“Because,” he said finally, “I’m tired of pretending I don’t care what happens to you.”
The admission hung between them like a bridge they were both afraid to cross. She wanted to ask what it meant, wanted to demand clarity about where they stood and what he wanted from her.
Instead, she just said, “Where do you want to go first?”
“Surprise me.”
So she did. She directed him to a small art gallery in SoHo, a place she’d discovered during her college years and always meant to revisit. It was quiet and peaceful, filled with the work of emerging artists that was more about passion than profit.
Viktor followed her through the exhibits, his presence both protective and distracting. He asked thoughtful questions about the pieces that caught her attention, listened to her explanations about technique and artistic movement with genuine interest.
“You know a lot about this,” he said as they paused in front of an abstract painting that reminded her of storm clouds.
“I studied art history in college. Before... well, before everything got complicated.”
“You never finished your degree.”
It wasn’t a question. Of course he’d know that, just like he probably knew everything else about her life over the past four years.
“Hard to focus on academic pursuits when your family’s at war with half the other families in the city,” she said with a bitter laugh.
“Is that what you want to do? Go back to school?”
The question caught her off guard. No one had asked her what she wanted in years. Everything had been about duty, about family obligations, about playing whatever role was required of her.
“Maybe,” she said honestly. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about what I want in a long time.”
“You should think about it.”
There was something in his voice that made her look at him more closely. For just a moment, his mask slipped, and she saw something that might have been regret in his eyes.
“Viktor—”
“Come on,” he said, the moment already passing. “I’m buying you lunch.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a strange sort of truce. They wandered through bookstores and boutiques, had coffee at a sidewalk café, and even stopped at a street vendor for pretzels like they were tourists instead of two people with more baggage than most international flights.
It felt like before. Like those early days when they were just Viktor and Anna, two people falling in love without the weight of family names and ancient grudges between them.
But as the sun began to set and they made their way back to the car, reality started creeping back in. They weren’t those people anymore. Too much had happened, too many wounds had been inflicted for them to simply pick up where they’d left off.
“Thank you,” she said as Viktor pulled into their garage. “For today, I mean. I needed this more than I realized.”
“You’re welcome.”
They sat there in the growing darkness for a moment, both of them reluctant to break the fragile peace they’d managed to build.
“Viktor,” she said finally, “about the other night...”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Yes, we do. We can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”
He turned to look at her, and in the dim light of the garage, his eyes looked almost vulnerable.
“What do you want me to say, Anka? That it meant something? That I’m sorry? That I wish it had never happened?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
