“I know.” I swallow. “But I wanted to feel it anyway.”
Silence presses in around us.
“You are not a child,” he says after a moment.
“I know.”
“He is not your savior.”
“I know,” I say, my throat tightening like I’m on the verge of hot tears spilling over my cheeks.
“Then tell me what he is.”
My pulse jumps at the question. I think of Roman standing in the hallway, holding out that phone like it was nothing. No strings. No demand. I think of the way he looked at me like I was capable of choosing for myself. I think of how my body responded to him without my permission. “He is a man who didn’t take,” I say.
My father’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t take.”
“No.” My voice wavers despite my effort.
His jaw tightens. For a moment I expect him to snap the space between us in half. Instead, he looks forward again. “We will discuss this later.”
The car slows. “We are arriving,” the driver says quietly.
The hotel ahead is sleek and immaculate, glass and stone polished to reflect money back at itself. The gate opens before we fully stop. This is my world. This is the world I am supposed to return to without question. As the car pulls under the covered entrance and the door opens, cool air brushes my face. My father steps out, and men appear around him like shadows snapping into place. They move with the same quiet precision I grew up with. The same net I tried to shake for one night.
I clutch my bag tighter. I am walking back into the life I was born into. But the phone and money inside my bag are a small, stubborn weight. And it changes everything. I step out, clutching my bag, and the building’s front doors slide open before we reach them. Inside, it’s marble and soft lighting andquiet music designed to make people feel calm. I feel nothing but caged.
My father walks beside me. His hand hovers near my back without touching, an almost-gesture of protection.
A woman in a tailored uniform greets us with a smile too polished to be real. She speaks in English, welcoming, respectful.
My father answers in English without effort. “We require a suite. Two rooms. Security accommodations. No interruptions.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Of course, sir.”
Of course.
We move through hallways and elevators without waiting. Doors open. People shift out of our path. The world rearranges itself around his name without him even saying it loudly. When we reach the suite, the doors open into a space that looks like an expensive magazine. Neutral colors. Large windows. City view. Furniture arranged for comfort that has never been real. My father steps inside first, scans once, then nods to his men. They move quietly, checking rooms, checking closets, checking the balcony, like danger could be hiding behind a decorative pillow.
I stand in the entry, fingers tight around my bag strap, and try not to shake.
My father turns back to me. “This is temporary.”
I nod.
“Food will be brought up,” he adds. “And a doctor will be coming.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I say, rolling my eyes.
His gaze sharpens. “You will be examined.”
My stomach turns. “I was examined at the hospital.”
“I want our doctor,” he says, calm as ice.
I close my eyes for half a second and remind myself I am not on the floor. I am not chained. I am not powerless. “I will allow your doctor to look at my wrists,” I say. “And the bruises that are visible. Nothing else.”
The room goes very quiet. One of the men near the door shifts, like he’s about to intervene. My father lifts one hand slightly, and the man stills immediately. My father stares at me. “Anastasiya.”
