AN: Just a quick note—while the Darkling and Mal don't appear in this, they aren't portrayed favorably, so if you like them, this isn't the fic for you.
She blinked at him. Once. Twice.
He was still there.
She pinched the skin on her right hand and winced—it stung, she'd done it harder than she meant to. But that meant that this wasn't a dream, and—
She reached to give herself a little slap, because surely this was a dream—
"Hey, stop that." Nikolai caught her wrist, slipping her hand into his like a hunter's snare. "Come on, think about it Starkov—"
"Starkova," she corrected him through gritted teeth. Americans never got it right. Even if they had familial ties to Russia like the Lantsovs did. A fact she was sure that they were trying to hide even with the name in plain sight.
She was sure that that was a nightmare for their PR rep to navigate. Memories of the Cold War and the Red Scare didn't fade so easily from America's memory, even if the Lantsov dynasty here predated those events. Aristocrats fleeing the aftermath of the Revolution at the beginning of the twentieth century, they were the remnants of the last blue bloods and old money.
"Right, Starkova." He nodded. "It's not so outlandish. You said it yourself, you got into a rut with Oretsev and Morozova—"
"Morozov—you're Russian, you're supposed to know this." She pulled her hand free and chose to close it around the paperboard coffee cup instead of Nikolai's neck.
"American, we haven't been Russian since the twenties, sweetheart."
She glanced out the window at the people rushing by. There were errands to complete, shopping to be done, all oblivious to the farce of American politics taking place inside some hipster's coffee shop paradise. How the sausage gets made indeed.
She tugged at the lid of the cup, fidgeting with it. "It's a bad endorsement—you should stay away, really. I'm a terrible judge of character. I'd abandon all my morals for a man with dark hair and a sharp enough jawline."
"You're killing me, Starkova." Nikolai shook his head. Alina was trying to avoid his eyes, but she caught a glimpse of them anyway. There was something sad, embarrassingly pitying about them.
She settled for staring at the barista's terrible scrawling of her name on the side of the cup. It resembled an abstract art piece in the gallery down the next block. She was certain she'd seen it on her day off there, last week.
"You shouldn't talk about yourself like that." His voice carried none of the usual self-aggrandizing humor or charm. "It's not your fault Oretsev and Morozov turned out to be dicks. And you didn't hear me out."
He interrupted himself by taking a sip from his own cup, choosing his words carefully.
Alina swallowed back a sigh and sat up straighter, readying herself for verbal combat.
A sparkle returned to Nikolai's eyes, the ever-present smirk returning. "My point is this—because my dad has kids and his VP doesn't, we've gotta throw everything we have into being the best apple-pie all-American family this country has ever seen. We've got to be perfect, pretty people, and apparently perfect pretty people need equally pretty girlfriends."
"I'm surprised, Nikolai, that you would admit to anybody being as pretty as you."
"Well, almost equally-as-pretty girlfriends." He tilted his head. "So I get my family and the press off my back. What you get, Starkova, is your fifteen minutes of fame and a chance to break your bad boyfriend curse."
"By pretending to have one in front of the whole country?" Alina raised her eyebrows. "I fail to see how that would break my curse. And why on earth would I want my fifteen minutes of fame?"
"Come on, Starkova." He leaned in. "I see it in your eyes. You and I both know that you're made for greater things than working in some dead-end office job in social work. You want to be remembered, even if you don't know what for yet."
Alina's heart beat faster. She wanted to protest, to remind him that foster care work was important, even if she was only doing paperwork. But he had aimed true, to something she hated to admit even to herself. How many long nights working overtime at the office had she thought the same? How her scholarship to the very university where she'd met Nikolai in the first place had been wasted. . .
Nikolai shrugged, the look on his face all too innocent. She knew that he knew that he had her hooked.
He glanced casually out the window. "Who knows, maybe at one of our campaigning dinners and parties, you might meet some curator, and with one conversation and a few pulled strings—"
He snapped his fingers, grinning like a magician. "Then you're Alina Starkova, rising artist with her work in every gallery across the USA."
"You and I both know it doesn't work like that, Nikolai."
"Not unless we try it."
Alina contemplated him a moment longer. That was one of the things she liked about Nikolai, normally. He somehow could make the impossible happen, make dreams come true. It was the bravado and the need to prove oneself that only a shadowed second son could have—and it worked.
The problem was, Alina had learned all too well that the impossible was out of her reach now, as intangible as catching rays of sunlight in her hand.
She opened her mouth to say no, only to be interrupted by her phone vibrating in her pocket.
"Sorry, thought I silenced it." She took it out, and was about to turn it off when she saw the text across it.
Well, two of them—they'd come at the same time.
Aleksander and Mal, both begging for her to come back to them.
The room grew darker around her, until she was alone in shadow and sorrow, the panic of loneliness. She felt so small, doomed to become a shadow herself. Worthless, nothing, ignored, incorporeal.
When she met Nikolai's eyes, she set her jaw. The light came back on again.
In different ways, both men had made her feel so small, so powerless. That no one would truly love her except for them. Just like her job did, just like the orphanage.
Alina didn't want to be a shadow and a ghost anymore.
She nodded. "I'll do it."
It was his turn to blink in surprise. Then his grin widened, making him look like a fox. "Thought it would be harder than that, Starkova. Don't worry—we'll have lots of fun."
He grew more solemn for a moment. "And I'll treat you right."
Nikolai kept his word. He was always early to his apartment and he opened the door to his car and everywhere they went. And he let her cling to his arm like a life buoy in the sea of politicians and paparazzi. With his charming smile and silver tongue, all she had to do was smile politely and say hello to those she was introduced to.
She was nervous the first night they threw their plan into action. They'd gone over what to say, how to behave, and all the etiquette senators' sons seem to be born with. He had even helped her buy the dress for the occasion, although such future matters would be handled by Genya, one of Mr. Lantsov's interns. And yet she was surrounded by politicians, the men and women who controlled America.
Her, a biracial daughter of immigrants, the first generation of her family to be born in America. The daughter of nobodies, the foster child, the scholarship girl.
And despite her fear and the gathering dark around her, she'd smiled and pushed through. She made herself sunny and polite. She enjoyed the food, the drinks, and Nikolai's company.
He'd done the impossible again for her. She never thought anyone would treat her as well as he did, even for a fake relationship for the press. What Mal and Aleksander had told her over the years had sunken deeper into her bones than she thought. She didn't think it would get better.
But it had.
And Nikolai was right about her, too. For all that she'd scoffed and pretended not to be interested, she took to fame like a hawk did to the air. It was intoxicating, every household in America knowing about the beautiful girlfriend of Nikolai Lantsov, knowing that her exes could see her on the TV screen and see that they had failed to keep her the small, ordinary Alina.
For the first time in a long time, people cared about her, even if it was in the shallow, fake, political sense. That was better than before.
It was better than being nothing.
There was more to it than just that, too. Because of the gig, she was hanging out with Nikolai more than anyone else. Constantly on planes or in the back of limousines or waiting in green rooms together, it would have been easy for them to resent each other. It could have been so easy to tire of his handsome face.
And yet he always knew how to have a good time, and how to make her laugh. They could snark in private over a comment towards Alina or some faux pas and seeing him smile, hearing him laugh with her would make it all worth it.
He had a way of making her feel like she was never alone.
Then in the blink of an eye, it was their party's national convention. In some old and glamorous hotel, the Little Palace, people from all around the country were here to officially declare Mr. Lantsov the presidential candidate for the upcoming election. Celebrities, politicians, and then the ordinary people, they were all here to see the next American royalty.
Whispers of a new Camelot for a new Americana abounded along with the red, white, and blue balloons in the rafters of the hotel's ballroom.
Alina stood off to the corner of said ballroom, her assigned security officer lingering five feet away. She'd tried to make conversation with him, but he wasn't exactly the chatty type. She understood—she wasn't the type to chat and be frivolous at work and her job wasn't nearly so serious as his.
Nikolai returned to her with drinks in hand—nothing alcoholic yet, not until after Mr. Lantsov was declared the party candidate. His security agents also followed him a distance, but he had a way of making the people around him forget about them.
"Your drink, sweetheart."
"Thank you." Alina was grateful for the cool liquid of the punch. "How goes it?"
"Mostly we just wait." Nikolai shrugged, surveying the room before joining her. "Enjoying the party?"
"As much as one can." They tended to blend together into a string of lights and music for Alina now.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't worry, you don't have much longer. Just a few more months."
Alina stiffened.
A part of her had known all along that this would have to come to an end. At the beginning, she'd insisted on that, actually. She wouldn't be faking a relationship for four years, maybe eight if Mr. Lantsov was very lucky.
But now that the possibility was staring her in the face. . .
What would she do when election season was over, no mater the outcome? Her fifteen minutes of fame would be over. The country would forget her name and face and move on. Nikolai would likely move on, because of the whirlwind nature of politics. Then she would be alone again.
She would still be Alina Starkova, working a dead-end job with two exes who swore she'd be nothing without them. The past few wonderful months, as stressful as they could be, would become a golden blip on her biography.
Nothing would ever change.
"Alina, are you alright?"
She broke out of her spiraling darkness to catch those hazel eyes again. She frowned—he called her by her surname or some stupid pet name.
But never her first name.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, turning away. It was time to build her walls up again, to block out the sun so it would hurt less, when the end came.
"Well, that's our cue to leave." Nikolai offered her his arm.
She bit her lip and accepted it. But she let as little of her skin touch his as possible while still maintaining the illusion of Camelot. She let him lead her out of the backstage area and into the elevator. But they didn't stop at her floor. Instead they kept going up.
She glanced at Nikolai quizzically, half-tired and half-irritated with his antics. But he was being oddly stoic, avoiding looking at her directly.
"What are you playing at?" Alina hissed. "My room—"
"We'll get back there eventually, don't you worry." He smiled at her, and she felt that pang again in her heart. One that she used to feel when Mal brought her irises or when Aleksander would so much as speak to her.
That was why, she realized, it hurt so much to remember their impending expiration date. This wasn't supposed to be real. At least, it wasn't for him. But in all her usual Alina Starkova stupidity had gone and fallen in love.
She couldn't pinpoint where or when.
All she knew was that when he smiled at her like that, in the elevator, she knew she had fallen for another boy with a sharp jawline and lots of trouble. Just like she always had. And it would end just like it always did—with Alina alone.
The doors slid open and their security guards exited first, checking the perimeter of the rooftop before allowing them on top.
She whirled around to face Nikolai as the doors closed.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"You're ignoring me, you've been ignoring me all night." He frowned at her for the first time she could recall. Of course he often scowled at his father or brother behind his back, and he never liked her ex-boyfriends. But he'd never been upset with her.
She had to build the wall faster, petrify her heart before it could all sting, because she remembered what it was like, especially to have Aleksander angry at her—
"What, is your ego so large that you can't stand to have one person not hang on to your every word?" Alina sneered. She wrapped her arms around her chest. She meant to make herself look bigger than she felt, but it instead felt like a pathetic attempt at a self-embrace. "I played your little games, Nikolai! I smiled and said hello to all your people! What more do you want from me?"
His eyes flashed, but he said nothing.
"If you're not going to say anything, then I don't know what I'm doing here."
She moved to storm past him toward the elevator. Only for Nikolai to grab her hand, forcing her to whirl back around to face him. He didn't grip so hard as to hurt her—only so that she couldn't easily yank herself free.
"Let go of me," she snarled.
"No." His voice was infuriatingly calm. "We're not going to play games, Starkova. I know you—you're not acting like yourself. Come on, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Alina pulled herself free and took a step back. "Now let me through—"
He stepped in front of her, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. "We're not going anywhere until we talk about this, Alina."
She blinked—he so rarely called her by her first name. It was like he'd cast a spell on her. It was the kind of spell she hadn't been under since she'd finally gotten the courage to tell Mal goodbye. . .
And how often had she been the one, to beg the same from him? Just to talk, to say something, to try and reconcile?
The thought of ever becoming like Mal made her physically shudder. Still, she nodded.
Nikolai let go of her, his expression softening. "What's up, Starkova?"
She bit her lip. There was so much to say, and yet she couldn't put them to words when she opened her mouth. Move her lips as she might, she couldn't make a sound.
"You can tell me." His eyes were fixed on hers, so wide that she could see in them a small reflection of the full moon outside. "Please, Alina."
She inhaled—but felt as if she was hardly breathing.
"I don't want this to end," she exhaled.
He frowned again—confused this time, not upset.
"Don't want what to end?"
"This." Her eyes flicked up and down over him as she took his hands into hers. "Us."
"I don't want to make you pretend for four more years." For some reason as he said it, she thought she could see the glimmer of tears in his eyes.
"I—" she stammered, she was losing her nerve. Shrinking back to the shadows, just as she always had. She closed her eyes—she couldn't lose it now.
She had to be brave and shine—even if would be snuffed out by the gathering dark. All her fears, her loneliness were swirling around her with the night and the darkness that she'd known for so long. The darkness that only Nikolai had kept at bay.
"I stopped pretending. I don't know when."
She opened her eyes, to face the light and the dark—and was baffled to see Nikolai looking utterly surprised.
"Stopped pretending—you mean—"
"I got caught up in it all and caught feelings." She couldn't look at him straight on, lest she be turned to stone. She could feel her ears warming up along with her cheeks in the summer air. "I just liked being with you, I guess, and you make it easy to fall in love with you. But then I realized—you were still pretending, and that I would be lonely again."
She moved to let go of his hands—but he held on, tighter.
And she would never forget the look on his face or the words that he spoke next.
"I was never pretending, to tell you the truth." His face was thoughtful. "I think I've loved you since college."
"Oh, Nikolai." Alina couldn't help but pity him. "Well, that explains why you always hated Mal and Aleksander—"
"Oh no, I could have been friends, if they'd made you happy." He let go of one of her hands to put his arm around her shoulders. "But they always made you miserable. I couldn't stand that."
"You make me happy, though." Alina considered him, eyes wide open now. For now she was truly seeing him. "I'm sorry I didn't see it before."
"You had to come around, in your own time." Nikolai shrugged. "I didn't mind waiting."
They stood there for a moment, surrounded by the stars and the city lights.
That was when Alina finally broke the silence.
"We could go down to my room now. Have a little old-fashioned scandal."
He grinned. "I like the way you think, Starkova."