“Really? You promise?”
I nod once, aware I’ve made a vow I’m not sure I can keep.
“I promise to try.”
“And… one more thing.”
Before she can say anything more, the door bursts open as Lev barrels in, already tugging at his collar. Despite his complaints, he looks striking in his suit, his hair slicked back to reveal eyes that match mine exactly.
“This thing is choking me,” he announces, flopping dramatically onto my bed. “Why can’t I wear a T-shirt? Who even cares?”
“I care,” I tell him firmly.
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes but stops when he catches my expression. “Sorry… Papa. It looks nice. Iguess.” He shrugs his shoulders.
Nikolai appears silently in the doorway, already perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place. Unlike his twin, he stands straight, hands clasped behind his back. The perfect soldier. Sometimes I worry about how much he watches, how much he understands.
“You look… presentable,” I tell him.
He nods once, no smile. “Thank you.” His eyes sweep the room, taking everything in. “Ba-bush-kais here,” he says, stumbling over the word. “She is asking for you.”
I suppress a wince at his mangled Russian. My sons speak the language of their heritage as if it’s foreign to them, another failure to add to my growing list.
“Where?” I ask, adjusting my watch—platinum, like the cufflinks. Everything matched, controlled, perfect.
Before I can respond, my phone rings. Arseny.
“Your mother is becoming impatient,” he says without preamble. “She’s asking why you’re avoiding her.”
“I’m not avoiding her.” The lie comes easily.
“Tell that to her,” Arseny replies, amusement evident in his voice. The only man who dares to find humor in my discomfort.
I end the call, surveying my children. “I need to speak with your grandmother. Go with Arseny when he comes up.”
“But—” Lev starts.
“No arguments.” I cut him off before he can build momentum. “Not today.”
Nikolai is already nodding, obedient as always. Lev sighs dramatically but doesn’t push further. Only Alya lingers, those eyes—so like mine—studying my face.
“Be nice toBabushka,” she says softly. “She looks sad today.”
I don’t answer as I move toward the door. The walk to my reading room feels longer than it should. My mother—uninvited, unwelcome—represents a past I’ve tried to leave behind. The dutiful wife who stood beside my father through decades of violence and power.
She sits in my leather chair, spine straight despite her years. Platinum blonde hair—now more silver than gold—arranged perfectly, not a strand out of place. Yelena Belov looks like what she is: a woman who survived by making herself beautiful but unremarkable.
“Mama.” I don’t kiss her cheek or offer any other greeting.
I move to the crystal decanter on the side table, pouring myself two fingers of whiskey without offering her any.
“Konstantin.” Her voice carries the faint musical quality that once made men eager to please her… before my father’s shadowdarkened everything around her. “Are you sure about marrying this—IsabellaMarquel?”
I nod once, unable to keep the tension from my jaw.
My fingers move to adjust my tie, a deliberate distraction from the conversation she is trying to have.
“You didn’t need to arrive this early.”
