“Come in.”
The door opens, and Misha steps in.
His presence alone shifts the air. Less light. More…real.
“Miss Petrova,” he says evenly, “there’s someone outside looking for you.”
I frown.
What?
Who could possibly be looking for me?
“I don’t—who?”
He pauses, studying me for half a second.
“Says her name is Sofia Morozova.”
Everything in me stills.
Then snaps.
“Sofia?” I shoot to my feet so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “That’s my best friend—”
I’m already moving toward the door when Misha lifts a hand, stopping me.
“I’ll bring her to you,” he says calmly. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
He steps out before I can argue.
The door shuts.
And for a second, I just stand there.
Then—
I squeal.
The sound bursts out of me, uncontrollable, disbelieving—
But it fades just as quickly as it comes.
Because the realization hits.
Sofia is here.
Here.
In America.
Which means she left.
She left Moscow.
Her home.
Her family.
