He nodded. Made a note in his phone. "I'll send Kostya tomorrow with a truck. We'll move everything you want to keep to the compound."
We. Like it was already decided. Like my father's belongings had a place in his home.
My throat went tight. "You don't have to—"
"I know." He looked up from packing a photograph album. Those grey eyes held mine. "But I'm going to anyway."
The gentleness in his voice nearly broke me. I'd expected anger. Expected consequences. Expected him to be furious that I'd left without telling him, that I'd ignored his calls, that I'd put myself at risk.
Instead he was packing my father's things like they mattered. Like I mattered.
We worked in silence. He was meticulous about it, asking where I wanted certain items, whether I cared about keeping specific books or if they could be donated. Never rushed. Never impatient.
When everything I wanted was packed, he carried the box. I grabbed my backpack with the chess set and camera. We walked out together.
The storage unit door rolled down behind us. I'd probably never come back here. This chapter was closing.
His car was parked illegally right outside the facility. He opened the passenger door for me, waited until I was buckled in, then put my father's box carefully in the back seat before getting in the driver's side.
The silence in the car was suffocating. I could feel his presence beside me, could smell cedar and something clean, could see his hands gripping the steering wheel with that controlled precision that meant he was holding something back.
He pulled into traffic. Drove with the same careful control he did everything. The city passed by outside my window—industrial buildings giving way to residential neighborhoods, Brooklyn in that in-between time when afternoon was sliding into evening.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words felt inadequate. Sorry didn't cover leaving without permission. Didn't cover ignoringhis calls. Didn't cover the fear he must have felt when he realized I was gone.
Nikolai's hands tightened on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. He didn't look at me. Just kept driving.
"Why didn't you call me?" His voice was strained. Tight with something that might have been anger or might have been fear or might have been both. "You have the phone. You could have asked."
"I thought you'd say no."
"I would have said yes." The words came out hard. Definitive. Like he was angry I hadn't known that. "I would have driven you here myself. Would have helped you pack. Would have made sure you were safe. But you didn't give me the chance."
The accusation hit like a slap. You didn't give me the chance. You didn't trust me enough to ask. You assumed the worst and ran instead of staying and communicating.
He was right. I had assumed the worst. Had expected him to say no, to control me, to prioritize my safety over my needs. But he wasn't like that. That was the problem. That was what terrified me.
"I needed to do it myself," I said. My voice was small. "I needed to feel like I could make one decision without asking permission. Like I still had some control over my own life."
He made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Something bitter and understanding and sad.
"You have control, Sophie. You've always had control." He glanced at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "The contract gives you control. You can leave anytime with thirty days notice. You can refuse any task. You can set boundaries. The only thing—the only thing—I need is for you to tell me when you're leaving the compound. Not ask permission. Tell me. So I know where you are. So I can keep you safe if something goes wrong."
Tell him. Not ask. The distinction felt enormous.
"So if I'd texted you this afternoon and said I'm going to the storage unit, you would have just let me go?"
"I would have asked if you wanted company," he corrected. "Would have made sure you had security—either myself or someone else. And I would have made sure you had what you needed. But yes. If you'd insisted on going alone, I would have let you. Would have trusted you to make that choice."
The tightness in my chest loosened slightly. Then contracted again when I realized what I'd done. I'd tested him. Had manufactured a scenario where he had to choose between letting me go and coming after me. Had forced him to prove he cared enough to track me down.
Bratty. Manipulative. The kind of behavior that got people hurt.
But it had worked. He'd come after me. Had dropped everything and tracked me down and showed up when I needed him even though I'd been too scared to ask.
"I'm sorry," I said again. Meaning it more this time. "I should have told you. Should have trusted you enough to ask."
His hands relaxed slightly on the steering wheel. We were getting closer to the compound now. I could see familiar streets, familiar buildings.
