If I say no, I betray Maksim in a way that cannot be repaired. I prove the file right.
I think of the cabin. The storm. His mouth on mine. How he asked me to move as if it mattered. How he held my hand in the car as we drove toward the estate, as if we were marching to our own execution.
I think of the scars on his back and the bruises on his ribs, all earned for me.
"Yes," I say.
The word emerges rough, scraped from somewhere beneath my armor.
"I love him."
Something shifts in Sergei's expression.
Not anger. Not shock.
Disgust.
It's subtle—a tightening around his mouth, a narrowing of his eyes—but I have spent my whole life learning the micro-movements of my father's face.
"You have confused ownership with dependence," Sergei says quietly.
The edge in his voice is new now. Sharp enough to cut.
"You designed a tool for your own use," he continues, "and then you allowed that tool to become a crutch. A weakness. Something enemies can use to steer you."
"Father—"
"Boris already has," Sergei says, gesturing toward the tablet. "This footage didn't appear by accident. Your uncle sent it to me as proof that you are compromised, that your judgment cannot be trusted, and that you are unfit to inherit."
Unfit.
The word lands like a punch to the
throat—not because I didn't expect it, but because it embodies the verdict I have spent my entire life trying to avoid.
I feel something crack inside me—a foundational belief that has supported my self-image for years.
But I can't fall apart. Not here. Not with Maksim beside me.
"Boris is the unfit one," I assert, relieved that my voice remains steady. "He's the one who tried to kill me and has been stealing from the organization for years."
Sergei's eyes remain fixed on me.
"Do you have proof?"
"Yes."
I reach for the bag the guards allowed us to bring—Sergei wanted this conversation, and control requires props.
I pull out the laptop, the printed ledgers, and the transfer summaries we compiled from three hubs.
I lay them out on the table, forcing my hands to stay steady.
"Transaction logs," I explain. "Distribution reconciliations. Shell routing. The embezzlement goes back years."
I flip to the most critical pages.
"And this—" I tap a part of the ledger where names have been redacted but payment memos remain—"is payroll. Contractor disbursements. The men who attacked me were paid through intermediaries Boris controls, and the same accounts appear across multiple locations."
