I felt something in me split open all at once. It started as a tremor in my hands and then became a sob that ripped through me. I didn't try to stop it. It was ugly, it was everything I'd been holding for months and years. All the nights I'd swallowed my fears, all the times I'd smiled when my stomach wanted to turn. It came out loud and raw and shameful.
Emilia moved like she always moved, warm and fast. She wrapped her arms around me before I could think. "Izzy," she said, in a thick voice. "Shh. It's okay. It's okay. You're not what he made you."
I let her hold me. Her heartbeat was steady under my ear. It grounded me. "He did this," I kept saying into her shoulder. "He did this to me."
Liza watched with a cold smile in the corners of her mouth. When I pulled away, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, she stepped forward.
"Stop," she said, plain and sharp. "Stop crying. This is the moment you stop being his victim."
I stared at her. "What do you mean?"
She leaned in like she was offering me a weapon. "If your father sells you, sell your heart. Make Mikhail your weapon. Use him, make him bleed for you."
Her words hit harder than the sobs. They were cruel, they were cold, but there was a truth under the cruelty.
Emilia's hand went to my shoulder. "Liza–"
"No," Liza snapped. "She needs to hear this."
I felt fuzzy. The room seemed to tilt, and for a second, I felt tired of both of them. Emilia for her comfort and Liza for her sharpness. I hated my father more than I had words for.
Liza watched me, waiting for a reaction. I took a breath and let the weight of everything settle in my bones. My face was wet, my eyes were red, and I looked at my reflection in the cracked mirror across the room.
"Maybe I already am," I whispered to myself, the sound was small and fierce. The words felt like a promise and a lie at the same time.
**********
The night was too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think too much. I sat on the couch with an open bottle of whiskey, staring at the city lights through the glass wall. The world outside looked peaceful, but inside me was a storm I couldn't stop.
Mikhail's voice kept echoing in my head.
"I didn't kill Giovanni. Your father did.”
I didn't know what to believe anymore. My father, the man who once kissed my forehead and told me I was his princess, had sold me like a bargaining chip. And Mikhail, the man I was supposed to hate, said it like a confession, not an excuse. I hated the part of me that almost believed him.
I took another drink, the burn tracing fire down my throat. My eyes were sore, my body was tired. I didn't even hear him come in until he spoke.
"You shouldn't drink alone."
His voice was low and steady, dangerous in its calm. I turned my head slowly, and he stood by the doorway, no tie, his sleeves rolled up, watching me like he was trying to decide if I was a threat or a wound.
I smirked faintly. "You shouldn't care."
He walked in anyway; each step was too deliberate. "You think I don't?"
"I think you don't know how." I lifted the bottle and gestured toward him. "Want to try it? Maybe it'll help you feel something for once."
He ignored the offer and sat across from me instead. His silence pressed harder than any words. I looked at him, really looked at the man who'd burned cities, broken bones, and still somehow looked like control itself. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't even tell where the hate ended, and the ache began.
"You said my father did it," I said quietly. "You said he sold out Giovanni."
He didn't look away. "I don't say things I can't prove."
I swallowed, feeling the tears clawing again. "He's a coward," I whispered. The words came out before I could stop them. "My father's a coward."
Something flickered in his face, surprise, or maybe pity. I hated both.
He leaned forward slightly and said in a rough voice. "You don't have to carry his sins."
