Alone, the weight of everything I’ve suppressed presses down. Silence fills the room, unbearable in its stillness. For twenty-four hours, I’ve been on instinct—running, planning, surviving. No room for fear, for mourning, for memory.
Now there’s nothing left to distract me.
Papa’s face comes unbidden, etched into my mind: the blood on his shirt, the intensity in his voice, the iron will that forced me to run even as bullets tore through the halls. The realization that I will never see him again splits me open, leaving a raw, aching emptiness.
I collapse beside the bed, knees bent, arms braced on the floor. My tears come unrestrained, long overdue, bitter and hot. Every sob shakes me, tears soaking my cheeks, my hair, the floor.
For the first time since fleeing Russia, I allow myself to grieve. To remember. To feel everything I’ve held at bay for survival.
I cry until exhaustion steals my strength, until the raw edges of despair dull enough that I can breathe. Head pressed to the floor, I listen to the silence, knowing tomorrow I will have to rise again.
Because no matter how broken, no matter how hollow, I still have to survive. It’s what my father would want.
I’m still crying when the door suddenly swings open.
Timofey steps inside without knocking.
I scramble to my feet instantly, wiping my face, drawing a shaky breath as if I could somehow erase what he’s already seen. Shame burns through me. I don’t cry in front of people. I don’t fall apart where anyone can see.
But it’s too late.
I blink past the tears and look at him properly for the first time.
He’s tall. Very tall. It’s the first thing that hit me when he walked into Mike’s office earlier. Broad shoulders, a powerful build that fills the doorway like he was made to block exits. His dark hair is slightly unkempt, like he doesn’t care enough to tame it, and his gray eyes….
Cold.
Sharp.
Focused entirely on me like I’m something he’s trying to understand, and not quite succeeding.
I want to snap at him. Scream, even. Demand to know why he thinks he can just walk into my space like this. But the fight isn’t there tonight. I’m too drained. Too exposed.
“You didn’t knock,” I say instead, my voice hoarse, quieter than I would like.
He nods once. There’s something in his expression—something that almost looks like acknowledgment…maybe even apology.
But he doesn’t say it.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
He just stands there, giving me space. Waiting. Letting me pull myself back together without pressure, without interruption.
It’s…unexpected.
I straighten slowly, wiping the last of the tears from my cheeks, forcing my breathing to steady. I lift my chin, rebuilding the composure that slipped through my fingers minutes ago.
“Cry some more,” he says finally, voice rough, low.
I stiffen instantly, bristling at what sounds like mockery. My eyes snap to his, ready to bite back, and then I see it.
There’s no cruelty there. No amusement. No judgment.
Just blunt honesty.
The kind that doesn’t dress itself up to be palatable.
Something in my chest shifts.
