“If you decide not to go, then we have a different conversation,” I answer.
She tilts her head. “About what, exactly?”
“About what staying here actually means,” I say. “It would not be simple. Your father would not see it as simple.”
“You think he would disown me?” she asks.
“I think it is possible,” I reply. “I am not going to lie to you about that.”
She nods slowly. “I have considered that.”
“You do not have to decide this second,” I offer.
“Yes, I do,” she says sighing, and there is something firm in her voice that was not there before. “If I wait until he is standing in front of me, I will fall back into what I have always done.”
“And what is that?” I ask.
“I will do what is expected of me,” she answers. “I will not ask myself what I want.”
I gesture toward the patio. “Come outside with me. I would rather not have this conversation in a hallway.”
She hesitates briefly, then follows me out into the morning air. The sun is climbing into the blue sky. The world feels ordinary in a way that almost seems inappropriate for the situation. I take a seat in one of the patio chairs on the back porch and she takes a seat in the seat across from mine. “If you go with him,” I finally say, facing her, “You go with him because you want to, not because he expects you to. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the life you have always known. I’m sure it’s a good life. But, and really listen to me Anya, if that isn’t what you want anymore, you can make a different choice.”
Her eyes flash then she looks to the side biting her lip in thought. “And what if I do not know what I want?” she asks.
“Then at least you’re being honest,” I answer.
“And what if what I want costs me my father?” she presses.
“You cannot live two separate lives forever,” I say. “At some point you have to choose the one you can live with.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and before she can respond, I see the sedan slow at the gate on the monitor inside.
“That is him, isn’t it?” I ask as we step back in.
“Yes,” she says without hesitation.
I press the intercom. “State your business.”
The driver lowers the window halfway. “Viktor Dragunov.”
I glance at Anastasiya and she stands straight, pale but steady.
I press the button and the gate slides open and the sedan rolls forward and stops in front of the house. I step outside before the engine cuts. The driver exits first. Then the rear door opens and Viktor Dragunov steps out. He is older than me, silver threading through dark hair, posture straight, coat tailored. He takes in the property with a single measured look. Then his eyes settle on me. “Riot,” he says.
“That is correct,” I reply.
“You told me that if I came as a father, your door would be open,” he says.
“It is open,” I answer.
“And if I had not come as a father?”
“You would not have made it through the gate,” I tell him evenly.
The driver shifts slightly, but Viktor remains still. “She told me you saved her,” he says.
“I pulled her out of that warehouse,” I reply. “She kept herself alive.”
