1
ANNA
The silencein the car is the kind that makes my skin crawl.
My mother sits beside me, hands folded in her lap, fingers laced so tight her knuckles are white. My father stares out the window like the passing streetlights hold answers he can’t find anywhere else. Neither of them has said a word since we left the house twenty minutes ago.
I smooth down the black cocktail dress I’m wearing, the one my mother insisted I put on tonight. Too formal for a business dinner, I told her. She just pressed her lips together and handed me the jewelry box with my grandmother’s pearls.
“How bad is it this time?” I ask now.
My father doesn’t turn from the window. “We’ll handle it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Anna.” My mother’s voice is quiet, strained. “Please.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek and look away. We’ve had these meetings before. Creditors, investors, men in expensive suits who smell like cigars and old money. Men who smile withtoo many teeth and talk about restructuring like it’s a favor. I stopped asking questions months ago because the answers were always the same. We’re managing. We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.
But I do worry. I have two four-year-olds at home with a nanny who costs more than we can afford, and a family shipping company that’s bleeding money faster than we can pump it back in. I worry all the time.
The car slows, turns into a circular driveway lined with lanterns. The building ahead is massive, all white stone and arched windows glowing with warm light. Too fancy for a business meeting. Way too fancy.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The Volkov Estate,” my mother says. “It’s private.”
Private. Right. Because men like the ones we owe money to don’t conduct business in boardrooms. They do it in mansions that probably have their own zip codes.
The driver opens my door, and I step out onto smooth pavement. My heels click as I walk toward the entrance, my parents flanking me on either side. My father’s hand is on my elbow, steering me forward like I might bolt if he lets go.
The doors open before we reach them. A man in a black suit nods at us and gestures inside. We follow him down a hallway with marble floors and paintings that look like they belong in museums. The air smells like fresh flowers and something else. Something expensive I can’t name.
Then we turn a corner, and I stop walking.
There’s an altar at the end of the room. White flowers everywhere with chairs arranged in neat rows and an officiant in formal robes standing beside a tall man I don’t recognize.
“Is this a wedding?” I turn to my parents, my voice sharper than I intend. “Why are we at a wedding?”
My mother’s face crumples. My father won’t look at me.
“Viktor,” the man at the altar calls out. His voice is deep, controlled. “Svetlana. And this must be Anna.”
He’s watching me. Green eyes that don’t blink, silver-streaked hair swept back from a face that’s all sharp angles and cold authority. He’s older than me by at least fifteen years, maybe more. Tall. Broad-shouldered in a perfectly tailored black suit.
And I know him.
The air goes thin in my lungs.
Five years ago. A hotel bar in the city. My friend Lina dragging me out for a drink after a terrible week. I’d worn a red dress that was tighter than anything I normally wore, ordered something fruity I didn’t finish, and caught the attention of a man sitting alone at the bar.
He looked at me like I was something he could buy. I was too tipsy and too reckless to care. We went upstairs. The sex was intense, almost brutal. He didn’t ask my name. When I woke up, he was gone.
Six weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
I tried to find him. Went back to the hotel, asked questions, followed leads until I learned his name and exactly who he was. Someone dangerous, and connected to the kind of people myfamily owed money to. One who would trap me in a world I wanted nothing to do with.
So I kept the twins and kept my mouth shut.
