The loss is immediate and physical—my skin aches where his hands were, my lungs stutter as if they've forgotten how to function without him nearby. The space between us fills with cold air.
I walk away, knowing that resistance helps no one, that defiance is a report, and that Ivan's eyes are on me, asking me to be what he cannot be right now: controlled.
At the doorway, I turn back.
Ivan stands in the center of the room under harsh light, alone.
From a distance, he resembles the prince I met four years ago: cold, composed, untouchable.
But I know what lies beneath the mask now.
I know the man who pulled me onto a bed and urged me to take what I wanted.
I know the man who refused to leave me on a burning walkway.
I know the man who said we go together and meant it.
"Survive," I say one last time.
His eyes flicker—just once.
A yes.
Then the door closes, and the room swallows him.
The walk to the vehicle blurs into corridors, locks, and footsteps. Gray morning light filters through narrow windows. Guards remain silent. My body instinctively compartmentalizes, narrows its focus, and executes.
A black SUV waits in the courtyard.
Tinted windows. Clean interior. The kind of vehicle that carries people to places they don't return from, but this time, the destination is not death.
It is storage.
A guard opens the rear door.
I get in.
The leather seat is cold. The air is brisk. The smell of disinfectant and new car scent makes my stomach turn.
The door shuts with a final, sealing sound.
The engine starts.
We move.
Through the tinted glass, I watch the Estate glide past—stone and timber, trimmed hedges concealing cameras and weapons, the wealth that disguises violence as civility.
Then I see him.
Not Sergei. Ivan.
Ivan stands on the steps near the wing entrance, his dark coat hanging open as if he threw it on absentmindedly. He's too far away for me to read his expression, but I can interpret his posture because I've observed it for four years.
Still.
Rigid.
Held together by sheer force.
