“You are my daughter,” he continues more softly. “That will not ever change.”
“I know,” she replies.
He brushes a strand of hair back from her face. “Come, I will arrange accommodations for us.”
She looks at me, like she wants to know what I think. “That is your decision,” I tell her.
He meets my gaze, then steps aside to speak quietly with his driver. His voice drops low, controlled, the way it always does when he’s making decisions that affect everyone in the room. While he talks, Anastasiya’s shoulders ease. Not relaxed exactly. Just… steadier. As if something inside her finally clicks into place.
“I will go with you,” she says suddenly.
He exhales, dips his head, and gives her a small smile. Relief softens his features. “We will discuss everything properly.”
She turns to me. “I am going with him.”
“I heard.” My voice comes out even. I tilt my chin toward the house. “Come on. You should grab your things.”
She follows me upstairs. She goes to the room she was staying in while I pause outside my office for a second, step inside to grab something from my desk, then head down the hall to her room. She’s standing in the middle of it, looking at the bed, the dresser, the window. Like she’s trying to memorize the space. Or figure out where she belongs in it. “None of this is actually mine,” she says softly. “I should leave it here.” She swallows then looks at me. “You should have dropped me off at the hospital and left. But you didn’t. You stayed because I begged you to.”
“You’re wrong, moya ptichka. I stayed because I couldn’t walk away from you.” Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her time to spiral through that. I pull the phone from my pocket and press it into her hand. “Take it. My number’s already in there.” I close her fingers around it. “I need to know you can leave if you want to. If you need anything. Even if it’s just to talk. I’m here.”
She stares down at the phone for a long moment, thumb brushing the screen like it might disappear. Then she slides it into her bag. When she looks back up at me, there’s something torn in her expression. Suspicion tangled with something softer. “You are the first man who has never wanted something from me,” she says. “Why?”
I hold her gaze. “I do want something from you.”
Her spine stiffens like I hit her. I step forward and adjust her sweater so she isn’t cold. “I want you safe,” I say. “I want you to choose what happens next in your life. Not be traded or forced into something you don’t really want.” My jaw tightens. “If you ever give me anything, I want it to be because you decided to, not because you had no other option.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out the envelope I tucked there before coming into her room. It’s thick and plain, and hold it out to her.
She looks at it like she already knows what it is. Slowly, she takes it from me and lifts the flap. When she sees the stack of cash inside, her entire body freezes and she starts shaking her head before looking up. “No. Absolutely not.” She tries to hand it back to me but I close her fingers around it and push it gently toward her chest. “Take it.”
Her eyes flash. “I am no one’s charity case, Roman,” She snaps.
I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down.“I didn’t say you were.”
She’s furious, eyes filled with anger. “Then what is this?” She asks holding up the envelope in my face. “You know I don’t need this. I have everything I could ever need or want.” Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s tight.
“No. Your father has given you all of those things. You have nothing that’s yours,” I say evenly. “Take the damn money, Anya, so you’re not relying on him. Or me. Or anyone. If you walk out that door and decide to turn left instead of right, you should be able to without asking permission.”
She looks down at the envelope again, breathing shallow. “It’s the same thing. You’re giving me money, I do not want to owe you next.”
“You don’t.” My jaw tightens. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. If you never call me again, fine. If you use it to buy a plane ticket somewhere I can’t follow, fine.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “I just need to know that whatever choice you make next is yours. Not forced because you have nothing of your own.”
Her fingers tremble against the envelope. For a second, I think she’s going to throw it back at me. Instead, she presses her lips together and clutches it tighter and looks up at me. “I will pay you back,” she says.
I shrug, putting my hands into my pockets. “If you want to.”
She slides the envelope into her bag like it might explode, then looks up at me again. There’s something wounded in her expression. “You are making this very difficult,” she mutters as she studies me. “I do not understand men like you,” she whispers, then shocks the hell out of me by wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing her face against my chest. “Thank you for everything,” she says quietly. “For saving me, and not leaving me.”
The moment I saw her I knew I’d never be able to leave her side. She’s the first woman who has ever made me feel something real. We walk back outside together. Viktor waits by the car. Before she gets in, she turns to look at me, but she doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Then she slides into the back seat beside her father. The door closes. The sedan pulls away down the drive. I stand there until it disappears from view. If that phone lights up, I will answer it.
SEVEN
ANYA
I sitin the backseat and stare at my hands like they belong to someone else, like they made this decision without consulting the rest of me. Because that’s what it feels like. Like I’m watching myself choose the responsible path while something deeper, something raw and stubborn, is clawing at the inside of my ribs asking why.
I could have stayed with Roman. The thought doesn’t drift in softly. It hits. I could have stayed in that house with the warm kitchen and Irina moving around in slippers and the low hum of a normal morning that didn’t require a guard at the door. I could have let myself keep breathing that quieter air. I could have let my body keep unwinding instead of tensing again for impact. Instead, I’m here. Leather seats. Tinted windows. My father’s presence filling the space without touching me. It feels like I stepped back into a shape I was trying to stretch out of.
And I hate that a small part of me feels like I’m giving in. I hate it because I know it isn’t that simple. Giving in is what I did for years without even realizing it. Giving in was smiling at dinners where my future was discussed like a merger. Giving in wasnodding when Konstantin’s mother talked about how well our families “fit.” Giving in was letting my life be drafted in rooms I wasn’t invited to speak in. This is not that. I went with my father because he needs to understand. He needs to see me. Not the polished version. Not the obedient daughter who makes everything easier. The real one. The one who has bruises under her sleeves and questions in her throat. The one who stood in Roman’s hallway and felt something crack open inside her that has nothing to do with rebellion and everything to do with being alive.
