“I always behave,” he replies.
She arches a brow in silent disbelief, then leans up and kisses his cheek before gathering her purse.
Roman walks her to the back door and I stay where I am, standing in the quiet kitchen, her words echoing inside me long after the door closes. You deserve to have a say in your life. No one has ever told me that before.
I stand there for a minute after the door closes behind Irina, the kitchen suddenly quieter without her laughter filling it. Roman says something low as he comes back in, but I don’t quite catch it. My mind is still wrapped around her words.
You deserve to have a say in your life.
I murmur something about needing to get dressed and slip down the hallway to the guest room. The bed is still slightly rumpled from the night before, the blanket half folded where Roman tucked it around me. I pause for a second, pressing my palm against the mattress like I’m grounding myself, then open the small bag of clothes and pull out something simple to change into.
Inside the bathroom, I lock the door out of habit before turning on the shower. Steam fills the small space quickly, fogging the mirror and softening the sharp edges of everything. I step under the hot water and let it hit my shoulders, then my face, closing my eyes as the heat sinks into muscles that still feel tight from weeks of tension.
I let the water run until the bathroom fills with steam and the mirror disappears completely, until there’s nothing reflected back at me but heat and blur. My skin turns pink where the spray hits it, and the bruises along my arms look softer now, muted instead of violent. They’re no longer that deep, angry purple. They’re fading into yellow and green, into something quieter. Healing. Proof that time keeps moving whether I am ready for it or not, whether I want it to or not.
Irina’s voice keeps circling in my head, calm and steady, the way she said it without judgment.You deserve to have a say in your life.I rest my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes, letting the water run over my back while I try to breathe throughthe tightness in my chest. I could never disobey my father. The thought isn’t dramatic or rebellious. It’s instinctive. Immediate. It settles into me like law. Loyalty in my family is not a suggestion. It is structure. It is survival. My father does not need to demand obedience because it has always been understood.
If I chose something he did not approve of, if I stayed here when he expected me to return, if I stepped outside the plan that has been in place for me since I was old enough to understand what alliances mean, he would disown me. Not in a rage. Not with shouting or threats. He would simply remove me, clean and precise, like a decision that no longer serves its purpose. The word itself feels heavier than it should. Disown. Not anger. Finality. A quiet severing that cannot be undone.
I swallow hard under the spray and lift my face into the water. And yet the question won’t go away. What do I even want? It feels reckless to ask it, almost childish. I have always known what was required of me. Where to stand. When to speak. Who to smile at. Which futures were acceptable and which were not. My life has been mapped out in careful lines, and I have followed them because that is what daughters like me do.
But if none of that existed, if I woke up tomorrow and the only question waiting for me was what would make me happy, what would I choose? I try to picture it and struggle at first because there has never been space for imagination. Maybe a life where my last name does not enter the room before I do. A place where no one looks at me and sees leverage. Maybe mornings that look like today, with coffee and laughter and someone’s mother teasing him about wearing a coat in winter. Or maybe something even simpler than that. Quiet. Peace. The freedom to make a mistake that only belongs to me.
The water pounds against my shoulders, and I press my palms flat against the tile to steady myself. If I choose myself, I lose my father. If I go back without question, I lose whatever part of me is starting to wake up here. And standing in the steam with the bruises fading on my skin and the future pressing in from both sides, I don’t know which loss would hurt more.
SIX
RIOT
The house goesquiet after the shower shuts off, and I stand at the sink with a dish towel in my hand, dragging it over mugs that have already air-dried. I keep wiping anyway because it gives me something to do while I listen. The pipes tick behind the walls. The bathroom door closes down the hall. The silence settles in a way that feels deliberate. My mother’s words earlier were calm and polished, but I saw the way Anastasiya’s expression shifted while she listened. She did not argue. She absorbed.
I move through the house on habit, checking the back door, glancing at the camera feeds, confirming the gate is locked. Men like Viktor Dragunov do not rush into unfamiliar ground without looking first. They observe. They wait. They decide. By the time I circle back to the kitchen, Anastasiya steps into the hallway in clean clothes, her blonde hair still damp and loose around her shoulders. She is not wearing makeup. The bruises along her skin are lighter now. They are fading.
She pauses when she sees me, and there is something measured in the way she holds herself, as if she has been turning the same thought over and over.
“Are you all right?” I ask, keeping my tone steady.
“Yes,” she says, and her voice does not shake, but it carries more weight than the word should.
“You have about an hour before his plane lands,” I tell her.
She studies my face. “You confirmed it?”
“I confirmed it,” I reply. “I do not rely on assumptions.”
She nods once, taking that in without spiraling.
I let a second pass before I say, “Are you going to leave with him?”
Her green eyes meet mine and hold. “I do not know.”
“Yesterday you would have answered that without hesitation,” I say quietly.
“Yesterday I was not thinking about what it would mean,” she answers.
“You do not owe me anything,” I tell her, stepping closer but leaving space between us. “If you want to go with him, you go. I will not stand in your way.”
“And if I decide not to go?” she asks, her jaw tightening slightly.
