Interesting.
I move through the west wing, my footsteps silent against the marble. The halls feel emptier than I remember, the paintings starker on the walls. Eight days of silence, and now the house itself seems to be holding its breath.
Voices filter down the hallway from Alya’s room. My father’s low rumble. The twins’ murmurs. Alya’s high, bright chatter.The sound loosens something in my chest that’s been tight since New York.
I don’t knock.
The door swings open to reveal a tableau that stops me cold.
My father stands in the center of the room, one hand holding Alya’s small fingers, the other gesturing toward what appears to be… artwork. Framed butterflies, messily painted and sparkling with enough glitter to sink a small boat. The twins hover nearby, Lev sprawled across Alya’s pink bedspread, Nikolai standing straight-backed beside my father, hands clasped behind him in unconscious mimicry.
“Paaaapa!” Alya spots me first. She wrenches free from my father and launches herself across the room.
I catch her with practiced ease, the familiar weight of her settling against my chest. She smells like paint and strawberry shampoo.
“You didn’t tell us you were coming home,” she accuses, face buried in my neck.
“I like surprises,” I say, meeting my father’s gaze over her head.
Anatoly Belov looks older today. Less iron. More bone. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from age—it comes from deciding who you’ll leave behind when you finally step down.
“Konstantin.” He nods once. His eyes flick to Timur and Arseny waiting in the hallway, then back to me with a question.
“A successful trip,” I answer, setting Alya down. “We have what we need.”
Lev rolls off the bed, ambling over with the forced casualness of a teenager who wants to appear unaffected by his father’s return.
“Did you bring us anything?”
My mouth twitches. “Perhaps.”
“He definitely did,” Nikolai says, watching my face. Always observing, that one. “He’s got that look.”
“What look?” I ask.
“The one where you’re trying not to smile,” Alya informs me, tugging at my sleeve. “Papa, look at my paintings. Bella helped me.”
Something tightens in my stomach at the name. “Did she?”
“Yes, but hers were terrible. Like really, really bad.” Alya pulls me toward the framed butterflies. “She used too much water, and the wings melted. But I fixed it with glitter.”
“Very resourceful,” I murmur, studying the artwork. One butterfly is clearly Alya’s—precise, vibrant, every line carefully controlled. The other is a chaotic mess of blues and reds, rescued only by strategic application of silver glitter.
“Bella’s hands were shaking,” Alya continues blithely. “Mariya said she looked like someone was chasing her with wolves.”
My eyes snap to my father’s. He gives an almost imperceptible shrug.
“Nikolai,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Take your sister downstairs. I brought the books you wanted. They’re in my briefcase in the study.”
Nikolai straightens immediately. “Come on, Alya. Let’s see what Papa brought us.”
“But I want to stay and—”
“If you come now,” Nikolai interrupts smoothly, “I’ll let you open my presents, too.”
Alya narrows her eyes, weighing her options. “Fine. But I get to choose which one I want.”
“Absolutely not.”
