And now Mrs. Kozlov—the woman who held this family together when he couldn’t—is telling me I’m just like him.
I drop into my chair, scrubbing both hands over my face. Exhaustion pulls at me, so heavy I can barely hold my head up. When was the last time I slept?Reallyslept, not just dozed at my desk for an hour before jerking awake again?
The soup sits there, still steaming slightly. My stomach growls again, reminding me that Mrs. Kozlov is right about that too. I haven’t eaten properly in days.
But eating means stopping. It means acknowledging that I’m human and I have limits. I can’t actually work myself to death no matter how much I want to.
Means thinking. And thinking means?—
Mrs. Volkov asks about you. Every day she asks if you have eaten. If you have slept.
Vera. Asking about me. Worrying about me. Caring about me despite every reason she shouldn’t.
My chest tightens painfully.
I reach for the soup, then stop. My hand hovers over the bowl, trembling slightly from exhaustion or emotion or both.
I can’t do this. I can’t face what Mrs. Kozlov is demanding I face. I can’t admit that maybe I’m avoiding Vera not because it’s safer, but because I’m frightened of what I’m feeling.
So I push the soup aside (still untouched) and pull another file toward me. More names. More dead ends. More questions without answers.
But Mrs. Kozlov’s words won't leave me alone. They circle in my head like vultures, picking at the carefully constructed lies I’ve been telling myself.
Coward. Running. Weakness.
I force my eyes to focus on the file, on the investigation, on anything that isn’t the uncomfortable truth she just forced me to confront.
But it doesn’t work. Not really. Because now that she’s said it, I can’t unhear it.
And somewhere in this massive, empty house, Vera is awake. Worrying about me. Caring about me despite everything.
The thought makes me want to punch something.
Or walk upstairs and?—
No. I slam that thought down hard. That’s exactly what I can't do. What Iwon’tdo.
I pull up another file and force myself to focus and ignore the truth Mrs. Kozlov just shoved in my face.
But the soup sits there on my desk, growing cold. A silent reminder of everything I’m running from.
But Mrs. Kozlov is right about one thing. Avoiding Vera in this house is impossible.
The estate is massive with thirty rooms, three floors, and grounds that stretch for acres. With a full staff, it was easy to maintain distance. She’d be in one wing while I was in another. Our paths would cross occasionally, but briefly, in controlled situations.
Now, with most of the staff gone, we keep fucking running into each other in ways that make the avoidance obvious, awkward, and painful.
Like yesterday morning. I went to the kitchen at dawn for coffee, thinking I’d be alone. Instead, I foundherthere, already making tea, her hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of those soft cotton nightgowns that somehow makes her look more beautiful than any expensive dress ever could.
We’d both frozen and at each other across the kitchen like we’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Sorry,” she’d whispered, looking like a deer in headlights. “I’ll—I can go?—”
“No. Stay. I was just—” I’d gestured vaguely at the coffee maker, my brain refusing to form coherent sentences because she was so close and she looked so soft and I wanted?—
We made our drinks in silence. When I reached past her for the sugar, our arms had brushed, and the contact sent electricity through my entire body.
She’d gasped softly and I was frozen, my hand still extended, our faces suddenly too close.
