"This is yours now," Fyodor instructs me. He stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at me. "You'll have privacy here. Space to yourself when you need it."
I step inside and turn slowly, taking in the sparse but clean surroundings. Everything looks recently prepared, like someone went to the trouble of making this space ready for me. It had to have been done today. The room still smells like pine cleaner they probably used on the floors, and it feels inviting. Though, it's still not home, and I'm still not comfortable.
"My offer stands." Fyodor's voice comes from behind me, and I turn to find him still in the doorway. "Double your salary, room and board included. You'd be helping Sasha, giving him stability and the education he needs."
I look at him carefully, really studying his face. I can tell Fyodor isn't the type of man who enjoys humbling himself to ask for help, but the look on his face—like a lost puppy—suggests he knows he can't do it alone. He probably usually orders folksaround and out of fear, they respond, but he's met his match in me because I refuse to be controlled by fear.
Still, he's not the monster I want him to be. He's broken and lost and trying to figure out how to be a father to a son he never knew existed. There's something almost endearing about watching him struggle with it, seeing his rough attempts at gentleness and the way he listens when I tell him he's doing it wrong.
And he's devilishly handsome too, which isn't something I should ever notice, but I do. Why is it that all the good-looking men are either complete jerks or they're already married? And now I'm finding that Fyodor Gravitch might not be either of those things, which is dangerous if I let myself think carnally.
"I don't want your money," I say softly. "But I understand that you need help. You do need someone to guide you with Sasha. But there are professionals who could do this, people trained in child psychology and education who could help both of you."
"I don't trust professionals," he grunts flatly. "I trust you because Sasha trusts you. That's all that matters."
I can't even respond to that with logic because he's not thinking logically. Of course Sasha doesn't know or trust a professional he's never been introduced to before. He'd have to get used to that, but do I really want him to have to? Isn't this sort of exactly what I hoped would happen? That I would find a way to be here for that little boy when the unthinkable happened? And here I am doing just that, just not exactly how I planned it.
I stand there without responding for long enough that he sighs and speaks again.
"Goodnight, Noemi." He steps back and begins closing the door. "We'll talk more in the morning."
The door shuts and I hear a deadbolt engage from the outside. The sound makes my stomach drop. For as much as he says he wants me here to help him, he's not acting like it. He's still treating me like a prisoner, not a staff member.
I turn away from the door and lean against it, pressing my head to the wood behind me while I try to slow my breathing. After several minutes, I force myself to look around the room again.
It's a nice enough space, but being locked in here makes it feel even less like mine and even more like a prison… until I notice something odd. On the dresser across the room sits a suitcase.
My suitcase.
It's a gift my mother bought me years ago when I chose to move from Eastern Russia to St. Petersburg to take this teaching job. I'd recognize it anywhere. I cross the room and run my fingers over the familiar scuffed exterior. My mother found it at a thrift shop, and at the time I found it to be outdated and worn, so today, it's even more of both of those things, but it's definitely mine.
My hands shake as I unzip it and lift the lid. Inside are my clothes, neatly folded and arranged with more care than I usually give them. Sweaters and shirts, pants and skirts, undergarments and socks. Everything is packed as though I'm going on a planned trip rather than being held hostage. The sight of my personal belongings here in this strange room makes my skin crawl. Someone went into my apartment, went through my things, touched my clothes and decided what to bring.
I dig deeper and find my toiletries bag tucked along one side. Inside are my toothbrush, face wash, moisturizer—all the small necessities of daily life. At the bottom of the suitcase, I findmy purse. I pull it out with trembling hands and open it, relief flooding through me when I see my journal still tucked inside the inner pocket.
The journal is worn brown leather, small enough to fit in my bag but thick with pages I've filled over the past year. I carry it everywhere, writing in it when I need to process my thoughts or emotions. The idea of these men reading it makes me feel violated. My shoulders tense and my skin pricks with goosebumps. Fyodor isn't messing around here. If he's gone to the trouble to go through my things and bring them to me, then he's thought this through better than I have.
I carry the journal to the bed and sit on the edge, and the bed dips under my weight. I feel paralyzed now, like life has stalled, and until I decide which side of this situation I want to be on, I'm stuck and I'll remain stuck. Except, the decision is being made for me and I don't get an actual choice in the matter at all.
Sasha needs someone to advocate for him better than his biological father can or ever will. I know I am that person right now, and all those thoughts I had of coming to this boy's rescue seem foolish in hindsight. I didn't know he'd be thrust into the home of a criminal and that I'd be stolen from my classroom to care for him. When I had those dreams, I hoped it would mean my fostering him or adoption, not this. Not ever this.
I change into a nightgown and climb under the covers, then open my journal to a fresh page. The pen feels familiar in my hand, like it grounds me in reality, even though this reality is so absurd, I'm not sure how to process it.
I date the entry and begin writing. It challenges me, because I made a commitment to myself when I started this journal not to put down any negative thoughts. In doing so, I thought it wouldhelp me learn to think positively about life, and it's difficult to find positive things to say about this situation.
Watching Sasha interact with his father is challenging, to say the least. Fyodor isn't paternal like a normal man, but I can see that he's trying his hardest. Even when I bite at him and lecture, he takes those rebukes and attempts to shift his behavior. I can see it forces him to try harder.
I don't want to feel sympathy for him. I don't want to see him as anything other than the man who kidnapped me and is holding me here against my will. But watching him with Sasha, I can't help but recognize that he's just as lost as the rest of us. He's trying to be better for his son's sake, and it gives me hope that Sasha will have a good future despite losing his mother.
I'm scared and angry and confused. I want to go home. I want my normal life back, my classroom and my students and my quiet apartment. But Sasha needs me here, and I can't abandon him. So I'll stay, at least for now, and I'll try to find moments of grace in this impossible situation.
I close the journal and set it on the bedside table, then turn off the lamp. The room falls into darkness broken only by thin strips of moonlight that sneak in between the curtain panes. I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to slow my racing thoughts enough to find sleep.
Writing about the positive moment with Fyodor helps settle some of the turmoil in my chest. It's a technique I've used for years, ending each day by recording something good or meaningful, no matter how small. It helps me sleep better by processing difficult emotions and finding perspective when everything feels overwhelming. If I'm going to survive thisordeal, I'll need that practice more than ever. I have a feeling there are many more difficult days ahead of me.
Eventually, exhaustion wins and I drift off into restless sleep filled with fragments of dreams I won't remember in the morning.
I lie stillfor a moment upon waking up, a bit disoriented too. The bed is warm, though, and I'm comfortable. The past few days come rushing back to me, though this morning is different because I'm not waking in the same room with Sasha.
