"You'd be surprised." His gaze drifted to the window, to the darkness beyond. "Pankratov has resources. Reach. If he wanted to get to you badly enough, he'd find a way. So I watch. I make sure."
The reminder of why I was here—the danger I still didn't fully understand—sent a chill through me. I pulled my robe tighter around my shoulders.
"Tell me about her," I said. "Your mother."
He was quiet for a long moment. I thought he might refuse—might close down the way he had before, retreating behind that impenetrable mask. But then he spoke, his voice low in the lamplit darkness.
"She was gentle. Too gentle for this life." He stared into the empty fireplace as if he could see her there. "My father loved her, in his way. But he never protected her from what we were. She saw things. Knew things. It ate at her, year after year, until there was nothing left."
"And you blame yourself."
His eyes snapped to mine. "Why would you say that?"
"Because you said you found her. Not that she died, or that she killed herself—that you found her." I held his gaze, suddenly certain. "You think if you'd been there sooner. If you'd seen the signs. If you'd—"
"Enough." The word was sharp, but not angry. More like a wound being touched. "You're perceptive. I didn't expect that."
"You don't know me at all."
"I know more than you think." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I know you cry in your sleep sometimes. I know you love books, but never let yourself finish them, because you're afraid of endings. I know your father made you feel like nothing you did was ever enough, and you've spent your whole life trying to prove him wrong."
Each observation landed like an arrow. He'd been watching me for so long, learning me so thoroughly, that he knew things I'd never told anyone. Things I'd barely admitted to myself.
"That's not knowing me," I said, my voice unsteady. "That's surveillance."
"Maybe." He reached across the space between us, his fingers brushing my knee through the thin fabric of my robe. "But I'd like to know you. The real you. Not just the woman I've watched from a distance."
I should have pulled away. Should have reminded him that I was his prisoner, his captive, his unwilling wife. That no amount of late-night conversation could change what he'd done.
Instead, I found myself saying, "My father never hit me. Never yelled. He just... expected. Constantly. Perfectly. And when I failed—which I always did, because perfection isn't possible—he'd get this look. This disappointed silence that was worse than any punishment."
Vasily was quiet, listening.
"I got straight A's. Graduated top of my class. Got into Columbia on scholarship. And none of it was ever enough." I laughed bitterly. "You know what he said when I landed my job? The one I worked so hard for? He said, 'Marketing. Well, I suppose it's a start.'"
"He's a fool."
"He's my father."
"He can be both." Vasily's hand was still on my knee, warm through the silk. "You're worth more than his approval, Gabrielle. You always were."
The words hit something soft inside me. Some wounded place that still craved validation, still ached for someone to see my efforts and call them enough.
I stood abruptly, breaking the contact. "I should go to bed."
He didn't try to stop me. Just sat there in the lamplight, watching me with those green eyes that seemed to see everything I wanted to hide.
"Gabrielle."
I paused at the door.
"Thank you. For sitting with me tonight."
I didn't answer. Didn't trust my voice to hold steady. I just nodded once and fled.
***
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my hands to my face.
