My hands curl into fists until my nails bite skin.
I think of Alexei again—his voice low, steady when he told me it wasn’t him. No apology, no denial. Just those words,simple and stripped bare. He’s never apologized for anything, never explained himself. Yet there had been something raw in his tone, almost fragile.
I hate that I noticed. Hate that I believe him now.
If it’s true, then I’ve been wrong. Not about him being dangerous, not about him being ruthless, but about where to aim the blade of my hatred.
I sink into the armchair, dragging the file back into my lap. My father’s name stares up at me from the pages, reduced to a line in a ledger. Informant. Terminated. Collateral.
I remember the way he smelled of coffee and ink, the way he tucked me in with legal briefs scattered across his desk. The pride in his voice when he told me I could be anything. The way his hand lingered on my shoulder that last morning before he left the house.
Now this is all that’s left.
Tears threaten, but I swallow them down hard. Crying won’t bring him back. Crying won’t fix this gaping hole in me.
I close the file again and hold it tight against my chest, as if I can press the truth back into silence.
It doesn’t work.
I stand and shove the folder into the drawer of the desk, slamming it shut. Out of sight, but it’s burned into me now. The knowledge won’t leave.
The door creaks faintly down the hall. My whole body stiffens, instinct screaming he’s here again. I hold my breath, waiting, but no footsteps follow. Just the house settling, old wood groaning in the quiet.
Still, I feel him everywhere. His shadow clings to these walls, to me.
I whisper into the empty room, voice shaking despite my effort to steady it. “If it wasn’t you… then why does it still feel like you ruined my life?”
No answer comes, but my heart knows one thing: the story isn’t over. Not with him. Not with me. Not with the ghost of my father lying between us like a knife.
I sink back onto the bed and curl into myself, exhaustion dragging at my bones, but sleep doesn’t come. The pages of that file flash behind my eyelids. His father’s name. The dates. The stamp. The confirmation of everything and nothing at once.
For the first time since stepping into this empire of blood, I don’t know which way the path leads. Revenge feels hollow now, but letting go feels worse.
Somewhere in the dark, I know Alexei is awake too, replaying the same truths, the same ghosts.
The knock is soft, almost hesitant, yet the sound rolls through me like a gunshot. I sit up too fast, the blanket falling from my shoulders, heart hammering against my ribs. The drawer is still closed, the file hidden inside, but I feel its weight like a brand pressed to my skin.
For a moment I consider ignoring him, pretending I am asleep, pretending I have not seen the truth scratched in ink across government pages.
The door opens before I can make a decision. He steps inside, tall frame filling the doorway, the lamplight cutting sharp lines across his face.
Alexei Sharov looks carved from shadow and steel, but tonight there is something subdued in him. He does not stride forward with command, does not deliver orders in that deep voice that can make even silence bow. He stays by the door,one hand loose on the frame as if unsure whether to remain or retreat.
I rise from the bed, barefoot on the rug, arms wrapped around myself though the room is warm. My throat aches with words I cannot contain. “You think this changes anything?” The edge of my voice is sharp enough to wound, trembling with fury I wish were cleaner, less tangled with fear. “Your father’s name is on those pages, not yours, but that doesn’t make you innocent.”
His eyes lift to mine, steady, unflinching. “I know.”
The quiet of his agreement cuts deeper than denial ever could. I wanted him to argue, to spit fire, to bare his teeth so I could cling to my anger. Instead he gives me this: a truth that tastes too close to surrender.
I pace toward the desk, fingers brushing the drawer, though I do not open it. “You let me believe it was you. For years. You let me carry that weight, let me sharpen every part of myself into a weapon against you.” My voice fractures, fury spilling into desperation. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“I didn’t know.” His answer comes rough, as if dragged from somewhere raw.
The words hang heavy in the air. I stare at him, throat tight. His face does not change, no flicker of triumph, no calculated smirk. Just those three words, hollowed out, stripped of armor.
Something inside me twists hard enough to make me stumble. I grip the back of the chair, nails biting into the wood. I should hate him more for this, for letting me burn in ignorance. Yet the crack in his voice burrows under my skin, settling deep in my chest where I cannot shake it.
“You expect me to believe you knew nothing?” I force steadiness back into my voice, but it wavers all the same. “That you never once suspected what your father did?”
