“I’m late,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I have a performance.”
Alexi blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Anya, you were just kidnapped.”
“I know.” My hands tremble, but my resolve doesn’t. “He doesn’t get to take this from me, too.”
“Anya,” Alexi says carefully, stepping closer. “You’re in shock. You need to rest. We can cancel—”
“No.” I lift my chin, meeting my brother’s eyes. “If I don’t go on stage, he wins. I won’t let that happen.”
Silence stretches tight between us.
Vladimir studies me, really looks at me, as if weighing something heavy and important. Then he nods once.
“I’ll take her,” he says.
Alexi turns to him sharply. “Vladimir—”
“I’ll get her there,” Vladimir continues, his voice calm but unyielding. “And I’ll stay with her.”
I look at him, gratitude swelling so fiercely it almost hurts.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He offers me his arm, steady and sure. “Come on, moya malen’kaya voitelnitsa,” he says softly. “Let’s get you to the theater.”
I preen at him calling me his little warrior. By the time I slip through the stage door, the familiar hush of the theater wraps around me like a held breath. I’m late—only by minutes—but it feels monumental after everything that’s happened. The corridors buzz with quiet urgency. Stagehands glide past with headsets and clipboards, dancers stretch in corners, and the sharp scent of rosin and hairspray anchors me to something solid and known.
I rush to put on my costume, leaving Vladimir to find his seat.
Silk clings to my skin, the bodice fitted just right, the skirt whispering when I move. My hair is pinned, my makeup flawless—evidence of muscle memory and discipline taking over when my mind threatened to fracture. No one asks questions. They never do. On this side of the curtain, there is only the work.
I take my place in the wings as the orchestra begins the overture. The music swells, rich and familiar, vibrating through the soles of my shoes and straight into my bones.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I shove Igor out of my mind with ruthless precision. The apartment. The syringe. The look in his eyes. All of it gets locked away behind a door I refuse to open. The Bratva follows—my father, the blood, the secrets, the weight of it all. None of it belongs to me here.
Here, I am someone else.
When the curtain rises, I step into the light, and the world narrows to movement and sound. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget. Every turn, every extension, every controlled breath pulls me deeper into the role. The audience disappears. Fear dissolves. There is only the music and the story unfolding through my limbs.
I lose myself.
Almost.
Because no matter how fiercely I focus, one thought slips through the cracks.
Vladimir.
I feel him the way I feel the rhythm—steady, grounding, impossible to ignore. I imagine him somewhere in the darkened theater, watching with that intense, unreadable gaze of his. I picture his hands, warm and sure, the way he held my face earlier, anchoring me when the world spun out of control.
When I leap, I think of trust.
When I land, I think of safety.
It startles me, how comforting that is.
The performance flies by in a blur of motion and emotion. The final notes ring out, and the curtain falls to thunderous applause. My chest heaves as I bow, sweat cooling on my skin, adrenaline rushing through me in a way that feels clean and earned.
