He turns fully toward me. “You walked into a bank and touched a dormant account tied to Markov’s name. That’s what set this in motion.”
The words hit. I keep my face still. “That money belongs to Mila.”
“And she’s breathing safely right now because I’m here,” he says. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
I don’t move back. “I’ve kept her alive longer than you’ve known her.”
He steps closer, not crowding, not touching. Just close enough to narrow the space. “You don’t want to need me,” he says. “But you do.”
My hand hits his chest, open and firm. “You think you’re the only one who cares?”
His hand closes around my wrist, steady, anchoring. For a moment we stay there, close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Then he pulls me in and kisses me. “I’m here,” he says against my mouth. “That’s what matters.”
Even though I want to tell him the truth right then, that Mila is his and that I lied about her age, the words stay where they are. I don’t know how he’ll look at me once he knows I kept something this big from him for years. I’ve been hiding behind anger because it’s easier than saying what matters. I love him. I never stopped. And if I tell him now, I might lose him for real.
20
DOMINIK
I’m outside on the narrow back veranda. Most houses here have one, a half-covered strip where people leave boots to dry and sit with tea when the sun shows up. I call Gleb from an unknown number and let it ring twice while I count all the reasons he shouldn’t answer. Unknown line. Bad timing. My name tied to trouble.
He answers anyway.
“You’re late,” he says. No hello. No question about the number.
“I had to move,” I say.
“I figured,” he says. “You don’t call from a number like this unless where you are still feels wrong.”
I look out over the backyard from the veranda. The grass is damp from last night’s rain. A clothesline runs slack between two posts. Nothing moves. The trees stand still, windless, dampness pressed flat against the ground.
“I’m married,” I tell him.
Gleb says nothing for a beat. Then he speaks, voice even.
“So you did it.”
“You knew,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “It hit the records. Stuff like that never stays private.”
“But I didn’t know it was you,” he adds.
I say nothing.
“The name on file isn’t yours,” he says after a while.
“It’s one I use.”
He exhales through his nose, the sound faint. “You’ve got nerve.”
“Are you saying I crossed a line?”
“I’m saying I know who the Council’s been watching now, and I didn’t before.” He lets that sit. “They’ll know soon enough.”
“I closed one door,” I say.
