"Do you love him?" The question is soft, almost hesitant.
Do I? I think about Roman's piercing blue eyes, the way they soften when he looks at me despite the cold calculation that usually defines them. I think about his hands—capable of such violence, yet surprisingly gentle when they touch my skin. The controlled power in the way he moves, the accent that thickens when he's aroused, the possessive hunger in his gaze when he watches me across a room.
I'm wildly attracted to him. But love? I'm not ready to examine that emotion yet.
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm trying to make this work. For all of us."
My phone rings before Megan can respond, the screen lighting up with a Russian number that makes my chest tight with longing. Babushka Sasha. I answer with shaking hands, switching to FaceTime so she can see me.
Her lined face fills the screen, and the moment she takes in my appearance, tears stream down her weathered cheeks."Vnuchka," she breathes, her voice thick with emotion. "You look just like your mother on her wedding day. So beautiful, it hurts my heart."
My throat closes with unshed tears. "I wish you could be here, Babushka. I wish you and Mama both could be here."
"I am there,malyshka. In your heart, always." She wipes her face with a trembling hand. "Your mother would be so proud. Not just of how you look, but of your strength. The way you've survived, the way you've protected Alexei and me. You are steel wrapped in silk, just like she was."
The comparison makes my chest ache. I think about my mother, about watching her waste away while insurance companies found creative ways to deny coverage. About the debt that crushed me, that led me to Roman's office, that changed everything.
"Babushka, I'm scared," I whisper, my voice cracking. "What if I'm making a mistake? What if?—"
"Listen to me." Her voice becomes firm, the tone she used when I was a child and needed guidance. "Love grows where respect is planted. Your Roman, he is a hard man,da? But he respects you. I see it in the way he speaks of you, the way he's protected our family. Give him your loyalty,vnuchka, and demand his in return. That is how marriages survive."
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. We talk for a few more minutes, her voice washing over me with old Russian wisdom about marriage, strength, and the importance of standing firm even when you're terrified. When we finally say goodbye, I'm crying openly, and Megan has to repair my makeup with gentle efficiency.
The door bursts open without warning, and Alexei stands frozen in the doorway. His sixteen-year-old face is stunned into silence, his blue eyes wide with shock. He's wearing a suit that Roman bought him, expensive and perfectly tailored, and he looks so grown up, it makes my heart ache.
"Eva," he breathes, his voice cracking. "You look just like Mama."
The words break something in my chest. I open my arms, and he crosses the room in three strides, pulling me into a careful embrace that's mindful of my dress. His shoulders shake with silent sobs, and I hold him tighter, this boy I've sacrificed everything to protect.
"She'd be so proud of you," I whisper against his blond hair. "Of the man you're becoming. Of your brilliance, your kindness, your strength."
"I miss her." His voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Every day, I miss her. And I'm so scared of losing you too."
"You're not losing me." I pull back, cupping his face with both hands. "I'm just gaining a husband. You're still my little brother. That will never change."
Alexei's throat works as he swallows. "Do you love him? Roman?"
That question again.
"I'm trying to," I say honestly. "He's not an easy man to love. But I'm trying."
Alexei nods, seeming to accept this. We talk about our mother for a few more minutes, sharing memories that make us both laugh and cry. How she used to sing while she cooked, thoseold folk songs her grandmother taught her. The way she'd braid my hair before school, her fingers gentle and patient. How she believed in America as the land of opportunity, even as it destroyed her with medical debt.
"She'd want you to be happy," Alexei finally says. "Whatever that looks like. Even if it's with a dangerous man who keeps people prisoner in his basement."
The observation is so blunt, so typically Alexei, that I laugh despite everything. "He released Tyler. And you. And Megan."
"With security details following us everywhere." But Alexei's smile is genuine, teasing. "At least the guards Roman assigned to me are teaching me self-defense. That's pretty cool."
A soft knock interrupts our moment. The door opens to reveal Irina Titova, elegant in a designer dress. Her dark hair is swept up in a sophisticated chignon, and her green eyes assess me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Eva, you look beautiful," she says, her voice perfectly modulated. But I remember Katya's warning from last night, the concern in her blue eyes when she told me to be careful.That's not simple dislike. That's hatred.
"Thank you." I keep my voice polite, professional, even though my skin prickles with unease.
Irina holds out a small wrapped box, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "A gift. For luck. Something borrowed, as the Americans say."
I unwrap it with careful fingers to find a delicate hair comb, antique and beautiful. The silver is tarnished with age, and tiny pearls are set into the intricate design. It's the kind of heirloomthat should mean something, that should carry history and significance.
