The greenhouse is worse than I remembered.
I stand in the doorway, surveying the destruction in the gray morning light. Shattered glass everywhere, crunching under my boots as I step inside. Pots overturned, soil scattered across the flagstone floor, plants trampled and broken. The careful restoration I spent weeks building—gone in a single night of violence.
Sergei's men did this. Came through here on their way to take me, destroying everything in their path. My sanctuary, violated. My work, undone.
I should feel devastated. Part of me does. But a larger part feels something else—a cold, quiet determination that's become familiar over the past two weeks.
They broke this place. I'll rebuild it.
I find a broom in the corner and start sweeping, gathering the broken glass into piles, clearing paths through the debris. The physical work feels good—mindless, meditative, a way to occupy my hands while my thoughts wander.
Two weeks since the rescue. Two weeks of sleeping in Misha's bed, eating Mrs. Novak's cooking, letting my body heal from everything it endured. The bruises have faded. The cuts on my wrists have closed, leaving pink lines that will eventually become scars. The morning sickness has settled into a predictable pattern—bad in the early hours, manageable by noon.
I'm getting stronger. But I'm also getting restless.
The life I had before—medical school, my apartment, my friends—feels like a dream now. Something that happenedto a different person, in a different world. I've been avoiding thinking about it, avoiding the questions I don't know how to answer.
But I can't avoid them forever.
***
I find Misha in his study that afternoon.
He's on the phone, speaking Russian in clipped tones, his brow furrowed with concentration. When he sees me in the doorway, he holds up a finger—one moment—and finishes the conversation with a few sharp words before hanging up.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Supply chain issues. Nothing urgent." He sets down the phone and gives me his full attention, those ice-blue eyes scanning my face the way they always do, checking for signs of distress. "You've been in the greenhouse."
It's not a question. He probably has cameras everywhere. Probably watched me sweeping broken glass for hours.
"I needed something to do."
"How bad is it?"
"Bad. But salvageable." I move into the room, settling into the chair across from his desk. "I need to ask you for something."
"Name it."
"A phone. A secure one. I want to contact some people from my old life."
Something flickers in his expression—concern, maybe, or wariness. "Who?"
"Friends from medical school. My study group. They must be worried. I disappeared without explanation, and it's been weeks." I hold his gaze steadily. "I'm not going to tell them anything dangerous. I just need to... close that chapter. Properly."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me. Then he nods and opens a drawer in his desk, pulling out a phone I've never seen before.
"Untraceable," he says, sliding it across to me. "Encrypted. Use it for personal calls only—nothing that could identify our location or compromise security."
"Thank you."
I take the phone, feeling its weight in my hand. Such a small thing. Such a huge step.
"Bianca." His voice stops me as I turn to leave. "Are you sure you want to do this? Sometimes it's easier to let the past stay in the past."
"Easier, maybe. But not right." I look back at him. "They were my friends. They deserve to know I'm alive."
He nods slowly, accepting my decision even if he doesn't entirely agree with it.
