Instead, I'm grateful.
Because if he'd been gentle, I would've shattered. And something tells me I'm going to need every piece of myself intact for what comes next.
The jet isseven hours of purgatory wrapped in leather seats.
I changed before we left. Black dress. I stumbled through the villa with shaking hands, while my friends watched with faces like funeral masks. Nobody knew what to say. Neither did I.
Sergei handled everything. The car. The airport. The private charter that appeared, like he'd summoned it from thin air. He moved through logistics like a machine, and I followed because following was easier than thinking.
Now he sits across from me, close enough to feel heat radiating off him despite the recycled air. His eyes stay on his phone, on the window, on everything, except me.
Professional distance.
I should be grateful.
Instead, I'm aware of his presence. It’s like a low-frequency hum, constant and impossible to ignore.
"You knew him." The words come out before I can stop them. "My father. You talked to him."
Sergei's jaw tightens. "A week ago."
"What did he say? Exactly."
"That something was wrong. That he didn't trust someone close to him. That he wanted you protected." A pause. "He didn't give me names."
"But you have guesses."
Those grey eyes finally meet mine. "I have guesses."
"Tell me."
"Not yet. Not until I know more." He returns to his phone. Conversation over.
I stare out the window at clouds that look like gravestones.
My father got excited about two things in life: his yacht and spreadsheets. He'd hadThe Catherineserviced two weeks ago. Called me about it, actually animated, for once. Some new navigation system he wanted to show me.
Now he's dead, and they're calling it a gas leak.
Which is bullshit.
And Sergei knows it, too. He's just not telling me what he knows.
Yet.
My fingers find familiar metal in my purse.
"He gave me this before I left." I pull out the lighter. Gold. Engraved.To my darling Richard, may you always find your way home. —A."Said he'd been carrying it for luck. Thought I needed it more."
It's scorched black on one side. Scratched to hell.
My grandmother gave it to my grandfather on their wedding day. Dad carried it everywhere, even after he quit smoking, flipping it open and shut with that softclick snapthat used to drive me insane.
The lighter blurs through tears I refuse to let fall.
"He knew." My voice cracks. "When he gave me this. He knew he might not come back."
Sergei's silent for a long moment.
