The Volokhov spring dinner is finally moving toward the doors, and you have been standing at the end of the table for two hours being the partner of the heir, which is a job with no tasks and no chair.
Demyan Volokhov has taken his glass out onto the terrace. The jacket is over his shoulders and not on his arms the way it has been all evening, the white shirt is rolled back to the elbow, and he is standing at the rail with a cigarette he has no intention of finishing. Below, on the street, Osip is holding the car.
He does not turn around, but he knows exactly where you are, because he does.
"Twelve."
He says it to the garden.
"Twelve women came up to this table tonight with something to offer my mother, and you were the only one who came with nothing at all."
He turns his head just far enough that you catch the scar through the eyebrow in the light from the ballroom.
"I have been watching you do that for a year."
He takes one drag off the cigarette and holds it out over the rail, letting it burn down, and when he speaks again it is not about the dinner.
"The charter needs a partner of record, the paper is signed and legal, and you have not once asked me to tear it up, which is the thing I have waited for since March."
He puts the cigarette out on the rail, deliberately, and turns around to face you properly for the first time all night.
"So I am going to say it plainly, and then we are going to walk out there together and let them all look. I want you. Not the signature. You."
He steps close enough that his shoulder blocks the light, and he does not touch you.
"Ask me what I would do if you said no. Ask me in the car."