“Mmm.” He hums softly, unconvinced.
Guilt washes through me. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the apology.
Instead, he steps around me with quiet authority and reaches for the frame. His hands close around it easily, fingers firm and practiced. He lifts it from my grasp without effort, the weight that strained my arms apparently nothing to him.
I watch silently as he carries it back to the shelf.
He doesn’t handle it with reverence. There’s no gentleness. The corner of the frame snags on the carpet, scraping softly, but he doesn’t stop. He lifts it again and shoves it farther back, deeper into the shadows until it disappears entirely behind rows of old books.
Gone like it never existed.
My fingers twist together in front of me, a nervous habit I can’t seem to stop. “What’s her name?”
He pauses. Only for a heartbeat. “Diana.”
The name echoes in my head.
Diana.
I turn it over silently, my mind racing. Mother? Sister? Someone else entirely? The image of her is still burning behind my eyes.
“Who is she?” I press.
He exhales once, short and controlled, as he gives the painting one last shove, ensuring it’s completely hidden now. This time, there’s no trace left, no edge left sticking out, waiting for the next person to come stumbling across it.
Something tightens in my chest at the thought. I don’t even know why it bothers me so much, but it does. It feels… wrong. Like erasing someone twice.
When Nikolai turns back toward me, he brushes his hands together, dusting them off as if he’s finished dealing with a trivial inconvenience.
“Does it matter?” he asks.
I frown. Before I can stop myself, I step into his path, forcing him to halt. The move surprises both of us, I think.
My heart pounds, but I hold my ground. “Yes. Of course it matters.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
Nikolai studies me then. His eyes narrow slowly, not in anger, but in assessment. Just like he did the day I came stumbling to his estate, begging for Sasha to be spared despite their quarrel. For the first time since I arrived at his estate, I feel like I’ve seen something I was never meant to.
Whatever, orwhoever, Diana is to him, whatever she represents, I know one thing with absolute certainty. She was never meant to be found.
Now that I’ve seen her, I don’t believe Nikolai Malyshko will forget that.
“My wife,” he finally says. The words are said softly, almost carelessly, but they hit me like a physical blow.
My eyes widen before I can stop them. For a second, I just stare at him, my mind scrambling to reconcile the portrait with the man in front of me.
He takes advantage of my stunned silence to step around me, his shoulder brushing mine as he passes. The contact is brief, barely there, but it sends a strange awareness through me anyway of how solid he is, how deliberate every movement feels. He heads down the aisle, feet whispering against the carpet between towering shelves.
It takes a full fifteen seconds for my brain to catch up. Then I’m moving. I jog down the aisle after him, my pulse skittering, questions tripping over one another until one finally escapes my mouth.
“You have a wife?”
He doesn’t slow.
“I did.” The answer is flat. Final.
