I’ve never needed validation from anyone. Never looked for it. But tonight…his words land differently. Like permission. Like understanding spoken in a language I didn’t expect him to know.
He looks away first, as if the moment doesn’t matter.
“I came to go over security protocols,” he says, tone back to business, controlled. “We’ll do that tomorrow.”
I nod faintly, my voice still unreliable. “Fine.”
A brief pause stretches between us.
Then—
“Goodnight.”
He turns and walks out, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the space he left behind, my chest still tight but…lighter, somehow.
And for the first time since I stepped into this house, I don’t feel completely alone.
But I don’t cry again.
I move instead.
The bathroom is pristine, just like everything else in this house—clean lines, marble surfaces, soft lighting that feels almost too gentle for a place like this. I turn on the shower and step under the water without testing the temperature. The heat hits my skin, and I suck in a breath as it seeps into my bones, washing away the cold that has clung to me since I left Moscow.
For a few minutes, I just stand there. Letting the water run over me. Letting it carry away the grime, the sweat, the fear.
Not the grief. That stays.
There’s a robe waiting when I step out, thick and soft. I wrap it around myself, tying the sash tightly, as if I need the pressure to hold me together. I don’t want to put my old clothes back on. They feel like another life. One I can’t return to.
A knock sounds just as I step back into the room.
I pause, then walk to the door and open it.
Two members of staff stand there. One holds neatly folded clothes. The other carries a tray with a steaming cup of tea, the faint scent of herbs curling into the air between us.
“The boss sent us,” one says quietly.
For a second, I just look at them. Something about that—about him thinking ahead, sending this without being asked—catches me off guard.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping aside.
They move efficiently, placing the clothes on the bed and the tray on the bedside table. No wasted motion. No unnecessary words. When they’re done, they nod and leave just as quietly as they came.
I close the door and turn back to the room.
The clothes are simple—sweatpants and a shirt—but the fabric is soft, expensive. I run my fingers over it for a moment before pulling them on. The warmth settles over my skin, and I let out a quiet breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
It feels…safe.
I climb onto the bed, pulling the covers around me, the unfamiliar comfort almost overwhelming after days of tension and cold motel rooms. I reach for the tea, taking a careful sip. It’s warm, soothing, grounding.
My eyes close slowly.
For the first time in days, my body begins to unclench. The tension eases, bit by bit, like I’m finally allowed to rest.
There are still tears at the back of my eyes, still grief sitting heavy in my chest—but they don’t fall. Not tonight.
