This child saw everything.
He peered at me, curious, fearless.
“Well?” he pressed. “Did you do it?”
“I did what was necessary.”
Vanya leaned back in the chair, small fists resting on the arms as though bracing himself against the storm in front of him.
He was five, but the fire in his eyes made him seem older.
“You hurt people,” he said, voice low but steady. “And you think that’s okay because you call it protecting people. But it’s not protecting. It’s... it’s scary. It’s mean.”
I froze, every nerve in my body humming with an unfamiliar electricity. .
“I watched you,” Vanya continued, hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles turned white. “I saw how you looked at Mom last night. Like she’s something you can own. Like she’s a toy or a trophy. You’re not her husband. You’re not even... you’re just... scary.”
My jaw flexed—one small, controlled tick—before smoothing out completely.
“Do you know what happens when people are scared of you?” Vanya asked, tilting his head, gaze sharp as a knife. “They stop trusting you. They hide. They cry. And Mom—Mom... she’s supposed to be happy, and you... you make her not happy. You’re supposed to keep her safe, but all you do is make her want to run.”
The chair creaked as he leaned forward again, eyes boring into mine. “I don’t care about your empire. I don’t care about your rules. I don’t care if everyone in the world calls you a king. If you can’t be kind to Mom, then you’re not a king. You’re a monster. And I... I won’t call you Dad. Not until you stop being a monster.”
Silence slammed into the room like a thunderclap.
I wanted to argue, to roar, to remind him who I was. I wanted to remind him that the Volkov name demanded obedience, not lectures from five-year-olds.
But I couldn’t.
Every word he spoke was a mirror held up to my worst self. A boy, too young to carry the weight of life, was calling out the truth I had buried beneath grief and rage.
“I...” I started, voice tight, failing me. “I have regrets, Vanya.”
Vanya’s mouth twisted in disdain. “Regret doesn’t fix it. You can say sorry a million times, but it’s what you do next that matters. If you really want me to call you Dad, you have to be better. Not just... scary and rich. Better.”
The honesty stung like fire on bare skin.
He had no filters, no fear, no hesitation. Just truth. And it cut through the armor I’d built over two decades.
I leaned back in my chair, the smoke of my own fury mingling with something I hadn’t felt in years: shame.
Vanya kept talking, oblivious to the violence simmering just beneath my skin.
Children had no idea what their words did to monsters.
“Why do you want to marry my mom?” He asked brightly.
The real answers rose like ghosts clawing out of a grave:
Because she looks like the woman I buried.
Because every time I look at her face, my mind lies—softly, sweetly—and whispers that Penelope is back.
Because I’ve spent five years rotting from the inside, and she is the first thing that’s made my lungs remember how to breathe.
Because I am selfish enough, broken enough, starved enough to keep the illusion near me... even if the real Penelope is nothing but bones and memory.
Because losing this version—this echo of her—would finally kill whatever is left of me.
