"I know. We've been working on that." He straightened, shifting back into practical mode. "Your old phone is gone—we had to destroy it. But we've set up a secure line. Untraceable. You can use it to make calls, send messages. Whatever you need."
"What do I tell them? My patients?"
"Family emergency. Indefinite leave. Whatever feels true enough to be believable."
"It is a family emergency," I said dryly. "Just not the kind they'll imagine."
"No. Probably not."
He pulled a phone from his pocket and handed it to me. New, sleek, completely anonymous. "The number's already programmed in. Yegor's contact is there too, in case you need anything. And mine."
I took the phone, feeling its weight in my hand. Such a small thing. Such a huge lifeline.
"Thank you."
"You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I know. But I keep meaning it, so I keep saying it."
He smiled at that—a real smile, not the charming mask he wore for everyone else. It transformed his face, made him look younger, softer. More like the man in the photograph with his brothers, before years of grief had hardened him.
"I'll leave you to make your calls," he said. "Take whatever time you need."
He left, closing the door softly behind him, and I stood alone in his study with a phone in my hand and a decision to make.
My patients first. That was the professional thing to do. I scrolled through my mental list—the appointments I'd need to cancel, the referrals I'd need to make, the careful lies I'd need to tell.
But that wasn't what I did.
Instead, I dialed Amber's number from memory and waited for her to pick up.
"Hello?" Her voice was cautious, the tone people use for unknown numbers.
"It's me."
"Keira?" Relief flooded her voice. "Oh my God, I've been trying to reach you for two days. Your phone kept going straight to voicemail. I was starting to worry."
"I know. I'm sorry. Things have been..." I searched for a word that wasn't a complete lie. "Complicated."
"Complicated how? Are you okay?"
I sat down in Rodion's leather chair, pulling my knees up to my chest like I used to do when I was a child. "I don't know how to answer that."
"That's not reassuring."
"I know." I took a breath. "Amber, I need to tell you something. And I need you to not ask too many questions, because I can't answer most of them."
The silence on the other end was heavy with concern. "You're scaring me."
"I'm scaring myself." I closed my eyes. "I got married."
"You what?"
"Two days ago. I got married."
"To whom? You haven't even been dating anyone. You told me last week there was no one."
"There wasn't. And then there was. And then things happened very fast, and now I'm married." I laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. "I know how that sounds."
