When the door cracks open, I clap a hand over my mouth to smother a yelp.
Mom steps back into the hall to make space for the two of us.
Kirill slips out first. After checking the corridor, he reaches a hand back for me. He positions his body between me and the unknown.
My mother watches the way he moves, filing it somewhere deep. “I know men like you.” Her icy, even voice contains a dry edge.
Kirill just meets her stare. “And I know women like you.”
She almost smiles. “No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have allowed my daughter to get caught in the cross fire.”
He maintains her gaze but can’t argue.
A warm, fierce, and unexpected emotion creeps up from my chest. Love, I think. For the woman who constructed walls to protect me, who never let the real world in unless she could curate it first. Who tried so hard to keep me safe, even as I fought to break away.
She shifts to me, and for the first time in years, she really sees me. Her expression softens. Understanding, regret, and perhaps relief sweep over her features. Maybe she’s always known I’d have to run.
“The storage room with your father’s things is this way. Richard is with the governor. I’ll shut off the cameras so nothing gets recorded.” She checks her watch. “You have twenty minutes before he wonders where I’ve gone. Move quickly.”
I can’t stop myself. I lurch forward and wrap her up in a hard hug.
She squeezes for a split second before letting go and retreating a step.
I swallow down the rising sting of tears. “Thank you.”
She brushes her thumb along my cheek. “Let’s go get what you need. And Jordan?” Her eyes flick to Kirill, then back to me. “Be careful who you trust.”
Chapter 32
Kirill
I follow Eleanor and Jordan down the silent corridor, every sense stretched taut as a wire.
I’ve never been so far outside my comfort zone. Led by a woman. Saved by a socialite. Sneaking down halls instead of kicking in doors.
Somewhere along the way, we went from marble to carpeting. The heavy paintings and wallpaper have vanished. Now the walls feature simple, bare paint and wainscoting. No windows here.
We’re in the center of the estate. Buried in the heart of the maze.
The thick carpet eats our footsteps as we approach a huge door. Eleanor types out a code that must be at least twelve digits long. The lock gives with a soft, barely audible click.
As the door swings open, the whole tenor of the air shifts.
Eleanor glances down the hall. “Twenty minutes. I hope I get to see you after this too. Don’t be a stranger. We have so much to catch up on.”
She vanishes down the corridor to return to her gala, to her life of pretty lies.
The quiet room past the door holds dark wooden filing cabinets, cloth-covered furniture, and stacks of books and paperwork.
A mausoleum for things people kill to protect.
Muted sound comes from the party below. Faraway laughter, a pulse of voices, and fragments of violin drift up the stairwells and die here on the deep carpet.
There’s a sense of being underwater. Or behind glass.
Trapped in an aquarium of silence.
Jordan stands at the center of the room, unmoving. Her gaze skims over the desk, sweeping over the neatly arrayed books, the paintings gleaming in tarnished silver, and the pens lined up like a firing squad.
