“Listen to me,” he says.
I look up.
“You are my family. Nothing in that folder changes it. Not my father. Not my uncle. Not any dead bastard with a name tied to this. You’re my cousin. That does not change.”
My eyes sting, but I blink away the tears. “You don’t have to say it like I’m five.”
“You’ve had a brutal week, Polina. Take the comfort.”
I push up from the chair too quickly, and my stomach turns hard enough to make me grab the armrest and close my eyes.
Dmitri is beside me at once. “Polina.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up on my rug.”
“That’s a very loving thing to say.”
“It’s a very expensive rug.”
I breathe through my nose and wait for the nausea to pass. It takes longer than I want. When I straighten, Dmitri is watching me too closely.
“Are you sick?” he asks.
“No.”
He lifts a brow.
“I mean, yes. Technically. But not with anything contagious.” I wave him off. “I’m going upstairs.”
He doesn’t move aside at first. He studies me for a second, then steps back. “I’ll start on this today.”
“Good.”
“And Polina.”
I stop at the door, but I don’t turn around.
“You won’t go through this alone.”
I want that to comfort me. It should. Dmitri means it, and he’s one of the few people alive whose promises actually count for something.
Instead, I nod and leave before I do something humiliating, like cry in his office.
By the time I get upstairs, my stomach has gone from unsettled to vicious. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees in front of the toilet, with one hand braced against the floor and the other latched onto porcelain. When it passes, I stay there for a minute with my forehead against the edge of the tub and wait for the room to stop moving.
This is getting harder to hide.
When I finally make it back to the bedroom, there’s a tray on the low table by the sofa filled with tea, crackers, and a wedge of lemon.
Mila is beside it with one hand around her own cup, watching me with that calm, observant look I’ve come to associate with Alexei’s wife. Since I started staying here, she’s been kind and asks nothing of me. Tea appears when I need it. Fresh towels turn up before I ask. She checks in without prying, and I’ve been grateful enough to like her while keeping enough distance to avoid any real confessions.
That distance vanishes the second she sees my face.
“You look awful,” she comments.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
