"One week. We'll reassess then."
I pack quickly—clothes, toiletries, my laptop for gallery work, the essentials. His men bring additional bags up from the gallery storage—things I keep there for late nights and emergencies.
When I'm ready, I take one last look at my apartment. At the home I built from the ruins of my dance career. At the sanctuary that suddenly doesn't feel safe anymore.
"Ready?" Maksim asks from the doorway.
"As I'll ever be."
The drive takes over two hours with the security convoy—his armored SUV surrounded by three additional vehicles. I sit beside him in tense silence, watching Manhattan disappear behind us.
I've never left my carefully constructed New York life since the Mariinsky destroyed me five years ago. I built the gallery, the apartment, the routine—all of it to feel safe again.
Now I'm leaving it behind.
"You've never been to Philadelphia," Maksim says, reading my expression.
"No. I’ve barely left Manhattan since I built the gallery during my second year in grad school at NYU."
"It's different from New York. Older. More history visible in the architecture." He's quiet for a moment. "My family has been in Philadelphia for three generations. The mansion was my grandfather's. I inherited it when I took over operations."
"And Elena lived there? With you?"
"For less than a year. We married in Moscow—her city, her choice. She moved here with me in early 2010. Got pregnant almost immediately." His jaw tightens. "Seven months later, she was dead. Anton followed her from Moscow. Killed her in our bedroom. In the house where we were supposed to raise our daughter."
The weight of that settles between us.
"You stayed in the house where she died?"
"I couldn't leave. It was the last place she lived. Where we were happy, even if only briefly." He's staring straight ahead now. "I turned it into a mausoleum instead of a home. Kept her studio exactly as she left it. Preserved everything. Couldn't move forward, couldn't let go."
"For fifteen years," I say quietly.
"For fifteen years."
We don't talk much after that. I watch Pennsylvania roll past—different from New York's energy, different landscape, different world.
Around 11 AM, Philadelphia appears. Maksim was right—it's older, with cobblestones, pre-war buildings, a city that wears its age proudly.
The mansion is in Rittenhouse Square, one of the most prestigious neighborhoods. The estate sits behind iron gates and high stone walls—imposing, historic, beautiful and threatening all at once.
The gates close behind us with finality.
Guards are everywhere—discreet but omnipresent. The mansion occupies nearly half a city block, with manicured grounds despite the urban setting.
It's masculine and cold. Expensive but unlived-in.
"Welcome to my home," Maksim says, but there's no warmth in his voice.
Inside is all dark woods, marble floors, ornate crown molding. Artwork that feels like investment rather than passion. No personal touches except what's missing.
Elena's ghost is everywhere in the absence.
No photos except—I'm betting—in one locked office. No warmth, no evidence anyone actually lives here. It's a museum of wealth and loneliness.
Maksim leads me through the grand entrance hall. Up a sweeping staircase. Through corridors that branch in every direction. To the west wing.
"You'll stay here," he says, opening a door to reveal the blue suite. Three rooms—bedroom, sitting room, private bath. Done in shades of blue and silver, elegant and impersonal. The bedroom alone is larger than my entire Manhattan apartment.
