But there's another list. The one I don't want to think about.
He saved me from Sergei. From a fate that makes my stomach turn every time I consider it.
He's been honest since I arrived—brutally so. Every question I've asked, he's answered. Every truth I've demanded, he's given.
He helped me in the greenhouse. Got his hands dirty, moved heavy pots, told me about his mother. Showed me a version of himself that doesn't fit with the monster I'm trying to make him into.
He touched my face like I was something precious. And when I didn't respond, he stopped. Apologized. Let me go.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push back the confusion. This is textbook, I tell myself. Stockholm syndrome. Trauma bonding. He's my captor, my only source of safety in a terrifying situation, and my brain is doing what brains do—forming attachments to survive.
It's not real. It can't be real.
But my body doesn't seem to care about psychology. My body remembers the way he felt pressed against me on the dance floor two years ago. The way his mouth tasted when he kissed me goodbye. The way his hands used to trace my curves like he was memorizing them.
My body is a traitor.
I stop pacing and stare out the window at the dark grounds below. A guard passes beneath me, his footsteps crunching on the gravel, steady as a heartbeat. Somewhere out there, Sergei Morozov is planning to take me back. Somewhere out there, my father is counting his money and pretending he doesn't have a daughter.
And here I am, trapped between two worlds, belonging to neither.
***
Morning comes slowly, gray light seeping through the windows.
I've barely slept—just fitful dozing interrupted by dreams I don't want to examine. Dreams of hands on my skin, of ice-blue eyes in the darkness, of wanting something I have no right to want. My eyes are gritty, my muscles stiff from tension. But I force myself out of bed, force myself through the motions of showering and dressing.
The greenhouse. I need the greenhouse.
Work is the only thing that quiets my mind. The physical labor, the dirt under my fingernails, the simple satisfaction of clearing away dead things and making space for something new. It's the closest I've felt to normal since the auction.
I'm halfway down the stairs when I notice the silence.
The house is always quiet, but this is different. Emptier. The usual sounds of staff moving through the corridors, the distant murmur of voices from the security office—all of it is muted, subdued.
Mrs. Novak appears at the bottom of the stairs, a breakfast tray in her hands.
"Good morning, Bianca. I was just coming to find you."
"What's going on?" I ask. "Where is everyone?"
Something flickers across her face—hesitation, maybe. Or concern.
"Mr. Kashkin left early this morning. Business that required his personal attention."
Business. The word is carefully neutral, but I understand what it means. Something violent. Something he couldn't delegate.
"When will he be back?"
"He didn't say."
I should feel relieved. His absence means space to breathe, room to think without the constant weight of his presence. But instead, I feel his absence like a missing tooth—a gap where something used to be, impossible to ignore.
I hate that I feel it. Hate that I've become so attuned to him that his absence registers in my body before my mind can catch up.
I take the tray from Mrs. Novak's hands. "Thank you. I'll eat in the greenhouse."
She nods, and if she thinks it's strange that I'm taking breakfast to a half-dead garden, she doesn't show it. "I'll have lunch sent out as well. It's supposed to rain this afternoon—you'll want to come inside before the storm hits."
