“Enough.”
Silence slams into the room.
“Gustav Sokolov has already made a few choices,” she says. Then her eyes land on me again, sharp and gleaming. “His chosen wife sits in our front row.”
A wave of gasps rolls through the class. Dozens of eyes turn toward me. All wide, curious, pitying, jealous, hungry for gossip.
A guy whispers behind me. “I thought I saw that woman walking with Gustav. I didn’t know why he was on campus.”
Everyone’s attention of me causes my cheeks to burn. My throat tightens. I swallow hard.
Keira folds her hands neatly in front of her, a polite smile curving her mouth in the most condescending way imaginable.
“Those chosen by card,” she says coolly, “should be grateful for any allies they have.”
My pulse stutters.
For a moment, I swear she’s saying me: you took me for granted.
Her gaze flicks to Brutus, but just for a second.
Brutus shifts beside me, sensing something is wrong.
I sit very still, spine straight, hands folded on my notebook like a perfect little mob wife.
But inside, panic ripples through me.
Because Keira isn’t just teaching.
She’s warning me.
Chapter 28
Peighton
“Merry Christmas, Daddy,” I say softly, trying to sound cheerful. The call already feels fragile, like glass balanced on my palm.
“Merry Christmas, lil one. I loved the cigars you sent. Did you get my gift?”
I glance at the bracelet on my wrist, lifting it so the weak morning light catches the stones. The opal glimmers like trapped moonlight, framed by two small peridot gems. Our birthstones. It’s beautiful. It’s thoughtful. It almost makes me cry.
“I love it,” I say. “But it should have had Mom’s birthstone too.”
Silence, stiff and cold. Predictable.
He clears his throat. “Enjoy the gift, Peighton,” he says, voice tight, the way it always gets when she’s mentioned. “I have to go.”
And just like that, the call dies. I stare at the black screen a long moment, knowing I should be used to this by now, knowing it’s pathetic to expect warmth on a day like this. Still, it stings. Christmas used to be messy and loud and full of my mother’s delicious cookies and warm cinnamon rolls. Now it’s reduced to a stunted conversation and a hollow ache he refuses to acknowledge.
The door opens and Gustav steps inside, brushing snow from his shoulders. He sees my expression before I can hide it. I shove the phone under a pillow, not wanting to risk him confiscating it again. His gaze lingers, searching, assessing. He doesn’t catch sight of the phone, yet he still sees too much.
“What happened?” he asks as he comes closer.
I force a smile. “Just missing my mom,” I say, and the lie tastes half-true. “She went into witness protection. Never saw her again.”
I don’t mention the cheating. Or the hit my father probably ordered after he found the love letters. Or the way Keira warned me never to speak those truths to Gustav, not unless I wanted him to see my mother in me. Not unless I wanted him to think infidelity is hereditary and kill me for it.
Gustav’s expression softens, rare and fleeting. He sits beside me on the edge of my bed and touches my knee with warm fingers. “I’m sorry, moyá devushka,” he murmurs. “The holidays are difficult when a parent is missing… or both.”
