“Promise me something,” Nicolai says finally.
“What?”
“Promise me that when this is over, you’ll remember who you were before you had to become who you’re becoming.”
The request hits deeper than any accusation could. Because he’s right—the woman who walks out of this room will fundamentally differ from the one who walked in. Harder, more calculating, capable of choices that would have horrified the daughter Father raised.
“I’ll try,” I say honestly. “But some changes can’t be undone.”
“I know. Just... try to hold onto the parts of yourself worth saving.”
“Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Hold onto the parts of me worth saving, even after you see what I’m capable of?”
His smile is sad but genuine. “You’re my sister, Kira. Nothing changes that.”
“Even treason?”
“Even treason.”
I stand to leave, but pause at the door. “Nicolai?”
“Yeah?”
“Take care of Misha and Zoya. Whatever happens, make sure they understand that this wasn’t their fault. That they couldn’t have prevented it.”
“And Father? What do I tell him when he asks where his children went?”
“Tell him they grew up.”
I leave him standing in his perfect office, surrounded by the careful order that will soon be swept away by the chaos I’m about to unleash. Behind me lies the last conversation I’ll ever have as Vadim Petrov’s dutiful daughter.
Ahead of me lies everything I’ll have to become to survive what comes next.
It’s time to find out if love is worth transformation's price.
Even if that transformation costs me everything I used to be.
CHAPTER 37
Kira
Nicolai’s officefeels different today—smaller somehow, as if the weight of what I’m about to do has compressed the very air between these familiar walls. He taught me accounting principles at the same mahogany desk when I was twelve. The same leather chairs where we’ve solved countless family crises over the years.
The same brother who’s about to discover that his little sister has become someone capable of patricide.
“You look terrible,” he observes without looking up from his financial reports. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“Sleep is overrated.” I settle into the chair across from him, noting how his pale green eyes intensely study my face. He sees too much, always has. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
“About a meeting, Father might ask you to attend. Soon. Possibly today or tomorrow.”
Now he does look up, setting his pen down with the deliberate precision that’s characterized every movement since childhood. “What kind of meeting?”
