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A broken breath is forced out of me as I stumble and collapse back onto the bed.

“Fuck!” Roman rushes towards me, his hands reaching out as if to steady me, but I swat him away before he can touch me.

“Where is she?” I try again. My voice is rough, thinner now, edged with uncontained rage.

“She’s in London.” He answers in a clipped tone. “She left you a note; shall I get it for you?” His voice is calm, almost careful but I shake my head.

“Where is it?” I hiss, my focus splintering as pain pulses through my legs, my calf muscles tightening and aching while I try to remember where the bullet hit me.

A graze on the right—nothing serious—but the left leg feels like it’s been torn apart, barely responding, feeble and painfully unreliable beneath me.

My father left more scars. I hope only on me, not Elara. “It’s in the third drawer of your wardrobe.” He explains and I’m already making a move towards it.

My legs give out and I hit the ground hard, pain shooting up through my legs. Roman rushes forward to grab me before I can fall further, and I shove him back with what little strength I have.

“Stay the fuck away.” I yell.

“You’ll reopen the wounds, you stubborn bastard.” He growls but I’m not listening.

“I’ll get it myself.” I bite out, dragging in a shaky breath. “If I can’t walk, I’ll fucking crawl. I don’t need your help to tell me how much of a failure I am.”

“Golden bird, will you let me fuck you in front of him?”

My father’s voice rings in my ear. The rage and adrenaline forcing me to take three steps before I lean against the wall.

“It’s alright, Sergei.”

One step. Then another.

I lean on my stronger leg, dragging the other along until it gives out and I stumble, falling on the ground again, pain blasting through me.

“She just promised to give me a baby.”

A broken breath leaves me as I force myself up again, gripping whatever I can reach.

The urge to tear the bathroom apart claws at me, but I swallow it down and push forward, crossing it slowly before reaching the walk-in closet.

Roman’s curses blur into white noise behind me as my brain works overtime. Every scar feels intensified as more haunting memories surface.

“No one is going to hurt you anymore, Sergei.”

My body leans on the huge wooden wardrobe as I catch my breath, leaning forward, I open the third drawer and find a neatly placed letter in it.

I stare at it for a while.

“She’ll come back.” I whisper. She didn’t leave.

She’s not Mama. She didn’t abandon me. She’s not… Mama.

I am not abandoned.

I gingerly pick up the white paper. My fingers trembling while I peel the seal open and unfold it, the sheet slipping slightly in my unsteady grip.

Black ink stares back at me in her handwriting, uneven in places, yet neat, small and cursive.

I can only stare. I can’t bring myself to read it, silently willing the words to disappear if I glare at them long enough.

Then I notice the faint, dried tear stains scattered across the page, as if she cried through every single word.