Konstantin
Ihear her before I see her.
The soft screech of wheelchair wheels over stone tile. Uneven. Grating. The kind of sound that tells me someone forgot to oil the damn bearings again.
I step into the hall just as they come around the corner.
Anya’s pushing. Yelena’s trailing behind like judgment wrapped in cashmere. And Nikolai walks beside the chair like her personal security detail—hands in his pockets, too casual for how closely he’s watching her.
Bella’s in a hospital gown that swallows her frame, one arm strapped tightly across her chest, hair pulled up in a chaotic bun like she fought off a tornado and only half-won. She still looks like she could bite someone.
Good. That means she’s still herself.
But there’s color in her cheeks now. Real color. Not that washed-out gray from last week. Not the flushed fever when the infection tried to take what the wreck didn’t. Just… life.
Something in my chest unclenches. Barely. I don’t let it show.
Her eyes lock on mine the second she sees me. Wide. Caught-off-guard, like she’s been busted doing something shameful—which is ridiculous, considering she’s in a goddamn wheelchair.
Alya’s steps quicken, her face lighting up. “Papa!” She hurries toward me, a burst of energy that almost lifts her off her feet.
Nikolai follows a step behind, his eyes meeting mine. He gives a single, firm nod — the kind that says,I missed you,without actually saying it. Simple. Understated. The way men in this family acknowledge each other.
I let the smallest hint of a smile slip through. Then my gaze shifts past them — landing on Bella. She glances away, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, but the wheelchair jolts.
I step forward just as the wheels catch, one veering slightly off course.
Anya flinches, scrambling to correct the trajectory like she thinks one crooked push will get her executed.
“I’ve got it,” I say, moving in.
Anya freezes. Nearly bows. Disappears like I pulled a trapdoor under her.
I take the handles. Not because Ihaveto. Because Iwantto. Because seeing Bella in that chair does something ugly to my chest and I need control over something right now.
She doesn’t speak. But I feel her body react—like a wire pulled tight. Then… the tension eases. Slowly. Her spine softens. She lets me push her.
Yelena doesn’t comment. Just follows.
We move down the corridor, smooth and steady, Nikolai pacing beside us.
“So, what are we having?” Bella asks, her voice light but strained around the edges. “Please tell me it’s not another bowl of that gray soup with the mystery chunks.”
Nikolai snorts. “Borscht. And no. Mariya madeshashliktonight.”
“Shash-what now?”
“Meat skewers,” I translate, guiding her chair around the corner where the elevator waits. “With pomegranate marinade.”
“Andpirozhki,” Nikolai adds. “The ones with cabbage and mushrooms that the chef makes.”
“Food with actual flavor,” Bella says, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “I might cry.”
The elevator doors slide open. I wheel her inside, positioning the chair at the precise center. Nikolai steps in, followed by Yelena, who presses the button for the main floor without asking.
We descend in silence. Bella’s fingers tap against her knee—a nervous habit I’ve cataloged among her many tells. The doors open to the west wing corridor, all polished stone and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the cliffside. Sunset bleeds orange and gold across the Pacific, turning the water to fire.
Bella inhales sharply. “I’ve been stuck in that medical wing so long, I forgot the rest of this place existed.”
