I stand at the front with a microphone and smile toward the direction of donors who want their names pronounced correctly. Dmitri stands at the back and pretends he is not a wall. Reza mouthsthank youfrom behind a stack of tins wrapped in cellophane. Someone's grandmother bids a shocking amount for a quilt that smells like lavender and stubbornness. We sell a handmade wooden sled to a man who has never fallen in snow. I'm good at convincing people to be better than they planned to be for one night. Dmitri watches me work like a man who has never seen persuasion as a weapon.
Toma moves fast between the dais and the back room, arms full of donations and small prizes the volunteers hope to sell. It will not touch my father's gala numbers, and that is fine. When he sees Dmitri, his eyes brighten. He gives a neat nod and a quick sign of welcome.
After, we don't bolt for the door. The argument from before the auction still hums, but the night has hands. It smooths a corner each time we thank a volunteer, each time he lifts abox without being asked, each time I catch him speaking gently to a child who pretends not to listen. By the time we step outside, the edge has thinned.
We walk because the city asks for it. He buys me a hot drink from a cart with a small blue flame. He warms my fingers with the paper cup before he lets it go. We find a bench under string bulbs that hold their notes.
I speak first. The words feel risky and clean. I tell him I want a small kitchen with an open window and a table that stays busy. I want a child who thinks saints can be found in laundromats. I want work that smells like bread and printer ink and wool. He listens. He says he can fix leaky faucets. He says he cannot bake bread.
"Liar," I say, because I have seen his hands and I know what they can make behave.
There is a soft gravity to the afternoon that makes me forget we are not ordinary. I forget for exactly four blocks. It feels like a sin and a kindness.
Night folds the city back into itself. The estate receives us with old wood and locked memories. I remember the glove halfway up the stairs. It feels like an excuse. I go back down the hall, lift my hand to knock, and then don't, because I'm my father's daughter, and I have lived my life under doors that rarely answer the first sound.
The office is not locked. The lamp is low. The room smells like black tea and the bitter edge of toner. The glove sits on the desk corner, set neat and square. Beside it lies a folder with my name typed in a neutral font. The first page is a report. The ink is crisp. The clipped photograph shows my profile, head down, scarf high, a timestamp that matches amorning I thought was mine. The next is Aleksandr outside the chapel, snow in his hair, mouth arranged in that old apology. The third is a grainy shot of a driver I don't know.
Heat rises behind my eyes, unhelpful and honest. I make no sound. I set the glove where he left space for it and back out. The note under my sleeve is a small press I suddenly fear.
In my rooms the night is clean and useless. I light a candle because my grandmother told me to make a fire when anger comes. The flame sits up and behaves. I hover a finger at its edge, count to three, pull back, and call it discipline, not fear. I take the leather prayer book from the shelf and open to the ribbon my father slid in place, as if color could pace a life. The line waits with the patience of a saint who knows the end of the story.
I come to you with no secrets between us.
I speak the words into the room because the room keeps secrets whether I ask or not. I press my thumb to the crucifix at my throat. He asks for truth. The book asks for the end of silence. My pride asks for distance. All three are heavier than I look.
I sit on the edge of the bed and slide the note out from under my sleeve. The paper has warmed to the shape of my skin. I unfold it as if the ink might run if I hurry. I read the line again and again until the letters blur into a single demand. If I bring him everything, what does he do with it? Does he build a roof or a cage? Does he believe a woman's truth is a sacrament or a weapon? I don't have the luxury of waiting to be sure. Men in my family never waited. The women paid for that.
I rise and pace the length of the rug. The candle lowers itself by degrees. Snow taps the window with a patience that could be mistaken for gentleness. I breathe and smell beeswax and a winter that refuses to end.
The door opens without a knock because only one person would risk that and keep his fingers. He steps in like he owns the corridor and claims the room. His eyes go straight to my hands. He sees the book. He sees the note. He understands everything I'm thinking and acts like none of it changes the work.
"I'm watching Aleksandr for your own good," he says, nothing soft about his voice except the part that refuses to be cruel.
The candle throws our shadows across the icon like two people who have forgotten the choreography and are waiting for the choir. My jaw finds its line. My chest finds its anger. The note in my hand feels lighter than it did a moment ago… and more dangerous.
He says protect, I say include. He says roof, I say key, and the words spark until the room feels bright with argument, so I step into him and let my mouth choose for me, a long, greedy kiss that drags heat up from the floor. His hands find my waist and the small of my back and teach my body the shape of yes.
11
DMITRI
Her mouth meets mine like it's an argument she intends to win, and for a moment I let her. I let her press anger into me, teeth sharp behind soft lips, her body taut like a bowstring. Then I close my hand around her wrist and answer back.
"You come to me with fire," I murmur against her mouth, low, rough. "And you expect me not to burn?"
She tries to pull back, but my other hand is already at her waist, drawing her closer. The note slips from her fingers and falls between us like a witness. Her breath is hot, sharp with defiance.
"You don't own my truth," she says.
"I don't want to own it," I answer, tracing the edge of her jaw with my thumb, forcing her eyes to mine. "I want to hear it from your lips while you're too honest to lie."
Her pulse beats under my fingers, fast, betraying her. She tries to cover it with a laugh that sounds too thin.
"You mistake hunger for confession."
"And you mistake protection for a cage," I say, pushing her back just enough to pin her against the desk. The candle behind her throws firelight along her throat, and the sight drags something hot and old out of me.
Her hands fist in my shirt, not pulling me closer, not pushing me away. Waiting. Testing.
