He nods. Turns to go. Stops.
"The hallway light," he says without looking back. "Darya told you about it?"
"I called someone. They're coming Thursday."
A pause. "You didn't have to do that."
"I hope I’m not overstepping."
He shakes his head no, then he walks away down the hall toward his study.
I blow out the candle and sit alone in the dining room for a while, listening to the house settle around me. It's starting to feel different already. Less hollow. Less cold. Or maybe that's just me, filling the empty spaces with something warm because it's the only way I know how to survive.
On the third morning, I'm in the kitchen making coffee when I hear Anton's voice from his study. The door is cracked open, and I don't mean to listen, but the hallway carries sound and his voice is sharp in a way I haven't heard before.
"Tell the council I've done what they asked." A pause. "I married her. It's done." Another pause, longer. "That's none of their concern." His voice drops, cold and precise as a blade. "If Gregor sends someone to my house, I will consider it a threat. And I will respond accordingly."
Silence.
Then the sound of something hitting wood. His fist on the desk, maybe. Hard enough to make me flinch.
I pour two cups of coffee. Walk to his study. Knock on the cracked door.
"Come in," he says. His voice is controlled again. Flat.
I push the door open. He's standing behind his desk, one hand braced on the surface, his phone lying face down beside it. His jaw is tight and there's a tension running through his shoulders that looks like it could snap bone.
I don't ask what the call was about. I set the coffee on his desk.
"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," I say.
He looks at the coffee. Then at me.
"You heard that," he says. Not a question.
"The door was open. Your voice was raised."
His eyes narrow. He's waiting for me to ask. To push. To demand an explanation the way someone with less training would.
I don't. I hold his gaze, steady and calm, and let the silence sit.
"Ten minutes," he says finally. And something in his expression shifts.
I nod and leave the room, pulling the door shut behind me.
In the kitchen, I crack eggs into a bowl and whisk them with a steady hand, and I think about the way his voice sounded on the phone. Cold. Lethal. A man who would burn down the world if it pushed him far enough.
And then I think about the way he looked at the coffee I brought him. Like no one has ever walked into a room where he was falling apart and simply handed him something warm without asking for a single thing in return.
I'm starting to understand something about Anton Orlov.
He doesn't need a trained wife. He doesn't need someone who knows how to set a table for twelve or remove wine stains from white linen or smile on command.
He needs someone who stays. And I can do that too. More, Iwantto do that.
Anton
The meeting goes sideways at ten past nine.
