For my garden, my sanctuary, my hope.
The words echo in my mind. Sanctuary. Hope.
I look around at the chaos I've been clearing—the dead plants, the broken glass, the decades of neglect. It would take months to restore this place. Maybe years. I might not be here that long. Sergei might come tomorrow, and everything might end.
But I could start. I could plant something, tend something, create something that might outlive whatever happens next.
The thought is strangely comforting.
I set the journal aside—I'll give it to Misha later, when the time is right—and return to work. There's a bag of potting soil in the corner, old but usable. Pots that can be cleaned. Seeds that might still be viable.
I start with the fern, repotting it properly, giving its roots room to spread. Then I move to the succulent, then the bulbs. Small acts of hope in a place that's known too much despair.
***
The sun is setting by the time I stop, the gray light fading to purple and orange through the western windows. My back aches, my hands are filthy, and I'm more tired than I've been in months.
I feel better than I have since the auction.
I stand in the greenhouse doorway, looking back at the house. The gothic silhouette rises against the darkening sky—all towers and gables and shadow, like something from a Victorian nightmare. Guards patrol the perimeter, their figures dark against the dying light. Somewhere inside, Misha is planning for war.
And I'm here, in his mother's garden, trying to coax life from the ruins.
I think about Sergei's message.She belongs to me.The arrogance of it. The assumption that I'm something to be owned, claimed, possessed.
My father thought the same thing. So did my brothers, when they delivered me to the auction like a package. Even Misha, for all his talk of choices—he bought me. He brought me here. He's been making decisions about my life since the moment he bid five million dollars for my body.
I'm tired of being something that belongs to other people.
I don't know how this ends. I don't know if Sergei will come, or when, or whether Misha's defenses will hold. I don't know if I'll ever see my apartment again, finish my degree, become the doctor I dreamed of being.
But I know this: I'm done being passive.
I didn't choose this cage. But I can choose what I become inside it.
I can choose to learn, to understand, to prepare. I can choose to restore this greenhouse, to create something beautiful in the middle of something terrible. I can choose to face whatever comes next on my feet, not on my knees.
I look at the house one more time—the gargoyles on the roof, the windows gleaming in the last light, the fortress that's become my prison and my shelter.
Then I go inside to find Misha and give him his mother's journal.
Chapter 10 - Misha
The sun has set by the time I leave my office.
The day has been a blur of phone calls and security briefings, of maps and contingency plans and the grim calculus of war. Alexei's team traced Sergei's message to a burner phone purchased in Las Vegas—useless for tracking, but confirmation that he's being careful. Methodical. The kind of enemy who doesn't make mistakes.
The reinforcements Dmitri sent have settled into their positions—twelve men, all veterans, all capable of killing without hesitation. They've integrated with my existing security, doubling patrols, adding layers to the perimeter defense. The estate feels different now, charged with a tension that wasn't there before.
I should eat. Should sleep. Should do any of the practical things that keep a body functional for combat.
Instead, I find myself walking the corridor toward the main hall, my mind still churning through threat scenarios, when I see her.
Bianca is standing near the foot of the stairs, still wearing the cream sweater from this morning, now smudged with dirt. Her hair has come loose from its tie, dark curls falling around her face. She's holding something in her hands—a small tin box, rusted and old.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps. Our eyes meet.
"I found something," she says. "In the greenhouse."
