“Ways that don’t require involvingyour ownfamily.”
Viktor’s face drains of color. His lips part as if to speak, then close again. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. For the first time since arriving, he looks… small. Stripped of the politician’s polish, the practiced outrage, the righteous grief he’s paraded in front of cameras for nearly a decade.
“I—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat roughly. “You’re mistaken. My daughter was never the target.”
Nikolai’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Don’t insult me.”
Viktor stiffens. His hands curl against the edge of the table. “I-I would never?—”
“You already did,” Nikolai interrupts, his tone sharpening. “Did you think I wouldn’t do my research? That I don’t know exactly what goes on in my city?”
His gaze flicks briefly to me.
I meet it and give a single nod, a silent acknowledgment. Nothing more needs to be said between us.
He turns back to Viktor, his attention snapping into place like a trap closing. “You gambled. You assumed that if she died, it would serve your narrative perfectly. A promising young woman taken too soon. A devoted father left shattered after losing the only remaining family he had left. Your voters would eat it up.” His lips curve faintly. “Tragedy is excellent theater.”
Viktor’s mouth opens, then closes again, his breaths coming shallowly and unevenly.
Nikolai goes on, relentless now. “You planned to stand in front of cameras with tears in your eyes. To speak of loss and resilience. To let sympathy do what policy never could. And when election season rolled around, the city would honor you the only way it knows how. By giving you another term. The only problem is you never accounted for her living.”
His gaze darts around the table, searching for an ally that no longer exists.
Nikolai leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “This is what makes you so fascinating, Morozov. You didn’t just sacrifice your wife for power. You couldn’t help yourself by sacrificing your daughter too.”
Across from me, Alina’s breath shudders out of her in a sharp, broken sound she can’t quite contain. Her hands twist around the linen napkin in front of her, fingers curling so tightly, the fabric creases and strains beneath her grip, her knuckles blanching white.
There is no confusion in her expression now. No uncertainty. What stares back at Viktor Morozov is something far more devastating—clarity sharpened by betrayal. Rage coils beneath her composure, barely leashed. Her jaw sets hard as her eyes glisten with tears she refuses to let fall. If she cries, it will not be here. It will not be for him.
When she finally speaks, her voice is steady. “Is that true?”
Viktor flinches like the words themselves have struck him. His gaze snaps to her, wide and frantic, searching her face for something—mercy, maybe, or another opening he can exploit.
“Alina—”
She cuts him off before he can finish his sentence, before he can poison it with lies or false concern or whatever hollow excuse he thinks might still work on her.
“Was that bomb meant for me?”
I feel something twist in my chest as her words echo through the room.
Pride, I realize faintly.
Viktor’s throat works visibly as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as sweat beads along his temple. He looks anywhere but at her before finally forcing himself to meet her gaze again.
“No,” he says too quickly. “Of course not.”
It’s a lie.
We all hear it.
Alina does too.
Her lips part slightly, a quiet inhale pulling into her lungs as she’s bracing herself for the answer she already knows. “Don’t lie to me, Papa.”
Viktor doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is enough of a confession on its own.
Alina lets out a breath slowly, steadying herself. Her grip on the napkin loosens, the fabric slipping from her fingers as if she no longer has the strength to hold onto anything else. For the first time since she walked into this room, she doesn’t look scared.
