"Training. Time. Access to a proper studio." Her hand finds mine again. "And you. I need you not pushing me away because you're afraid. I need you with me."
"You almost died yesterday."
"And I'll almost die in three weeks if we don't prepare." She meets my eyes. "I'm going to Lincoln Center, Maksim. We'll do it together, or I'll find a way to do it alone."
Against medical advice, she checks herself out at noon.
Dr. Murayama protests. Lists complications, risks, the fact that she should be hospitalized for at least forty-eight hours. Sonya signs the discharge papers anyway, her hand steady despite the tremor I can see underneath.
"I'll have private medical care," she tells the doctor. "The best money can buy. But I need to go home."
We take the helicopter back to Philadelphia. She's weak, leaning against me in the seat, but she can't stop moving. Can't settle. Processing Anton's revelation, the scope of his obsession, the fact that he's been orchestrating her isolation for five years.
She leans her head on my shoulder. "Take me home."
"Philadelphia?"
"Wherever you are. That's home now."
The words settle something in my chest. Ease something that's been tight since I found that note on her pillow—no, since Elena died fifteen years ago. Since I stopped believing home was a place instead of a person.
But we both know the truth: in three weeks, we face Anton at Juilliard Theater in Lincoln Center. Halloween night. Act II of his twisted performance.
And this time, Sonya needs to be ready. Not just protected.
"When we get back to Philadelphia, we're moving you," I say quietly. "Safe house in the Poconos. Two hours north, remote, secure. I'll have a full studio built—barres, mirrors, proper flooring. Everything you need to train."
"Train for what?" She doesn't open her eyes. "To dance or to fight?"
"Both. I'll teach you everything I know. Three weeks of intensive preparation before Halloween."
"You're going to teach me to fight." It's not a question.
"I'm going to teach you to survive. And then—" I trace her name on her palm one more time. "—I'm going to teach you how to end him."
She's asleep before we land, exhausted from the hospital, the poison, the revelation. I carry her off the helicopter, through my mansion, up to my master suite.
Not the guest room. Mine.
Where she belongs.
Sonya sleeps for fourteen hours straight. I sit beside her, tracing her name on every surface I can reach, and plan.
Three weeks until Halloween.
Three weeks to prepare to face the monster who made us both.
Anton Kozlov wants a performance at Lincoln Center? He'll get one.
But the ending won't be what he choreographed.
Chapter nine
Safe House Secrets
Sonya
The safe house is two hours north of Philadelphia, deep in the Poconos where civilization thins to scattered cabins and endless forest. We arrive at 4:00 PM Monday in an armored convoy—three SUVs, eight guards, enough firepower to invade a small country.
