Chapter 5 Forced Proximity
Chapter five
Forced Proximity
Sonya
I don't sleep.
How could I? There are armed guards outside my apartment door. Anton knows where I live. Maksim Petrov kissed me against a wall in my destroyed gallery. And the man who ended my career five years ago also murdered Maksim's pregnant wife.
Everything is connected. Everything is wrong. And I'm alone in my small apartment above the gallery, trying to process the fact that my carefully constructed New York life just imploded.
The apartment is small but beautiful—one bedroom, decorated with Russian art, dance photographs, books everywhere.
Ballet barres along one wall where I practice sometimes, though my real midnight dancing happens downstairs in the gallery where I need the mirrors, the open floor, the stage-like feeling.
This is where I've lived for three years. Where I built my safety after the Mariinsky destroyed me.
And Anton knows every inch of it.
He probably knows my routines, my habits, the way I dance alone at midnight. The thought makes my skin crawl.
I pace until dawn, my ankle throbbing, my mind spinning. Around 6 AM, I finally attempt to sleep. Manage maybe an hour before my alarm goes off at 7:30.
I shower, dress in yoga pants and an oversized sweater—comfort clothes because I'm too exhausted for anything else. Make coffee. Stare at my apartment and try to figure out how to pack for "a week" in Philadelphia.
At exactly 9 AM, there's a knock on my door.
I check the peephole—habit, even with guards outside. It's Maksim, looking infuriatingly well-rested in dark jeans and a henley that shows off his arms. How does he look this good after the night we had?
I open the door. "You're punctual."
"I'm always punctual." His eyes sweep over me, cataloging the exhaustion on my face, the messy bun, the comfort clothes. "You didn't sleep."
"Did you?"
"No." He steps inside without being invited, and suddenly my small apartment feels even smaller with him in it. He takes up too much space, too much air, too much of everything.
His eyes move over my apartment—the Russian art on the walls, the dance photographs, the ballet barres, the books stacked everywhere. He stops at a photo of me in Giselle’s costume, the same role I was performing when Anton destroyed me.
"This was before," he says quietly.
"Yes. Two weeks before the fall. When I was still happy." I wrap my arms around myself. "I didn't know what was coming."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Pack a bag. You're coming to Philadelphia."
"About that—"
"No." He turns to face me. "No arguments. No negotiations."
"I can't just abandon my gallery," I protest weakly. "Maya can't run things alone. I have appraisers coming, auctions to coordinate, collectors to meet—"
"Your assistant can handle it. You can work remotely. The gallery will survive a week without you." He moves closer, his presence overwhelming. "Will you survive a week with Anton hunting you in a city where you're exposed?"
I don't have an answer to that.
"Philadelphia is safer," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "It's my territory. I can keep you safe there. Here? This is neutral ground, and he's already struck once."
I notice his hand moving—tracing on my kitchen counter. Letters. Unconscious.
"You're doing it again," I say quietly.
He looks down, sees what he's been tracing. E-L-E-N-A-S.
His hand stills. "Why is the S for?"
He looks at what he's written, seems startled by it. Pulls his hand back like the counter burned him.
"Pack," he says, voice rough. "Please."
The 'please' costs him. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his hands form fists.
"One week," I concede. "Then I'm coming back."
"One week. We'll reassess then."
I pack quickly—clothes, toiletries, my laptop for gallery work, the essentials. His men bring additional bags up from the gallery storage—things I keep there for late nights and emergencies.
When I'm ready, I take one last look at my apartment. At the home I built from the ruins of my dance career. At the sanctuary that suddenly doesn't feel safe anymore.
"Ready?" Maksim asks from the doorway.
"As I'll ever be."
The drive takes over two hours with the security convoy—his armored SUV surrounded by three additional vehicles. I sit beside him in tense silence, watching Manhattan disappear behind us.
I've never left my carefully constructed New York life since the Mariinsky destroyed me five years ago. I built the gallery, the apartment, the routine—all of it to feel safe again.
Now I'm leaving it behind.
"You've never been to Philadelphia," Maksim says, reading my expression.
"No. I’ve barely left Manhattan since I built the gallery during my second year in grad school at NYU."
"It's different from New York. Older. More history visible in the architecture." He's quiet for a moment. "My family has been in Philadelphia for three generations. The mansion was my grandfather's. I inherited it when I took over operations."
"And Elena lived there? With you?"
"For less than a year. We married in Moscow—her city, her choice.
She moved here with me in early 2010. Got pregnant almost immediately.
" His jaw tightens. "Seven months later, she was dead.
Anton followed her from Moscow. Killed her in our bedroom.
In the house where we were supposed to raise our daughter. "
The weight of that settles between us.
"You stayed in the house where she died?"
"I couldn't leave. It was the last place she lived. Where we were happy, even if only briefly." He's staring straight ahead now. "I turned it into a mausoleum instead of a home. Kept her studio exactly as she left it. Preserved everything. Couldn't move forward, couldn't let go."
"For fifteen years," I say quietly.
"For fifteen years."
We don't talk much after that. I watch Pennsylvania roll past—different from New York's energy, different landscape, different world.
Around 11 AM, Philadelphia appears. Maksim was right—it's older, with cobblestones, pre-war buildings, a city that wears its age proudly.
The mansion is in Rittenhouse Square, one of the most prestigious neighborhoods. The estate sits behind iron gates and high stone walls—imposing, historic, beautiful and threatening all at once.
The gates close behind us with finality.
Guards are everywhere—discreet but omnipresent. The mansion occupies nearly half a city block, with manicured grounds despite the urban setting.
It's masculine and cold. Expensive but unlived-in.
"Welcome to my home," Maksim says, but there's no warmth in his voice.
Inside is all dark woods, marble floors, ornate crown molding. Artwork that feels like investment rather than passion. No personal touches except what's missing.
Elena's ghost is everywhere in the absence.
No photos except—I'm betting—in one locked office. No warmth, no evidence anyone actually lives here. It's a museum of wealth and loneliness.
Maksim leads me through the grand entrance hall. Up a sweeping staircase. Through corridors that branch in every direction. To the west wing.
"You'll stay here," he says, opening a door to reveal the blue suite. Three rooms—bedroom, sitting room, private bath. Done in shades of blue and silver, elegant and impersonal. The bedroom alone is larger than my entire Manhattan apartment.
"This is..." I don't know how to finish.
"Too much?" He's watching my reaction.
"Beautiful. Impersonal. Like a very expensive hotel."
"That's this entire house." He moves to the windows, looking out over the grounds. "Don't leave the mansion without security. Don't go near the east wing—that's private."
"What's in the east wing?"
"Nothing that concerns you." His voice is ice. All the warmth from the gallery kiss is gone, replaced by cold Bratva boss.
Fine. Two can play that game.
"Anything else?" I ask, matching his tone.
"Irina runs the house. She'll bring meals. If you need anything, ask her." He moves toward the door. "I have work to do. Make yourself comfortable."
He leaves without another word.
I stand in the middle of the blue suite, surrounded by expensive furniture and crushing silence, and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
The first three days are torture.
Monday, October 4th:
I wake at 7:00 AM to the sounds of the house coming alive. Shower in the massive bathroom, dress in leggings and a simple shirt.
I explore the mansion, getting lost in the maze of corridors and formal rooms. Find the library—full of Russian literature, leather chairs, the smell of old books. Set up my laptop there to work remotely.
Video calls with Maya about the gallery. Insurance wants documentation of every damaged piece. Collectors are calling, concerned about their consignments. I field questions, approve decisions, and try to run my business from 120 miles away.
Around an hour later, I'm exploring the second floor between the north and west wings when a door opens and Maksim steps out.
In a towel.
Just a towel.
Low-slung, barely decent, water droplets sliding down his chest and abs. His hair is wet, silver streaks darker. He's got scars—bullet wounds, knife marks, the physical evidence of violence.
We freeze. Stare at each other.
"Sorry," he says, voice rough. "Didn't expect anyone up here."
"I was just—" I gesture vaguely. "Exploring."
His eyes drop to what I'm wearing. Simple clothes, nothing provocative, but his jaw tightens anyway.
I stand there in the hallway, heart pounding, very aware that I just saw Maksim Petrov basically naked and my body has opinions about that.
Bad opinions. Inappropriate opinions.
"I should—" He gestures back to his room.
"Yeah. I'll just—" I point down the hallway.
We both retreat to separate wings like teenagers caught doing something wrong.
Breakfast at 9 AM in the formal dining room is painful. He's fully dressed now—three-piece suit, all business, reading financial reports. Won't look at me.
I eat in silence, hyperaware of him six feet away.
The rest of Monday passes with us carefully avoiding each other despite living in the same house.
Tuesday, October 5th:
I explore more. Find the wine cellar, the gym, the smaller breakfast room. While he's in his office on calls, I find his private study on the second floor.
The door is ajar. I shouldn't go in.
I go in.
There's only one photo on his desk. Elena, pregnant and glowing in a silver frame. No other pictures anywhere in the entire mansion.
Just this one.
I stare at her face. Beautiful, dark-haired, visibly happy. The woman Maksim loved enough to spend fifteen years frozen in grief.
"You're trespassing."
I spin. Maksim stands in the doorway, expression unreadable.
"The door was open."
"That doesn't make it an invitation."
"I'm sorry. I just—" I look at Elena's photo. "She was beautiful."
"Yes." He moves into the room, standing beside me at the desk.
"We met when her company performed here in Philadelphia.
I saw her dance and—" He stops. "I pursued her relentlessly.
Convinced her to marry me, to move here.
She gave up her company, her city, her life in Moscow for me.
And seven months after she arrived, she was dead. "
"That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it? Anton was obsessed with her and he killed her because I took her from him." His voice is hollow. "If she'd stayed in Moscow, stayed with the Bolshoi, maybe she'd still be alive."
The words hang heavy between us.
"You can't know that, and it was her choice. Anton killed her. Not you," I say quietly.
"I brought her here. Made her vulnerable. Failed to protect her." He steps back from the desk. "Same thing."
"I should go," I say, moving toward the door.
"The locked door in the east wing," he says, stopping me.
"That's her studio. Where she practiced every day when she lived here.
I had it built for her when we moved from Moscow—tried to recreate what she had there.
Every barre positioned exactly where she wanted it, mirrors where she needed them.
She spent hours in there." His voice roughens.
"After she died, I couldn't change anything.
Couldn't move a single thing. Haven't been inside since her funeral. "
"Why keep it locked if it was hers?"
"Because walking in there means accepting that she's never coming back. As long as it's locked, I can pretend she's just... away. Performing somewhere. Coming home soon."
Fifteen years of pretending.
Wednesday, October 6th:
The tension is unbearable.
He works from the dining table instead of his office. Says he has papers to review, but his eyes follow me constantly as I move through the room with my laptop.
I feel his gaze on me every second.
At lunch, we both reach for the water pitcher. Our hands brush.
Electric shock. Heat. Awareness.
He jerks back like I burned him.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"Don't apologize."
But he moves his chair further away.
I watch him all afternoon—can't help it. The way he rolls up his sleeves, exposing forearms. How he loosens his tie around 6 PM. The way he runs fingers through his hair when frustrated on calls.
Everything he does is somehow magnetic and I hate myself for noticing.
At dinner, I mention needing to return to New York soon. "The gallery needs me there. In person."
His jaw clenches. "No."
"Maksim—"
"No. We're not having this conversation. You're staying here until Anton is found."
"You can't just keep me here indefinitely."
"Watch me."
We glare at each other across the table. Then both retreat to separate wings without finishing our food.
Wednesday night, 2 AM. I can't sleep.
Too aware of him somewhere in this massive house. Too confined despite the mansion's size. Too full of unexpressed energy.
I miss dancing. Miss my midnight ritual. Need to move, need to think, need to feel like myself for a few minutes.
I find my pointe shoes in my bag. Slip out of my room in a thin nightgown—all I brought for sleeping. Creep through the dark mansion halls.
The east wing. The locked door.
I try it, expecting it to be locked.
But it opens.
He forgot to lock it. Or—maybe he left it unlocked on purpose.
I step inside and stop breathing.
It's a ballet studio. Professional-grade. The entire top floor of the east wing—soaring ceilings, windows along two walls, perfect flooring. Barres, mirrors, sound system.
And in the corner, a shrine.
Elena's photograph—the same one from his desk but larger. Red pointe shoes mounted in a shadow box. A small brass plaque.
Elena Volovna Petrov Prima Ballerina, Moscow Bolshoi Beloved Wife, Cherished Mother-to-Be Dancing in Heaven
I stand in the doorway of Elena's preserved space, my pointe shoes in my hands, and understand exactly how frozen Maksim Petrov has been for fifteen years.
This isn't just a studio.
It's a tomb.