“After dinner,” I promise.
“Voices?”
“All the voices.”
Her smile is smug. She spins away.
Dinner passes in a blur. Kids chatter. Yelena slices chicken with battlefield precision. I eat just enough to not raise suspicion.
“Bella sews like a surgeon,” Lev brags.
“Just basic stitches,” I mumble.
“Can you make me dragon wings?”
I blink. “Sure. What color?”
“Red. No. Black. No. Black with red fire!”
I smile, then glance at Konstantin’s empty chair.
For a moment, I wish he were here. Even if he barely speaks at dinner, even if he stays stone-faced in front of the kids, there’s something in the way he watches them—protective, precise, almost reverent. It’s not soft, not obvious, but it’s real. And I see it. The kind of love that doesn’t need words, just presence.
And somehow, I believe he is.
Forty minutes later, we sit in the living room. Alya cuddled against me, boys pretending they’re not into the story.
“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin—”
“Scarier,” Nikolai critiques.
I give it everything. Alya squeals. Even Lev cracks a grin.
“Better,” Nikolai admits.
We finish the book. Alya claps.
“Again?”
“Bedtime,” Yelena announces.
“Five minutes?” Lev tries.
“No exceptions.”
Alya kisses my cheek. Yelena notices. Doesn’t comment. The boys say goodnight. Then they’re gone.
I’m alone. The room too quiet.
My phone buzzes.
I pull my phone from inside my blazer pocket, thumb already dreading what’s on the screen.
Unknown number.
Friday. 12 p.m. Old Marina Car Park, West Exit. Come alone.
My breath catches.
