“Alexei looks like me,” I interrupt again. “Dark hair, similar features. People see what they expect to see.”
“And Luca expects to see your children from a dead stranger.”
“Yes.”
Lina takes a sip of her latte. “Do you ever worry he’ll find out?”
“There’s nothing to find out. I told him the truth. Their father is dead. That’s all he needs to know.”
“But, Anna, if he ever figured out that the twins are actually?—”
“Stop.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Stop talking about this. Here, in public, where anyone could hear.”
“No one’s listening.”
“You don’t know that. Luca has people everywhere. Security, staff, connections all over the city. I can’t risk this conversation.”
“So you are worried he’ll find out.”
“I’m worried about a lot of things. But that’s not one of them because there’s nothing to find out.”
We sit in tense silence for a moment.
Then Lina reaches over and squeezes my hand again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. I’m just worried about you.”
“I know.”
“You seem so isolated. So alone.”
“I am alone.”
“You have me. You can always call me if you need anything. If things get bad or if you need help or just someone to talk to.”
“Thank you.”
We finish our coffee and talk about safer things. Her job, mutual friends from university, and neighborhood gossip. Normal conversation that feels almost alien after weeks of living in Luca’s world.
When it’s time to leave, we hug goodbye on the sidewalk. Lina promises to call again soon. I promise to answer.
I get in the car, and the driver pulls away from the curb. I watch Lina disappear in the side mirror and try to shake the feeling that something was off about that entire conversation.
Why was she so interested in whether I’d told Luca about the twins’ father? Why did she keep pushing on that specific point?
Lina was there that night five years ago. She’s the only person who knows the whole truth. She helped me through the pregnancy when I was terrified and alone. She’s kept my secret for five years without question.
So why now? Why all these questions about Luca knowing?
The driver merges onto the highway heading back toward the estate. The security guard in the front seat is on his phone, speaking in Russian too quietly for me to hear.
I lean my head against the window and watch the city blur past.
Something about Lina’s questions felt wrong.
“Mrs. Volkov, we’ll be back at the estate in fifteen minutes,” the driver says.
I don’t respond.
My phone buzzes. A text from Lina.
