"You're not trapped," I say. "I told you—when this is over—"
"When this is over." She sets down her glass with more force than necessary. "And when will that be? When Sergei is dead? When every enemy you have is neutralized? In this world, is it ever really over?"
I don't answer. We both know the truth.
"I had a life," she says, and now there's heat in her voice. "A future. I was going to be a cardiac surgeon. I was going to save lives, Misha. And now I'm gardening in a dead woman's greenhouse because it's the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind."
"Bianca—"
"I'm not ungrateful." She cuts me off, her jaw tight. "I know what would have happened if you hadn't been at that auction. I know what Sergei would have done to me. But understanding that doesn't make this easier. It doesn't make me want this life."
The words hang between us. She's not wrong. She didn't choose any of this—not her father's betrayal, not the auction, not me. She's here because she has no other options, and pretending otherwise is a lie we've both been telling.
"I'm working on a way to get you back to school," I say quietly. "Security would be complicated, but it's not impossible. When Sergei is dealt with—"
"If."
"When." I hold her gaze. "I don't make promises I can't keep. When he's dealt with, you'll have options. Real ones. Not just the ones I've given you."
She stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers in her eyes—doubt, maybe. Or hope. I can't tell which.
"Why do you care?" she asks. "What I want. What happens to me after."
It's a dangerous question. The honest answer is more than I'm ready to give.
"Because you deserve better than this," I say. "Better than being sold, being trapped, being forced into a life you never wanted."
***
After dinner, I walk her toward the stairs.
It's not something I planned—it just happens, the two of us rising from the table at the same time, moving in the same direction, our footsteps falling into sync on the marble floor.
The hallway is dim, lit only by wall sconces that cast pools of amber light. The shadows between them feel thick, secretive. The kind of darkness that invites confession.
We stop at the bottom of the staircase—that threshold between public space and private. She has one hand on the banister, her face tilted up toward mine.
"Thank you," she says. "For today. For helping in the greenhouse. For dinner." She pauses. "Even if none of this is what I wanted."
"I know it isn't."
"Do you?" She searches my face. "Sometimes I can't tell if you see me as a person or a problem to be solved."
"You were never a problem."
"Then what am I?"
The question hangs in the air. I should step back. Should let her go upstairs alone, maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
Instead, I reach out and touch her face. Just my fingertips, tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm, and she doesn't pull away.
But she doesn't lean in either. Her body is tense, her breath shallow. Conflicted.
"Misha," she whispers, and my name in her mouth sounds like a warning.
"I know." I drop my hand. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't say it's okay. We both know it isn't.
