Chapter 33
ELLIE
A mistake.
The word lives in my chest now.
It’s become physical, a bruise that I press against involuntarily twenty times a day, each time producing the same dull, spreading ache.
I’ve cried until there’s nothing left and then found more.
He doesn’t come back.
One day. Two. I count them as if doing so would make time feel manageable — if I can get to the next number, the one after it will be easier. It isn’t.
On the third night I decide, with great conviction, to sleep in my own room.
I stand in the doorway of my bedroom and tell myself, This is yours.
This has always been yours. You were here before him, and you’ll be fine without him.
I believe it completely. So, I get in bed, turn off the light, and lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling for four hours.
Then I go back to our room.
His room.
I tell myself it’s because his mattress is better. Not that I’ve grown accustomed to his breathing, or the scent that lingers after him, or anything else.
I bury my face in his pillow and sleep until six and wake up feeling hollow.
This is a detox, I tell myself. This passes. All of it passes.
I repeat it until I half-believe it.
On the fourth day, the number of guards in the house doubles.
Mikhail appears at breakfast with his careful, composed face.
“Miss Calloway.” He sets his coffee down. “Starting today, lessons must be conducted in the bunker until further notice.”
I put my fork down slowly. “I’m sorry?”
“For security purposes. It’s only a precaution.”
“Mikhail.” I keep my voice even. “Can you tell me what’s happening? Because there are way more guards today, and now you’re telling me to take a six-year-old to a bunker every morning, and I think I deserve at least a?—”
“It’s a precaution.”
“You said that.”
“Miss Calloway?—”
“ Why is it a precaution?” I hold his gaze. “What are we being protected from?”
He redirects his eyes to me for a moment and says simply, “These are Rolan’s orders.”
Hearing his name makes my throat tighten.
I pick up my fork. “Fine.”
Mikhail nods once and leaves. I’m left feeling the familiar hollow ache pressing against my ribs.
Another attack, I think, and feel two things simultaneously: cold fear moving down my spine, and beneath it, coiled and waiting — possibility .
Anya arrives at the table a few minutes later.
“Morning, sweetie.”
“Good morning, Ellie,” she replies, giving me a slight smile.
“When you finish breakfast, will you help me choose what we’re going to take to the new classroom?”
She raises her small eyebrows. “Where is the new classroom?”
“We’re going to... study in a rabbit hole. I imagine Mr. Whiskers would like to feel more at home once in a while. What do you think?”
She laughs at me, as if I were being silly, but nods and says, “Okay.”
I hate lying to her, but it’s the only way I can make her feel safe. And watching her eat breakfast, so oblivious to everything that’s going on, brings a lump to my throat. Will I really be able to leave her?
I message Maren every morning.
Still okay?
MARE
Still okay. New hotel. Quieter here. How long, El?
Soon. I think soon. The house feels like it’s holding its breath.
MARE
Be ready. A man like him is always under threat. That threat is your window.
She’s right. But every morning, Anya dismantles me just a little bit more.
She’s been bringing her sketchbook to lessons.
Not for art — she draws in the margins of her math work, small birds and cloud formations filling the white space around the numbers.
Last Tuesday, she showed me a new one: a woman with dark hair standing at a window, a small figure beside her.
She said it was us, looking at the rain.
I find myself holding back tears every day.
The house grows quieter as the week progresses. It feels like everyone knows what’s coming and has been instructed not to say so. The staff move with their eyes down. Conversations stop when I approach.
It’s beyond aggravating, but anger is cleaner than the grief, easier to function inside, so I let it do some of the heavy lifting.
Thursday morning, the air in the house has a different texture. A tautness, a pressure, as if the walls have moved inward overnight. I dress and go to Anya’s room. With her hand in mine, we walk toward the bunker stairs.
The guard closes the door behind us.
The lock engages.
I stand still for a moment, listening, and then I turn to face the room.
Anya is already at the table, arranging her pencils in chromatic order, a habit she’s gotten into since we reorganized her bedroom. She does it with focused calm.
Two hours pass, and all I can think about is that I’m trapped. Every day we’ve been here, they’ve kept the door open, with only a guard at the entrance, so why did they decide to lock us in today?
The answer is clear: it’s happening today. If I don’t act now, I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity.
“Anya.” I keep my voice even, so it doesn’t transmit what’s running underneath it. “I need to step out for a minute. Can you be strong for me while I’m gone?”
Those pale, steady eyes reach mine. “Okay.”
One word. She trusts me completely. She trusts me so completely that she doesn’t even ask why, just says okay and goes back to her pencils .
Guilt manifests as nausea in my stomach that radiates upward, settling in my throat until I can’t swallow.
I stare at her bent head, the careful way she arranges the yellow beside the orange, and I think, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry this is the world you were born into, and I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to stay in it. Goodbye, my little girl.
I knock on the door.
A pause. The guard opens it. He’s young, the one I’ve seen on rotation this week, still slightly too earnest for the house he works in.
“Miss Calloway?”
I’ve prepared for this.
“I need to grab something from upstairs.” I keep my voice light, easy, the voice I use for administrative requests. “Toiletries.”
“I can send someone?—”
“They’re…” I pause, letting a flicker of discomfort cross my face. “They’re personal items. Women’s stuff.” I watch the color rise in his neck immediately, the involuntary mortification. “I’d rather just?—”
“Of course, I’ll come with?—”
“You absolutely will not.” I let my voice go cool. “Anya is alone in there. Your job is to keep her safe. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.” I hold his gaze until he looks away. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He hesitates before nodding.
I walk away before he can reconsider.
I’m in my room with my hands pressed against my temples, staring at the floor. Okay, what now?
The honest answer is that I didn’t plan much past the door. I can’t just run away. We have more guards now. It’s more likely than ever that I’ll get caught. I need to create a distraction, maybe a fire ?
I push the thought aside. Too dangerous, someone could get hurt... Think, Ellie, think!
The explosion answers the question for me.
The house shudders. A bone-deep vibration, same as that other day. Fear crashes over me, and I’m temporarily paralyzed by it.
Shouting.
Gunshots.
Anya .
No. I shake my head, snapping myself out of it, and then I’m moving.
First, to the window.
From there, I manage to see that the guards are converging on the east side. I count — eight, ten, more still coming. The east approach is a mass of controlled activity.
The west side is empty.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. My hands shake as I text Maren.
I have my distraction. Wish me luck.
I don’t wait for a response.
The west corridor is empty. The side entrance is empty. The stretch of property between the house and the perimeter wall, running along the garden border, is all empty.
I push through the exterior door, and the air hits me — cold, sharp. I pull in a breath and feel a knot loosen in my lungs.
Then I run.
The perimeter wall has a service gate on the far west corner. I found it three weeks ago and noticed that it has a mechanical latch rather than a keypad. My feet follow the route before I’ve consciously directed them there.
I make it to the wall. It seems there’s already been a battle here. Black marks litter the concrete. Stone debris covers the ground. The remains of a security camera lie sparking just past my feet.
The attackers must have come in this way, but I can’t see anyone left. Not even a corpse.
It should raise alarm bells, but I’m too overwhelmed to think it through.
My lungs are burning, a bright, acidic pain that I push through as I move along the wall. From behind me comes shouting, the sharp percussion of gunfire, more explosions. Ahead is the gate, the latch, the freedom of a door that opens outward.
Then my hand is on the latch.
My chest pounds with violent heaves. My skin is cold with sweat, and my nerves are on fire. But that’s not what keeps me from taking the next step.
Instead, I pause.
Tears well in my eyes.
Somewhere behind me, a little girl is sitting in a bunker, holding her stuffed rabbit and arranging pencils in chromatic order. The thought tugs at my chest, begging me to stay.
I stand at the gate and take a deep, raspy breath.
Everything hits me at once.
I remember all the days Rolan came home and lay down with me in the bedroom, how I woke up that one morning with him stroking my hair but pretended to be asleep so he would never stop.
I think about the little girl who trusts me, who doesn’t have a mom to take care of her, who must be so scared right now.
I think about how I’m not there to protect her.
An unexpected sob tears from my throat.
My face is wet, and my hand is still on the latch. I’m standing at the edge of a life I’ve been trying to escape for months, and the question that arrives is not, Can I leave? Not even, Do I want to ?
The question is, Shit. Am I in love?
Love . The word hits my chest with a heavy, irrevocable impact. Not a small word. Not a manageable one. I’ve been not-saying it for so long that saying it now, even only internally, is breaking me open.
I love him. The certainty of it is nauseating and total. I love Rolan Belov, a murderer and a mafia boss. A man who called me a mistake.
But it’s not just him. I love Anya, too. I love that little, impossibly smart girl.
And — for the first time since I was nineteen and my father called to say he sold me out — I want a family.
I want them to be my family.
My hand lowers, and I prepare to turn, to flee back to the fate my heart aches for… when someone’s arm closes around my throat from behind.
Before I can scream, a canvas bag is shoved over my head. The world disappears as a familiar voice fills my ear.
“Miss me, sweetheart?”
I don’t get the chance to answer. The sting at my neck is brief and precise.
The darkness that follows is absolute.