“Forgive me. I’m not particularly hungry,” I say evenly, every ounce of restraint pulled tightly beneath my skin.
Nikolai doesn’t miss a beat. He lifts his wine glass with infuriating leisure, the crystal catching the light as he brings it to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Is the food not to your liking?”
The question is harmless on its surface. Polite. Courteous, even.
I know better than to believe that.
My hands curl into fists, knuckles tightening as I force myself not to move them. I hate when he does this slow, methodical needling. The way he presses and waits, watches to see where the cracks form. My father used to do the same thing when I was younger when he wanted to remind me who held the power in the room. It had been a learned habit, one gifted like an heirloom from Nikolai’s father.
For a brief, unguarded second, my eyes flick to Alina.
She’s watching me closely, her fork nudging food around her plate without any real intention of eating it. Her movements are careful, pretending to be calm for my sake, I realize.
I drag my attention back to the head of the table, schooling my expression. “The food is excellent. Though, I’m sure we are all well aware that we didn’t come here to share a meal together.”
Nikolai hums softly. “Tell me, Sasha, do you never stop to enjoy things?”
I wonder if he knows how ironic that sounds coming from him.
Beside me, Viktor shifts in his chair. His discomfort is palpable now, leaking out of him despite all his careful composure.He stares straight ahead like if he doesn’t acknowledge what’s happening around him, it won’t come crashing down on his shoulders.
Coward.
I lean back slightly in my chair, forcing myself to relax despite the tension still bleeding out of me. “If this dinner has a purpose beyond culinary critique, I’d rather we address it directly.”
“Straight to business, as always. How very you,” Nikolai muses. “Very well.”
He sets his utensils down with deliberate care, the faint clink against porcelain echoing loudly in the cavernous room. He lifts his wine glass and drains it in one unhurried swallow, as if savoring the last moment of civility. When he sets the empty glass aside, it’s done with finality. His napkin follows, dabbed once at his mouth then tossed onto the half-finished plate like the meal itself has already lost its purpose.
He pushes the plate forward out of his immediate space and clasps his hands together on the table, fingers lacing neatly. A king folding his hands before judgment.
“Seems we are eager to get things started.”
My muscles coil instinctively as his gaze drifts around the table. I expect it to land on me, to feel that familiar, invasive pressure that Nikolai wields so effortlessly.
Instead, his eyes settle on Viktor.
Viktor freezes mid-motion, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. For a heartbeat, he looks like a man caught in the act of something shameful, uncertain whether to continue or retreat. Slowly, he lowers the fork back to the plate.
Nikolai watches him in silence, his stare unblinking.
Unforgiving.
“Tell me something,” he says at last. “Whyyourdaughter?”
Viktor blinks. Once. Twice. His brows knit together as if he’s misheard. “Pardon?”
Nikolai doesn’t repeat himself right away. He tilts his head slightly, studying Viktor. “Why not someone else’s? Why try to kill your own? Surely, a tragedy can be manufactured in other ways.”
My jaw tightens.
Alina goes very still across from me. I see it out of the corner of my eye the way her shoulders lock, her fingers curling tightly around her napkin.
Nikolai continues on, undeterred by the sudden growing unease.
“A horrible car accident involving children on a school bus,” he offers, almost conversationally. “A subway car suddenly derailing, killing all its passengers. Gas leak at a nursing home. Electrical fire at a daycare. Structural collapse at the local food pantry… There are plenty of ways to bring a community together in shared grief.”
He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug.
