“It feels like you are.”
The simplicity of it disarms me.
I remember that feeling with startling clarity. Being told where to stand, when to speak, and being reminded, constantly, of my replaceability. I remember hating it. I hated the way it stripped me down to something less than I knew myself to be.
Understanding settles in, reluctant, but real.
“I don’t want to be some kept woman on an estate,” she admits.
Something about that hurts, unexpectedly. I take a deep breath and tell her, “It won’t ever get that far. This isn’t real, Alyona.”
This isn’t real?
“But I…umm, your father…we’re afraid of losing you.”
She stills.
The admission is not something I planned to reveal, but once it's spoken, it cannot be retrieved. “Afraid of what happens if you are hurt because I failed to cage the danger in time. You’re his daughter, and he loves you. I’m responsible for you; for keeping you safe. But I won’t cage you.”
She studies me, and in that moment, we are strangely aligned, two people staring at the same problem from opposite sides of the blade.
“I don’t believe in marriage,” she says quietly.
Something in me eases, unexpected. “Neither do I.”
That earns a brief, surprised smile before she sobers again. “Then don’t turn this into one.”
I nod once, decisive. “I won’t. It will be over soon.”
The tension doesn’t vanish, but it does shift, becoming something workable rather than combustible. When she walks past me a moment later, she’s close enough that I can smell her. I let her go without reaching for her, and the restraint feels like both victory and loss.
That night, I make my move.
Dinner is informal, intentionally so, and she arrives wearing soft clothes, fabric clinging to her curves without artifice. A hintof skin shows at her waist when she sits, and the sight of it stirs something warm and steady.
I tell her about The Lennox.
At first, she doesn’t understand. “Yeah, of course I’ve heard about it. It’s the premiere spa in the southern states. People come from Europe to visit it, and the providers…”
Then realization dawns, and her expression breaks open into something bright and unguarded that steals the breath from my lungs.
“You did this,” she says. “For me.”
“Yes.”
Her gratitude is immediate, overwhelming, and when she reaches across the table without thinking, fingers brushing mine, the contact feels earned rather than stolen. The satisfaction that blooms in my chest is unfamiliar and unsettling, not rooted in ownership.
It’s support.
When she smiles at me, she’s genuinely happy. I understand for the first time that keeping someone safe does not mean I have to keep them still.
Chapter 19
Alyona
Devin’s in the ER. I thought you should know.
The book slips from my fingers and thuds softly against the tiled floor. Asimov’s text stares up at me from the too-bright screen, and I’m halfway out of the chair before I even register that I stood up. My phone is clenched so tightly in my hand that the edges bite into my palm.
