The kitchen is spotless, counters wiped down, no sign of life except the faint hum of the refrigerator. A small knot tightens in my chest. Too quiet is the theme of my life lately. I shake it off and move on autopilot, opening cabinets, pulling out what I need.
I make something simple—black bread, a little butter, slices of cheese, and cucumbers sprinkled with salt. It’s what I ate growing up, what Nadia made when I didn’t want anything heavy before rehearsals. I pour myself a small glass of kefir and sit at the table alone.
I eat slowly, listening to the sound of my own breathing, the scrape of the knife against the plate. My thoughts try to wander—to Vladimir, to Alexi, to everything I’m still pretending hasn’t cracked my world open—but I push them aside—one thing at a time.
When I finish, I rinse my plate and glass, then leave them on the drying rack, as Nadia taught me. Then I wipe my hands on a towel and walk down the hall toward my father’s office.
I knock once before opening the door to my father’s office, though I don’t wait for an answer. I never have. The room smells faintly of leather and old paper, a scent so familiar it feels woven into my childhood. Alexandr looks up from behind his desk, his sharp eyes softening when they land on me.
“Anya,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I do, folding my hands in my lap, my posture straight out of habit. He studies me for a moment, the way he always does, like he’s cataloging every breath, every flicker of emotion.
“Are you ready for tonight’s performance?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m excited.”
He nods approvingly. “Many of the staff will be attending this evening. They insist on seeing you dance after hearing of your previous performance.”
Warmth spreads through my chest despite myself. “That’s kind of them.” I imagine that is why I couldn’t find Nadia. She was likely getting ready to leave for the theater.
“You were wonderful,” he continues. “Truly exceptional. The control, the emotion—everything was perfect.” His voice lowers, becomes more personal. “I am very proud of you, Anya.”
Praise from my father is rare, and it lands heavily. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
His expression shifts then, the warmth giving way to something sharper. “I heard about the attack,” he says. “And that Vladimir insisted on driving you to the theater and back.”
My shoulders tense. “He offered. It seemed sensible.”
“Hm.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “How are you doing? Not just physically. After what happened. After the murders.”
The question surprises me. Not because he asked, but because part of him seems genuinely interested in the answer. I take a breath, choosing my words carefully.
“I’m worried,” I admit. “Those men—if Vladimir hadn’t been there…” My throat tightens, and I force myself to continue. “They were almost proud of what they were going to do. It made me realize how little control I might have over my future.”
Alexandr watches me closely, silent.
“I’m scared that whoever you choose to replace Alexi might treat me the same way,” I say. “That I’ll just be… something to be owned. Used.”
The air in the room grows heavy. My father’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple.
“That will not happen,” he says firmly. “I would never allow my daughter to be mistreated.”
“You chose those men once,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes harden, but he doesn’t raise his voice. “I made decisions based on strength and loyalty. I did not know they would behave like animals.”
“They didn’t become animals overnight,” I reply softly.
For a moment, I think he might explode. Instead, he exhales slowly.
“I have someone in mind,” he says. “Someone who understands respect. Someone who will treat you like the jewel you are.”
My heart stutters. “Who?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Papa—”
