The gold hoops in her ears catch the light as she leans in—the only personal touch in her otherwise impeccably professional appearance.
Yelena, perched in the corner like some brooding gargoyle, just keeps watching. Silent. Intense. It’s been her new hobby lately—showing up without warning, sitting there like a ghost judge, eyes tracking every breath I take.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to solve a crime I hadn’t committed.
I give her a small, uncertain nod. Yelena meets it with the barest incline of her chin. A reply, if not quite approval.
Could be worse.
Her head tilts slightly to the left just before the sound of quick little footsteps scatters across the hall.
A small whirlwind of pink glitter and bouncing curls bursts into the room, followed by a harried-looking nanny.
“BELLA! You’re awake! I waited ALL MORNING AND AFTERNOON!” Alya climbs onto the foot of my bed with care, avoiding my injured leg.
“Indoor voice,malyshka,” the nanny reminds her.
“But I haven’t seen Bella since YESTERDAY,” Alya explains, as if 24 hours is equivalent to several decades. She’s wearing the backpack we picked out together. My heart squeezes painfully, but not from any physical injury.
“I’m so sorry I missed your first day of school, sweetie pie.”
Alya studies me quietly for a moment—too quietly. Her eyes flick over the bruises on my arm, the bandages on my leg, the tiredness I haven’t been able to hide.
“You got hurt,” she says softly. “We were… worried.”
I swallow. “I’m okay now.”
She nods, like she’s the adult. “It’s okay.Babushkaand Mariya took me to school. Mariya even let me pick the music in the car—but only the first two songs, because she says Russian pop is too dramatic for morning time.”
I force a smile, but my chest feels like it’s shrinking inward.
Two weeks. I’ve been out of commission fortwo full weeks. I haven’t checked in at work, haven’t seen Julian or Lila since the day everything blew up. I haven’t even opened the laptop Konstantin had delivered to my bedside.
Julian threatened to leave school if I didn’t “introduce the damn husband” soon. That was three days before the crash. Since then? Barely a word. No sarcasm. No late-night texts. Just… silence.
But Konstantin’s men keep me updated. I know Julian’s still going. I know he’s keeping his head down. Which is almost worse than the yelling.
Alya waves a tiny hand in front of my face. “Bella, what are you thinking?”
“Sorry,” I say, blinking fast. “What did you want to show me?”
She unzips one of the backpack compartments—front left, pink glitter zipper—and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper.
“I made this in art. It’s our family.”
Family.The word hits like a stone in the gut.
I take it with my good hand, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
Stick figures of varying heights stand in front of a house that appears to have been designed by a drunk architect with an unlimited turret budget. Konstantin is easy to identify—tallest, scowling, holding what appears to be either a phone or a very small gun. The twins stand identically proportioned. Alya has given herself hair three times the size of her body. And next to Konstantin…
“That’s you.” Alya points helpfully. “See? You have a special arm thing like you do now.”
Indeed, stick-figure-me sports a triangular blue appendage that must represent my sling, and what appears to be a crown.
“Why do I have a crown?”
“Because you’re the queen,” Alya says, as if explaining something obvious to someone particularly dense. “Papa’s the king, so you’re the queen.”
