I eat in silence, hyperaware of him six feet away.
The rest of Monday passes with us carefully avoiding each other despite living in the same house.
Tuesday, October 5th:
I explore more. Find the wine cellar, the gym, the smaller breakfast room. While he's in his office on calls, I find his private study on the second floor.
The door is ajar. I shouldn't go in.
I go in.
There's only one photo on his desk. Elena, pregnant and glowing in a silver frame. No other pictures anywhere in the entire mansion.
Just this one.
I stare at her face. Beautiful, dark-haired, visibly happy. The woman Maksim loved enough to spend fifteen years frozen in grief.
"You're trespassing."
I spin. Maksim stands in the doorway, expression unreadable.
"The door was open."
"That doesn't make it an invitation."
"I'm sorry. I just—" I look at Elena's photo. "She was beautiful."
"Yes." He moves into the room, standing beside me at the desk. "We met when her company performed here in Philadelphia. I saw her dance and—" He stops. "I pursued her relentlessly. Convinced her to marry me, to move here. She gave up her company, her city, her life in Moscow for me. And seven months after she arrived, she was dead."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it? Anton was obsessed with her and he killed her because I took her from him." His voice is hollow. "If she'd stayed in Moscow, stayed with the Bolshoi, maybe she'd still be alive."
The words hang heavy between us.
"You can't know that, and it was her choice. Anton killed her. Not you," I say quietly.
"I brought her here. Made her vulnerable. Failed to protect her." He steps back from the desk. "Same thing."
"I should go," I say, moving toward the door.
"The locked door in the east wing," he says, stopping me. "That's her studio. Where she practiced every day when she lived here. I had it built for her when we moved from Moscow—tried to recreate what she had there. Every barre positioned exactly where she wanted it, mirrors where she needed them. She spent hours in there." His voice roughens. "After she died, I couldn't change anything. Couldn't move a single thing. Haven't been inside since her funeral."
"Why keep it locked if it was hers?"
"Because walking in there means accepting that she's never coming back. As long as it's locked, I can pretend she's just... away. Performing somewhere. Coming home soon."
Fifteen years of pretending.
Wednesday, October 6th:
The tension is unbearable.
He works from the dining table instead of his office. Says he has papers to review, but his eyes follow me constantly as I move through the room with my laptop.
I feel his gaze on me every second.
At lunch, we both reach for the water pitcher. Our hands brush.
