"Because you thought you knew better."
"Because I knew if I told you the truth, you'd want to fight. To stay. And I couldn't protect you and be with you at the same time." His voice roughens. "So I chose to protect you."
The tears are threatening again. I dig my fingernails into my palms, using the pain to anchor myself.
"You broke my heart." The words come out small, childish. I hate how they sound. "I thought there was something wrong with me. I spent months wondering what I did, what I could have done differently—"
"There was nothing wrong with you." His voice is fierce, almost angry. "There has never been anything wrong with you. I was the poison, Bianca. I was the danger. Cutting you out of my life was the only way I knew to keep you safe."
"And watching me for two years? Was that keeping me safe too?"
He flinches. Good.
"I couldn't let go completely," he admits. "I told myself it was security. Making sure you weren't being targeted, weren't being watched by anyone else. But that wasn't—" He stops, struggles. "I needed to know you were okay. That you were living your life. Becoming the doctor you wanted to be."
"While you lurked in the shadows like a stalker."
"Yes." No defense. No justification. Just that single word, heavy with admission.
I stand abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. My legs carry me to the window, where I stare out at the gardens without seeing them.
My father is a monster. The man I dated is a killer. My whole life has been built on lies—mine and everyone else's.
"The auction," I say, not turning around. "You said there was an arrangement. With the Morozovs."
"Yes."
"Tell me."
I hear him shift in his chair. "Your father owed the Morozov family a significant debt. To settle it, he promised them something more valuable than money—you. As a bride for Sergei Morozov, Anatoly Morozov's son."
A bride. Not just property to be sold, but a wife. The word feels obscene.
"The man who bid two million," I say. "That was him? Sergei?"
"Yes. The auction was theater. Other buyers were allowed to participate, but you were always meant to go to Sergei at the arranged price. Your father would clear his debt, and the Morozovs would get—"
"Me." I turn around. "They would get me."
Misha nods.
"What would have happened?" My voice is barely a whisper. "If you hadn't been there. If Sergei had won."
He's silent for a long moment. I see him weighing his words, deciding how much truth I can handle.
"Don't protect me," I say sharply. "Not from this. I need to know."
"Sergei Morozov has been engaged twice before." Misha's voice is flat, detached—the voice of a man delivering a diagnosis he knows will devastate. "Both women disappeared within a year of the arrangements ending."
The floor tilts beneath me. I grab the windowsill for support.
"Disappeared," I repeat.
"No bodies were ever found. But the Morozov family didn't exactly launch investigations."
I think of Sergei at the auction—I didn't see his face, just a paddle rising in the shadows, a number climbing. Two million dollars. That's what he thought I was worth. Two million dollars and then... what? A year of marriage before I "disappeared" too?
My legs give out. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, my back against the cold plaster, my knees drawn up to my chest.
