"You did the work. I just gave you the space to become what you already were."
Mid-morning, Sergei calls with news: Anton spotted at Lincoln Center with what they think are final construction deliveries. Large crates brought into the underground spaces via service entrance. He's finished building whatever elaborate trap he's prepared.
Sergei says. "Whatever he's planning, it's ready."
We pack in silence. Two weeks of clothes, training gear, the life we built in this isolated sanctuary. Loading into armored SUVs for the two-hour drive back to Philadelphia.
"When we face him," I say during the drive, watching Pennsylvania forest give way to suburbs, "I won't just be bait. I'll be part of the takedown."
Maksim's hand finds mine. "I know."
We return to the Philadelphia mansion at 4:00 PM. One week before Halloween. The final countdown begins.
That night, in his master suite, Maksim makes love to me with reverent intensity. Like memorizing every inch, every response, every moment.
"Whatever happens Saturday," he says after, both of us breathless, "I need you to know—these two weeks were the happiest I've been since Elena died. Maybe the happiest I've ever been."
"Don't talk like we're not coming back from Lincoln Center."
"I'm not. I'm promising we will. Together." He traces my name on my shoulder.
"I like that plan."
Seven days until Lincoln Center.
Seven days until Anton Kozlov learns that broken ballerinas can become warriors.
And warriors don't just survive.
They conquer.
Chapter ten
The Foundation
Maksim
I wake at 6:00 AM to an empty bed.
Not unusual. Sonya's internal clock runs on dancer's time—early mornings, disciplined routines, the kind of schedule that doesn't care about exhaustion or late nights or the fact that we made love twice before sleeping.
I find her in the third-floor studio at 7:00 AM, already warming up at the barre. She's wearing black leggings and a simple sports bra, her hair pulled into a tight bun. The morning light streams through the windows, turning her into a study in shadows and grace.
I lean against the doorframe, watching. This has become our pattern over the past two weeks at the safe house—her dancing while I work nearby, both of us in the same space but focused on our separate preparations. Now we're back in Philadelphia with six days until Halloween, and the routine continues.
She moves through her exercises with precision. Pliés, tendus, dégagés. Building from simple to complex. Every movement controlled, powerful, exactly what a principal dancer should be.
She's ready. More than ready.
At 10:00 AM, she finishes. Walks to the corner where I've placed water and a towel, drinks deeply, stretches her neck.
"Good practice?" I ask.
"Getting there. Six more days." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "I need to be flawless."
"You already are."
"For Lincoln Center, I need to be better than that." She towels off her face. "I need to be dangerous."
