Chapter 9 - Bianca
Something is wrong.
I sense it before I'm fully awake, some animal instinct pulling me out of sleep and into alertness. The quality of the light is the same—gray, diffused, early morning—but the sounds are different. More footsteps on the gravel below. More voices, low and urgent. The distant rumble of engines.
I push back the covers and cross to the window, pressing my cheek against the cold glass to see the front gate.
Three black SUVs are parked in the drive, their doors hanging open. Men are unloading equipment—cases and boxes and things I can't identify from this distance. Armed men, more than I've seen before, moving with the purposeful efficiency of soldiers preparing for battle.
My stomach drops.
I dress quickly, not bothering with the careful selections I made yesterday. The first things I grab—a cream sweater, dark pants, flat shoes I can run in if necessary. My hands are steady as I pull my hair back, but my heart is racing.
Something happened. Something changed overnight while I slept in my silk-sheeted cage.
Mrs. Novak is in the hallway when I emerge, carrying fresh towels. She stops when she sees me, her expression carefully neutral.
"Good morning, Bianca. I was just coming to—"
"What's happening?"
She hesitates. A fraction of a second, but I catch it.
"Mr. Kashkin's brother has sent additional security personnel. A precautionary measure."
"Precautionary against what?"
"I'm sure Mr. Kashkin can explain—"
"Mrs. Novak." I step closer, holding her gaze.
"I've spent my entire life being protected from the truth.
My father told me he was a businessman. My brothers told me everything was fine.
And then I ended up on an auction block because no one thought I could handle reality.
" My voice is harder than I intend, but I don't soften it.
"I'm done being managed. What is happening? "
She studies me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression—not quite approval, but close to it.
"I don't know the details," she says finally. "But something arrived last night. A message of some kind. Mr. Kashkin has been in his office since three in the morning."
Three in the morning. Four hours ago. While I slept, he was awake, dealing with something serious enough to bring an army to his doorstep.
"Where is his office?"
"Ground floor, east wing. But Bianca—" She catches my arm as I turn to go. "He may not want to be disturbed."
"Then he can tell me that himself."
I pull free and head for the stairs.
The east wing is quieter than the rest of the house, the corridor lined with dark wood paneling and portraits of people I don't recognize. Kashkin ancestors, probably, their painted eyes following me as I pass. The gothic atmosphere feels heavier here, the shadows deeper.
I find the office at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar, and I hear Misha's voice—low, tense, speaking in rapid Russian.
I wait. Count my heartbeats. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty.
The conversation ends. Silence.
I push the door open.
Misha is behind a massive desk, phone still in his hand, dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept at all—his jaw shadowed with stubble, his sweater rumpled. For a moment, he just stares at me, something unreadable flickering across his face.
"Bianca."
"What's happening?" I don't bother with pleasantries. "Why are there a dozen new men outside? What changed?"
He sets the phone down slowly. Deliberately. Buying time, I realize, to decide how much to tell me.
"Don't." I step into the room, closing the door behind me. "Don't decide what I can handle. I'm not a child, and I'm not fragile. If something is happening that affects my life—my safety—I have a right to know."
He watches me for a long moment. Then he reaches for something on his desk—his phone—and holds it out to me.
"This arrived last night."
I take the phone. The screen shows a text message from an unknown number. Below the number, an image.
Me.
On the stage at the auction, bathed in white light, my face frozen in an expression of pure terror. The moment before I found my composure, before I raised my chin and pretended to be brave. I look young in the photo. Vulnerable. Exactly like what I was—a woman being sold to the highest bidder.
Below the image, four words: She belongs to me.
My hands don't shake. I'm distantly proud of that.
"Sergei," I say.
"Yes."
"He sent this to you. To provoke you."
"Yes."
I stare at the photo a moment longer, then hand the phone back. "What does it mean? Tactically?"
Misha blinks. Whatever reaction he expected, it wasn't that.
"It means he's making this personal," he says slowly. "He's not just angry about losing money or face. He's fixated on you specifically. He wants me to know that he's coming, and he wants me to be afraid."
"Are you?"
"No."
"Liar."
His jaw tightens. "I'm not afraid for myself."
The implication hangs in the air between us. He's afraid for me. Afraid that Sergei will find a way through his defenses, afraid that all his security and surveillance won't be enough.
I should be touched. Instead, I'm angry.
"I'm so tired of this," I say, and my voice comes out flat, hard. "Men deciding I belong to them. My father selling me like livestock. Sergei thinking he has some claim on me because of a deal I never agreed to. Even you—" I stop myself, but the words are already out.
"Even me," Misha says quietly. "Buying you at an auction. Bringing you here. Making decisions about your life without consulting you."
"Yes."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't defend himself. Just nods, accepting the accusation.
"You're right," he says. "I've treated you like something to be protected rather than someone to be consulted. That's not—" He pauses, searching for words. "That's not who I want to be with you."
"Then stop. Stop shielding me from information. Stop making decisions on my behalf. If Sergei is coming for me, I need to understand what that means. I need to be part of the planning, not just the thing being planned around."
He studies me for a long moment. I can see him wrestling with something—instinct, probably. The urge to protect, to control, to keep me safely ignorant.
Then he nods.
"All right. Sit down."
I take the chair across from his desk, the same position we were in yesterday when he told me about my father's crimes. It feels different now. Less like an interrogation, more like a briefing.
"What do you want to know?" he asks.
"Everything. How many men does Sergei have? What's his timeline? What's the plan to stop him?"
Misha leans back in his chair, and for the next twenty minutes, he talks.
He tells me about Sergei's movements—Las Vegas, Seattle, the coalition he's building.
He tells me about the Belov family, the other organizations Sergei might pull into his orbit.
He tells me about the reinforcements Dmitri sent, the security upgrades being installed, the contingency plans for different scenarios.
He tells me about the safe room in the basement, the extraction routes, the protocols for lockdown. He tells me what to do if the perimeter is breached, where to go, how to barricade myself until help arrives.
I listen. I ask questions. I file away details the way I'd file away symptoms, building a mental map of the threat landscape.
When he finishes, I sit in silence for a moment, processing.
"What about offense?" I ask finally.
He raises an eyebrow. "Offense?"
"You're describing defensive measures. Walls, guards, safe rooms. What about striking first? Taking the fight to Sergei before he can bring it here?"
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise again, maybe. Or respect.
"That's being considered," he says carefully. "But it's complicated. An attack on Sergei would mean open war with the Morozovs. My brother is evaluating the risks."
"And if the risks are acceptable?"
"Then we move. But not yet. Not until we know more about what Sergei is planning."
I nod slowly. It makes sense—gather intelligence, shore up defenses, wait for the enemy to reveal his hand. It's what I would do, if I knew anything about warfare.
I don't. But I'm learning.
"Thank you," I say. "For telling me."
"You were right to demand it." He pauses. "I'm not used to... explaining myself. To anyone outside my family."
"I'm not asking you to explain yourself. I'm asking you to include me."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes." I stand, suddenly restless. "Explaining is about the past—justifying decisions already made. Including is about the future. Letting me be part of what comes next."
He considers this. "And you want to be part of it? Even knowing what it might involve?"
"I don't have a choice." I move toward the window, looking out at the guards patrolling the grounds. "This is my life now, whether I want it or not. I can hide from it, or I can face it. I'm tired of hiding."
Silence behind me. Then his voice, quieter than before.
"You're not what I expected."
I turn. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Fear. Tears. The woman I knew two years ago might have—" He stops, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. You're not her anymore."
"No," I agree. "I'm not."
I'm not sure who I am now. But I'm starting to find out.
***
The greenhouse is cold when I return to it, the morning chill seeping through the cracked glass. I should have brought a coat. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and get to work.
Yesterday I assessed. Today I act.
I start with the dead things—pulling withered plants from their pots, clearing debris from the aisles, making space.
The work is physical, satisfying in a way that studying never was.
My hands get dirty. My muscles ache. I can see the progress I'm making, measured in the growing pile of detritus by the door.
The fern I noticed yesterday is definitely alive—struggling, but alive. I move it to a spot where more light comes through the grimy glass. Find a watering can, rusted but functional, and give it a drink.
"You and me both," I murmur to it. "Surviving despite everything."
The fern doesn't answer. I didn't expect it to. But talking feels better than silence.
I work my way down the center aisle, sorting through the wreckage of Misha's mother's garden.
Most of it is beyond saving—decades of neglect have taken their toll.
But here and there I find signs of life.
A succulent that's somehow held on. Bulbs that might bloom if they're replanted properly.
Seeds scattered from plants long dead, waiting in the soil for someone to give them a chance.
I'm elbow-deep in a pot of dead roses when my fingers hit something that isn't soil.
Metal. A small box, buried in the dirt.
I pull it out carefully, brushing away the debris. It's a tin—decorative, old-fashioned, the kind that might have held biscuits or tea a century ago. The lid is rusted but not sealed. I pry it open.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed cloth, is a journal.
The leather cover is cracked with age, the pages swollen from humidity. I open it carefully, afraid it might fall apart in my hands.
The writing inside is in Russian—elegant cursive I can't read. But there are sketches too. Flowers, plants, garden layouts. And on the inside cover, an inscription in English:
For my garden, my sanctuary, my hope.—Maria Kashkin, 2007
Maria. Misha's mother.
I close the journal gently, my heart beating faster. This was hers. This greenhouse was hers. And somehow, buried in the dirt, she left a piece of herself behind.
I should give this to Misha. It belongs to him, to his family.
But I don't move to leave. Instead, I sit on the wrought-iron bench, the journal in my lap, and think about the woman who used to tend this space. Who planted and watered and nurtured, who found sanctuary here among growing things.
Who died violently, if Mrs. Novak's careful silences are any indication. Who left behind three children and a garden that withered without her.
For my garden, my sanctuary, my hope.
The words echo in my mind. Sanctuary. Hope.
I look around at the chaos I've been clearing—the dead plants, the broken glass, the decades of neglect. It would take months to restore this place. Maybe years. I might not be here that long. Sergei might come tomorrow, and everything might end.
But I could start. I could plant something, tend something, create something that might outlive whatever happens next.
The thought is strangely comforting.
I set the journal aside—I'll give it to Misha later, when the time is right—and return to work. There's a bag of potting soil in the corner, old but usable. Pots that can be cleaned. Seeds that might still be viable.
I start with the fern, repotting it properly, giving its roots room to spread. Then I move to the succulent, then the bulbs. Small acts of hope in a place that's known too much despair.
***
The sun is setting by the time I stop, the gray light fading to purple and orange through the western windows. My back aches, my hands are filthy, and I'm more tired than I've been in months.
I feel better than I have since the auction.
I stand in the greenhouse doorway, looking back at the house.
The gothic silhouette rises against the darkening sky—all towers and gables and shadow, like something from a Victorian nightmare.
Guards patrol the perimeter, their figures dark against the dying light.
Somewhere inside, Misha is planning for war.
And I'm here, in his mother's garden, trying to coax life from the ruins.
I think about Sergei's message. She belongs to me. The arrogance of it. The assumption that I'm something to be owned, claimed, possessed.
My father thought the same thing. So did my brothers, when they delivered me to the auction like a package. Even Misha, for all his talk of choices—he bought me. He brought me here. He's been making decisions about my life since the moment he bid five million dollars for my body.
I'm tired of being something that belongs to other people.
I don't know how this ends. I don't know if Sergei will come, or when, or whether Misha's defenses will hold. I don't know if I'll ever see my apartment again, finish my degree, become the doctor I dreamed of being.
But I know this: I'm done being passive.
I didn't choose this cage. But I can choose what I become inside it.
I can choose to learn, to understand, to prepare. I can choose to restore this greenhouse, to create something beautiful in the middle of something terrible. I can choose to face whatever comes next on my feet, not on my knees.
I look at the house one more time—the gargoyles on the roof, the windows gleaming in the last light, the fortress that's become my prison and my shelter.
Then I go inside to find Misha and give him his mother's journal.