13. Vadim
13
VADIM
I sit behind my desk with Lacey next to me as Megan's opens her laptop.
Demyon stands by the door, his usual easy smile replaced by a hard line.
"We have six interviews conducted already, and another nine to do later," she explains. "Most of them tell the same story. The current plan is to release them in a drip feed of one per day for the next two weeks. I still have time to have the editing team make any changes you want for tomorrow's upload."
"Let's see it then."
Megan nods and hits the play button.
The girl on screen is looking down at her hands. Even with the makeup, there's no hiding the dark bruises that mar her delicate features. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and her rich brown eyes hold a haunted look that makes my stomach clench.
" Myen ah-myt ," Demyon's voice asks in Tuvan off-screen as subtitles appear. "Can you tell us your name?"
"Taliya Darzhaa," she responds, her voice barely above a whisper.
Demyon shifts his weight, and I catch the flash of rage in his eyes.
"How old are you, Taliya?"
Taliya's eyes never leave her hands. "Seventeen."
I grip the edge of my desk, feeling the rage building in my chest at how quiet her voice is. Beside me, Lacey's fingers dig into my arm.
"Can you tell us what happened?"
Taliya's fingers twist together as she speaks, her words coming between quiet sobs.
"I needed a job after my parents died," she whispers in Tuvan. "But there were no opportunities in my village." She trails off, wiping her eyes. "One day, I saw an ad looking for models in America."
"Can you tell us for what company?"
Taliya nods, sniffling. "Opaline and Co."
My jaw clenches as she describes seeing the modeling advertisement for Opaline and Co.—how it promised to make her dreams come true.
Through translation, she recounts answering the ad and meeting the recruiter who arranged her travel to Vladivostok. She describes how the entire trip was paid for, and how excited she was at the chance of a new life.
Lacey's hand tightens on mine as Taliya describes what happened next when she arrived.
"They gave me a pair of ordinary looking heels," she says, her voice cracking. "Told me to walk in them, pose in them. They took so many pictures. But something didn't feel right."
I feel Lacey shivering beside me as Taliya explains how the photographer seemed more interested in taking pictures of her legs, her face, and her body rather than the shoes.
She breaks down again on screen, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Demyon's voice comes through behind the camera, gentle but firm.
"Take your time, Taliya. We can stop if you need."
To her credit, she shakes her head bravely, determination flickering across her tear-stained face. She takes a deep breath and continues.
"After more pictures," Taliya continues in Tuvan. "He gave me a dress. It was..." She gestures at herself, struggling to find the words. "You could see everything through it. Like I was wearing nothing at all. I didn't want to wear it, but the way he talked to me… I was scared to say no."
"What happened next?"
"He made me sit like this , " Taliya demonstrates, positioning herself with one leg tucked under her and the other folded in front. Even now, weeks later, her movements are hesitant, uncertain.
"I didn't understand," she says, her voice small. "The shoes were barely visible. When I tried to tell him this..."
Her hand rises to her cheek, fingers trembling as they trace where the photographer struck her.
"He hit me so hard I thought I would pass out."
My jaw clenches so tightly that it hurts.
I've seen this pattern too many times, heard this story again and again with every rescue—the gradual escalation from seemingly innocent modeling shots to increasingly revealing poses, followed by violence when the girls start questioning things.
The footage cuts to Demyon's voice-over, showing a webpage for Opaline and Co. of an exclusive pair of shoes named "The Darzhaa" for $150,000.
The product page is a picture of Taliya in a revealing dress, and the exact pose that she just demonstrated. Her face is turned to the side to hide the evidence of the photographer's violence and her eyes are looking down.
Just like she said, the shoes are barely visible.
I watch as Taliya wring her hands, knuckles white with tension, as she continues her story.
"After that last photo..." She pauses, swallowing hard. "Three men came in." Her voice cracks. "They grabbed me and pulled me up."
Through Demyon's translation, I hear how she tried to fight back. My grip tightens on Lacey's hand as Taliya describes the beating that followed—brutal, methodical strikes meant to subdue without leaving visible marks.
Lest Kirsan ruin his merchandise.
"One of them..." She touches her throat. "He had a knife. He pressed it here."
Beside me, Lacey's breath catches. I feel her trembling.
"They told me I had two choices." Her voice grows smaller with each word. "Do what they tell me to, or they'll kill me."
Through tears, she describes being dragged to the docks where the container looming before her like a metal coffin. "They pushed me inside with the others. And there were so many others..."
Taliya breaks down completely then, her slim shoulders shaking with deep, wracking sobs.
"Thank you," Demyon says gently off-camera. "For your courage in sharing this."
The screen fades to black, white text appearing: "This is the first in a series of interviews conducted by the Seattle Voice with survivors of human trafficking in the Pacific Northwest."
Megan pauses the video, the silence in my office broken only by Lacey's uneven breathing.
"How many views so far?" I ask.
"Two hundred thousand and counting," Megan says, her eyes fixed on her laptop. "And it's only been two hours. Every time I refresh..." She taps the key again. "See? Another thirty-thousand views."
Lacey shifts uneasily. "Are you sure you're keeping yourself safe? These aren't the kind of people who'll just let this slide."
"Everything's going through the Seattle Voice," Megan assures her. "My name isn't attached to any of it."
I study the comments section filling up beneath the video. Most express outrage, horror, calls for justice. Exactly the reaction we need to force Kirsan's operations into the light.
But scattered among them are other comments—ones that make my blood run cold. People asking where they can "place orders" and how they can "contact sellers."
These are Kirsan's buyers, crawling out of their holes like cockroaches drawn to rotting meat.
I make a mental note to have Demyon trace those accounts later. For now, I focus on the climbing view counter, watching as more and more eyes turn toward the darkness that Kirsan hid in the open.
Let the world see.
Lacey's fingers find mine under the desk, squeezing gently.
Lacey's fingers tighten around mine. "Where is Taliya now?"
I turn to face her, seeing the concern etched across her features.
"She's safe," I assure her. "We have her and all the other women who agreed to do interviews in different safehouses with round-the-clock protection."
"That won't be enough," Lacey says, her voice firm. "This video is going viral. People are going to start asking questions. Some won't believe her. Others..." She glances at the comment section again and shivers. "Others clearly want to hurt her."
"She's right," Megan chimes in, scrolling through more comments. "The internet can be vicious. It won't take long for people to start trying to track her down."
"I'll increase the number of men we have to guarding them," I tell Lacey.
The relief in Lacey's eyes makes my chest tighten. She squeezes my hand again, and I feel the familiar surge of warmth of her touch.
Megan starts packing up her equipment, carefully wrapping cords around her arm. "We should get going—still have three more interviews scheduled for today."
I notice how Demyon straightens at her words, his usual easy smile returning as he moves to help her with her bags. The way his fingers brush against hers as he takes her laptop doesn't escape my attention.
"Keep me updated on the view count," I tell them both. "And any concerning comments that need investigating."
"Of course," Megan nods, shouldering her bag, and gives Lacey a quick hug before heading toward the door.
There's a knock at the door, and Lenka's voice comes through.
"Vadim Petrovich, Dr. Chen is here to see you both."
Right. The appointment. With everything happening, I'd almost forgotten.
"Send her in," I say.
Lenka bows and a few minutes later, Dr. Raylene Chen enters, a warm smile on her face.
"Mr. and Mrs. Stravinsky," she greets with a slight smile. "I understand congratulations are in order."
Lacey's hand finds mine again as Dr. Chen sets her medical bag on my desk and starts asking Lacey about her medical history, and the last time she had her period. As she talks, Lacey's hand tightens around mine.
The familiar warmth of her touch grounds me, even as anxiety stirs in my chest. This is our first prenatal appointment—the first real confirmation that this is happening.
That I'm going to be a father.
I watch as Dr. Chen ties the tourniquet around Lacey's arm, preparing to draw blood.
But as the dark red liquid fills the vial, my mind spirals back to that moment on the stairs. When Lacey's teeth broke my skin. When she begged me to hurt her. When she screamed how much she hated me.
My stomach churns. What if that was the moment our child was made?
What if, just like Pyotr, I created life through an act of violence?
Lacey catches my eye and gives me that soft smile that makes my heart ache. She may have forgiven me for that night, but I haven't.
I don't think I can ever forgive myself if our baby came from that moment of darkness.
It'll be too close to my own twisted creation. The violence, the blood, the horror of it all. Is this some sort of sick cosmic joke?
Am I doomed to walk forever in Pyotr's shadow?
"You're looking a bit pale there, Mr. Stravinsky," Dr. Chen comments as she labels the vial. "First-time fathers often get queasy around needles."
If only she knew the real reason for my unease.
But I keep that to myself.
Dr. Chen leans forward, her pen poised over her notepad. "Any symptoms that you have questions about, Mrs. Stravinsky?"
"Just one. The nausea comes and goes throughout the day," Lacey explains, her fingers still interlaced with mine. "Sometimes it hits in the afternoon, or even at night. And certain smells make it worse."
Dr. Chen nods, making quick notes. "That's all very normal. What we call 'morning sickness' isn't limited to mornings at all. Most women find it starts to fade around nine weeks."
She tears off a prescription pad and starts writing. "I'm prescribing prenatal vitamins. Make sure to take them with food to minimize nausea."
"How long before we know..." My voice catches slightly. "How far along she is?"
"The lab work will take a few days," Dr. Chen says, handing Lacey the prescription. "But based on your answers about your last period and when morning sickness started, I'd estimate anywhere between four to six weeks."
My stomach drops. Four to six weeks.
The timing lines up with that night on the stairs. The night of violence and anger. The night Lacey begged me to hurt her and I gave in to that darkness.
I feel the blood drain from my face as memories flood back—her screams of how much she hates me echoing off marble, the sting of her teeth on my palm, and the bruises I left on her skin.
The room spins slightly as Dr. Chen continues talking, but her words fade to a dull buzz in my ears. All I can focus on is the sickening possibility.
Our child conceived in violence.
Just like me.
The door clicks shut behind Dr. Chen, leaving me alone with Lacey. My hands won't stop shaking. The timing of everything keeps spinning in my head—five to six weeks. The stairs. The blood. The violence.
"Vadim," Lacey's soft voice breaks through my spiral. "What's wrong?"
"The timing," I manage. "Four to six weeks. That night on the stairs..."
Her fingers find mine, squeezing gently in understanding. "We don't know that for certain."
"But we can't rule it out." My voice catches. "If we made our child through violence and pain..."
"Stop." Lacey cups my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her. "You can't torture yourself with these questions. Dr. Chen will tell us exactly how far along I am." Her thumbs brush my cheeks. "And even if it was that night, it doesn't matter. That moment didn't define us then, and it won't define our child now."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know you," she whispers. "The same way you knew me well enough to forgive me for pushing you. The same way you told me to stop blaming myself for everything that went wrong that night." Her forehead presses against mine. "If I can forgive you for that, why can't you?"
I close my eyes, letting her words wash over me. "Because I'm terrified of becoming like him."
And that's the truth, isn't it? It's what I've spent my entire life trying to run away from.
"You're not Pyotr," she says firmly. "You never were. You may live in his house, and you may have his blood flowing in your veins. But in your heart, you are Polina's son. And because of that, you'll be an amazing father."