rose from his seat the second she stumbled, ready to go after whoever had shaken her. She didn't mention the way his eyes followed her even as she disappeared backstage.
• That part was hers alone.
• ---
• Out front, Konstantine stared at the closed curtain.
• He didn’t know why, but something about Brandy’s sudden stiffness during the dance haunted him. Like something had broken in her mid-performance. He'd felt the shift before he'd seen it.
• "She's not okay," he muttered.
• Grigori, nursing a drink, raised a brow. "You’re not either."
• Konstantine didn’t argue. Instead, he stared into his brandy.
• And imagined a woman with fire in her eyes and a secret in her smile.
• ---
• Back in the penthouse, Delilah poured herself a glass of wine and stood by the window.
• "How do you want to play it?" she asked her mother.
• Celeste’s gaze was hard. Icy.
• "We let her dance," Celeste said. "Let her think she’s free."
• She turned away from the mirror, her reflection a pale blur in the glass.
• "Then we remind her what the price of betrayal really looks like."