"Are you okay?" I pull back to look at her. "Did they hurt you?"
"No." But her eyes are red. She's been crying. "They just said Roman wanted me to visit. To discuss wedding arrangements. They snatched me and dragged me here."
The guards remain by the door, watching. Listening.
We're not alone. We'll never be alone here.
"How thoughtful," I say loudly enough for them to hear. "Come sit. Tell me about your art classes."
We move to the couch, and I keep one arm around her. Protection I can't actually provide.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know." I smooth her hair like when she was little. "But it's going to be okay."
"Is it?" Her voice drops even lower. "Kira, they're talking about my wedding. To Artem. It's real. It's actually happening."
The guards are watching. I smile like we're discussing pleasant things.
"You need to leave," I whisper against her hair. "Get out of the country. Now."
"I can't leave you—"
"You have to." I pull back, keeping my expression neutral for the watchers. "Anya, listen to me. The money I set aside—it's in the account we discussed. Enough for a ticket to Paris and six months living expenses."
"But you'll be punished if I run—"
"I'll be fine." The lie tastes bitter. "I'm marrying Roman. That protects me. But you—you need to be gone before they can stop you."
"When?" Her hands grip mine.
"As soon as possible. Tomorrow if you can." I keep my voice low, casual, like we're discussing art school applications. "Pack light. Take only what you need. And don't tell anyone—not Father, not friends. Just go."
"Kira—"
"Please." I squeeze her hands. "Please, Anya. For me. Get out while you still can."
One of the guards shifts, and we both glance over. He's watching us with narrow eyes, like he knows we're planning something but can't quite hear what.
"Tell me about your latest painting," I say louder. "The one with the sunset."
Anya understands. We spend the next thirty minutes talking about art while the guards listen.
“Can we have some tea please?” I ask politely.
They hate when I do that. Hate when I act like they are my servants rather than my guards.
They speak in low voices before one walks away.
Anya grins at me. “You know they hate you, right?”
I flash a smile that is all about trying to prove to her I’m okay—even when we both know I’m not. “I do.”
The guard returns with tea service, setting it on the table between us with more force than necessary. Water sloshes over the rim of the pot. I don't react, just pour for both of us with steady hands.
"Thank you," I say sweetly. "That will be all."
He glares but returns to his post by the door.
