- What triggers your regression (positive and negative)?
- What helps you feel safe in little space?
HARD LIMITS (activities that are absolutely off-limits):
_______________________________________________________
SOFT LIMITS (activities you're uncertain about):
_______________________________________________________
TRIGGERS (topics, situations, or actions that cause distress):
_______________________________________________________
The blank lines waited. Empty spaces for me to fill in the truth about Sergei. About being twenty and small and safe in his lap. About the night the bullets came through the window. About three years of refusing to let myself be vulnerable ever again.
I closed the portfolio. The leather made a soft sound against the table, final as a door slamming.
"No."
My voice came out firm. Stronger than I felt.
Nikolai was watching me. Those grey eyes missed nothing. Not my trembling hands. Not my too-fast breathing. Not the panic I was fighting to keep off my face.
"No?" He didn't sound surprised. Didn't sound disappointed. Just calm. Patient.
"I'll sign the basic contract." I pushed the portfolio toward him. "The work arrangement. Household management, intelligence analysis, four years to clear the debt. But not the optional clauses. Not the DDlg stuff. I don't want that."
The lie tasted like ash. I did want it. Some buried, desperate part of me wanted it so badly I could barely breathe. Wanted rules and structure and someone to make the world feel manageable. Wanted to be small and safe and cared for the way Sergei used to care for me.
But wanting it had gotten Sergei killed.
"Okay," Nikolai said simply.
I blinked. "Okay?"
"Then we'll start with the basic arrangement." He pulled the portfolio back toward him. Opened it to the signature page. "But Sophie, the offer stands. If you change your mind—" He paused. Met my eyes. "When you change your mind, we can amend the contract anytime. All you have to do is ask."
When. Not if.When.
The certainty in his voice made something flutter in my stomach. Something I refused to examine or acknowledge or name.
He slid the portfolio back to me. Pulled a pen from his pocket—expensive, black and silver, the kind executives carried. Clicked it once and set it on the contract.
"Page fifteen," he said. "Three signature lines."
I picked up the pen. The weight was perfect in my hand, balanced and substantial. I flipped to page fifteen.
Three blank lines. My name typed beneath each one in that same professional font.
I signed. Sophie Katerina Volkov. The name my father had kept hidden. The name I'd been afraid to use for years because it meant claiming family that didn't want me.
I signed it three times. My handwriting was surprisingly steady.
Nikolai took the pen. Countersigned next to each of my signatures. His handwriting was precise, controlled, exactly what I'd expected. Nikolai Dmitrievich Besharov.
He closed the portfolio. Set it aside. Reached for the wine bottle and refilled my glass even though I'd barely touched it.
