“You left without informing anyone of your location.”
“I know.”
“You were taken,” he continues evenly, “because for one evening you did not want to be watched.”
The truth of it stings in a place that has nothing to do with bruises. “Yes.”
He studies me. “And now you want to stay.”
“I didn’t say I want to stay.” My fingers tighten around the strap again to steady the tremor creeping up my arms. “I said I need time.”
“Time does not erase what you are.”
The words are familiar. They’ve followed me my whole life. What you are. As if I’m a title before I’m a person. As if my name is something fixed in stone.
“I know what I am,” I say quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The car hums along. The driver’s posture never shifts.
My father’s eyes drop briefly to my wrists, to the faint shadows still visible beneath Roman’s borrowed sleeves. His mouth tightens.
“He hurt you.”
“Volkov did.”
“And this American,” he says, and there’s a faint edge to the word, “he kept you.”
My stomach turns. “No.”
“Then why are you leaving his house with me?”
Because I needed to prove to myself that I could walk away without being dragged. Because staying felt too close to choosing something permanent. Because safety is overwhelming when you’ve never been allowed to define it yourself. “Because you came,” I say instead.
His eyes narrow slightly. “You stayed when I arrived. You told me no.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Yes.”
“And now you are coming.”
“Yes.”
He watches me carefully. Not angrily. Not yet. Just assessing. “Explain.”
I glance at the window, at the blur of trees and streetlights. I open my bag a fraction, just enough to let my fingers brush the edge of the burner phone. The single contact saved insideand the envelope full of money. The door Roman handed me without asking for anything in return. I close the bag again.
“I’m coming with you because I’m not ready to make a permanent decision while my body is still remembering chains.” His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his stillness deepens. “If I stayed,” I continue, forcing the words out evenly, “I would stay because he feels safe. That is not a reason to change my life.”
“And your father feels unsafe?” he asks.
“No.” The answer comes too quickly. “You don’t feel unsafe. You feel… loud.”
His brows lift slightly. “Loud.”
I almost take it back. I don’t.
“My whole life has been arranged for me,” I say carefully. “Meetings. Plans. Guards. Expectations. People who look at me and see our name before they see me.” He listens without interrupting. “With him,” I say softer now, “it’s quiet. It’s a house. Coffee in the morning. A mother who complains about pantry shelves. It felt… normal.”
“Normal is an illusion,” he replies.
