I don't have anywhere to be. I just can't stand outside her door and listen to her cry without doing something I'll regret.
Back in my office, I pour myself a vodka. This time I drink it—one long swallow that burns down my throat and settles like fire in my stomach.
She asked what happens now. I told her it depends on her.
That was a lie. It depends on Sergei Morozov. On how quickly he moves, how many men he brings, how far he's willing to go to reclaim what he thinks is his.
I pull up the security feeds on my computer, cycling through camera after camera. The gates, the walls, the gardens, the house. Everything looks quiet. Peaceful. The kind of peace that comes before a storm.
Sergei will come. Maybe not today, maybe not this week, but soon. He'll come with men and guns and the absolute certainty that he's going to take what he wants.
And when he does, I'll be ready.
I set down the empty glass and get back to work.
Chapter 7 - Bianca
I wake up not knowing where I am.
The ceiling is wrong—too high, too ornate, with dark wooden beams crossing the plaster like the ribs of some great beast. For a disorienting moment, I think I'm still dreaming, trapped in some gothic nightmare where the walls press in and the shadows have teeth.
Then memory crashes back. The auction. Misha. My father.
I close my eyes and count my heartbeats. Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four. Slower than yesterday. My body is adapting, even if my mind refuses to.
The room is cold despite the fire that's been relit in the hearth—someone came in while I slept, and I didn't hear them. The thought makes my skin crawl. I sit up, pulling the heavy silk coverlet around my shoulders, and take stock.
Gray light filters through the tall windows, diffused by clouds. The glass is old, slightly warped, bending the view of the gardens below into something dreamlike. Gargoyles crouch at the corners of the window frame—I didn't notice them last night. They leer at me with stone eyes, their mouths frozen in silent screams.
This whole place is like that. Beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.
I slept, though I didn't expect to. Exhaustion won out over fear sometime after midnight, dragging me under into a black, dreamless void. Now my body aches like I've been running for miles, every muscle stiff with the memory of tension.
I can't stay in this bed. If I stay here, I'll start thinking, and if I start thinking, I'll fall apart again.
The bathroom is as I remember it—white marble veined with gray, brass fixtures tarnished with age, a claw-foot tub that looks like it belongs in a Victorian sanatorium. I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I strip off the clothes I finally changed into last night. Soft cotton pants, a silk shirt. Not mine. Nothing here is mine.
The shower is hot, at least. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, letting the water pound against my skull, washing away the last traces of the auction house. The soap smells like lavender and something darker—sandalwood, maybe. Expensive. Impersonal.
When I finally step out, I feel almost human again. Almost.
The wardrobe in the bedroom is fully stocked, as Mrs. Novak promised. I open it to find rows of clothes in my exact size—cashmere sweaters, tailored pants, soft cotton blouses. Everything tasteful, everything expensive, everything chosen by someone who was paying attention.
The violation of it settles in my stomach like a stone. Misha knows my size. He's probably known it for two years, filed away in whatever dossier he keeps on me. Height, weight, measurements. Favorite coffee order. Running route. Class schedule.
I grab a charcoal sweater and black pants without looking too closely at the other options. Getting dressed feels like armor, each layer a barrier between myself and this situation.
A knock at the door. I tense, then force myself to relax.
"Come in."
Mrs. Novak enters with a breakfast tray—toast, fruit, coffee, a small vase with a single white rose. The domesticity of it is jarring, like finding a tea party in the middle of a battlefield.
"Good morning, Miss Benedetti." Her voice is neutral, professional. "I hope you slept well."
"Bianca." The correction comes out sharper than I intend. "Please. Miss Benedetti makes me sound like..."Like my father's daughter. Like someone I don't want to be."Just Bianca."
Something flickers in her eyes—approval, maybe. "Bianca, then. I've brought breakfast. You should eat."
