"We negotiated. Had contracts like the one you showed me. Rules about bedtime and meals and checking in. He had a Little room in his apartment—pink walls, stuffed animals, coloring books. A space where I could regress and be five years old and not have to think about my father's gambling or my dance career or anything heavy."
"And it worked?" I asked gently.
"It was perfect." Tears were sliding down her cheeks now but she didn't seem to notice. "For two years. I'd go to his place after performances. Sometimes I'd be big—we'd drink wine and talk about art. Sometimes I'd be Little—he'd make me dinner, give me a bath, read me stories. I felt safe for the first time in my life. Actually safe."
The past tense landed like a weapon. Felt. Had felt. Before it ended.
"What happened?" I asked, though I knew. Had read the articles. Had seen the police reports Maks had pulled. But I needed to hear it from her. Needed to understand what she carried.
Her breathing hitched. She wrapped her arms around herself. "It was a Saturday night. March fifteenth. Three years ago. I'd had a matinee performance—Swan Lake, I was Odette—and I was exhausted. My knee had been hurting for weeks but I'd been pushing through."
She paused. Wiped at her face with the sleeve of her pink sweater.
"I went to Sergei's apartment after the show. He could tell I was wrung out. Asked if I wanted to be Little. I said yes. So he—" Her voice broke completely. She took three shaky breaths before continuing. "He helped me change into my pink overall dress. Did my hair in pigtails. Made mac and cheese—the kind froma box with the powdered cheese that isn't real food but tastes like childhood. We sat on the couch. He put on Finding Nemo. I was in his lap, sucking my thumb, feeling small and safe and perfect."
My hands clenched on the armrests of my chair. I could picture it. Could see her curled up, vulnerable, completely regressed. Could see Sergei holding her, protecting her, providing that safe space for her to be Little.
"The bullets came through the window," she whispered. "Three shots. I didn't even hear the car. Didn't hear anything until the glass broke. Two missed. One—"
She made a sound. Not quite a sob. Something more broken.
"One hit him in the chest. Center mass. He pushed me off his lap trying to protect me. My knee—my ACL tore when I landed. I heard it pop. But I didn't care because Sergei was—there was so much blood. So much. And I was still Little. Still in that headspace. I couldn't—I didn't know what to do."
"Sophie—" I started.
"I held him," she continued, like she couldn't stop now that she'd started. "He was dying and I was too small to help. Too young in my head. I just cried and told him I loved him and please don't go and Daddy please and—" She was full-on sobbing now. "He died in my arms while I was wearing a pink overall dress and pigtails. While I was five years old in my head and useless. Completely useless."
The devastation in her voice broke something in me. She wasn't just grieving Sergei. She was carrying guilt. Carrying the belief that being Little had made her helpless when he needed her most.
"It's my fault," she choked out. "If I'd been big. If I'd been alert and watching and not regressed into some stupid fantasy where I was a child who needed protecting. If I'd just been an adult,maybe I would have seen the car. Maybe I could have warned him. Maybe—"
"Stop."
The command came out harder than I meant it. But I couldn't listen to her blame herself for one more second. Couldn't sit in my chair and watch her shred herself with guilt over something that wasn't her fault.
She looked at me. Tears streaming down her face. Eyes red and devastated and so full of pain I felt it like a physical blow.
I stood. Crossed the space between our chairs in two strides. Pulled her up out of her seat and into my arms.
She resisted for half a second. Went rigid. Then collapsed against my chest like her strings had been cut.
The sobs came harder. Violent. Her whole body shaking with them. Her hands fisted in my shirt. Her face pressed against my chest so hard I could feel her tears soaking through the fabric.
I pulled her down into my chair. Settled her in my lap. One arm around her waist, the other hand stroking her hair. Holding her together because she was coming apart.
"Being Little didn't get him killed," I said against her temple. My voice was rough. My own eyes were burning. "Violence got him killed. Bad men got him killed. Wrong place, wrong time, bad fucking luck. But not you. Not because you were Little. Not because you were vulnerable."
She shook her head against my chest. Not believing me. Three years of carrying this guilt and it wasn't going to disappear with one conversation.
"Listen to me, devotchka." I tilted her face up. Made her meet my eyes. "Sergei knew what he was doing when he became your Daddy. He knew the world was dangerous. He chose to create that safe space for you anyway. He chose to let you be Little because he loved you and he wanted you to have that gift. Hisdeath doesn't make that choice wrong. It doesn't make your need for Little space wrong."
"But I couldn't help him—"
"You were in shock. You had a catastrophic knee injury. You'd just watched someone you loved get shot. There was nothing you could have done differently. Nothing. Even if you'd been big, even if you'd been completely alert, the outcome would have been the same."
"You don't know that." Her voice was small. Broken.
"I do." I cupped her face in my hands. Thumbs wiping at her tears. "I've seen bratva hits, Sophie. I've planned them. I've cleaned up after them. When someone wants you dead badly enough to fire through a window, there's no warning. No chance to react. It's fast and brutal and the only person responsible is the one who pulled the trigger."
