Chapter 7 Morning Regrets
Chapter seven
Morning Regrets
Sonya
I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and an empty bed.
My body aches in ways I've never experienced. Between my legs—tender, swollen, marked by last night. My thighs where his fingers gripped. My shoulders where his mouth claimed. Everything hurts, but it's a good hurt.
Until I see the note on his pillow.
White paper, black ink, four words that destroy everything:
This was a mistake.
I stare at it, my chest tightening. Read it again, hoping I misunderstood. But there's no ambiguity. No softness. Just cold rejection the morning after he took my virginity with what I thought was reverence, in the studio where Elena danced.
Then carried me here. To their bed. The bed 'where Elena slept beside me,' he'd said. The room he abandoned the night she died.
And now he's gone again.
I sit up slowly, wincing. My nightgown is still in the studio. I'm naked in his sheets, sore and used and stupid enough to believe last night meant something.
I smell like us. Like sex and sweat and the moment I gave him something I can never take back. I shower under water hot enough to hurt, trying to wash away the scent, the memories, the feeling of his hands on my body.
I can't.
The soreness reminds me with every movement. The bite mark on my shoulder—visible in the mirror—reminds me. The way my legs shake climbing out of the shower reminds me.
The moment I gave him my virginity, my trust, my heart—and he left me a note calling it, calling me, a mistake.
I wrap myself in his sheet and slip back to the guest room—my room, where I apparently should have stayed. By 8:00 AM, I'm dressed in simple clothes, armor against what's coming.
I make my way downstairs to the formal dining room, following the scent of coffee and my own stubborn pride.
He's sitting there. At the head of the table, reading a newspaper like nothing happened. Three-piece suit despite it being Thursday morning at his own home. Coffee poured. Breakfast waiting.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Good morning," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Ms. Morozova." He turns a page of the newspaper.
The formality is a slap. Ms. Morozova. Not Sonya. Not 'little ballerina.' That professional distance, after he was inside me four hours ago.
I sit down. Pour coffee with hands that only shake slightly. The soreness between my legs intensifies when I sit—a constant, throbbing reminder of what we did. Of what he's now pretending didn't happen.
He finally looks up. Those ice-blue eyes meet mine, and I see something crack in his carefully controlled expression.
I notice his turtleneck. Black, expensive, completely covering his throat and collarbone. In October. The scratches I left last night—hidden beneath the fabric.
He notices me noticing. His jaw tightens.
We eat in silence. Both hyperaware. Every time I shift in my chair, I feel the soreness. Every time he moves, I imagine the marks I left on his skin. The physical evidence of what we did.
At 9:00 AM, Sergei arrives. He takes one look at us—the tension, the careful distance, the way neither of us will quite meet the other's eyes—and something shifts in his expression.
"Pakhan," he says carefully. "We have news on Anton Kozlov."
I go still, my coffee cup halfway to my lips.
"He's been spotted in New York City. Manhattan, specifically. Multiple confirmed sightings near Lincoln Center over the past forty-eight hours."
The cup slips from my fingers. Shatters on the marble floor. Coffee spreads like blood.
I can't breathe.
Lincoln Center. Lincoln Center where the Metropolitan Opera performs. Where New York City Ballet dances. Where Juilliard trains the next generation of performers.
The place where Anton wants his finale.
The room spins. I'm back on the Mariinsky stage, feeling his hands release me mid-air. The fall. The crack of my ankle—loud enough for two thousand people to hear. His face in the wings afterward, satisfied, like he'd completed a masterpiece.
"Sonya." Maksim's voice cuts through the panic. Suddenly he's beside me—when did he move?—his hands on my shoulders. "Breathe."
I can't. Can't get air past the terror closing my throat.
"Breathe, little ballerina."
I flinch. Hard. The endearment—Anton's endearment—from Maksim's mouth.
He realizes immediately. Pulls back like I burned him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"It's different when you say it," I whisper, still shaking. Still trying to breathe.
Because when Maksim says it, it feels like belonging instead of ownership.
Sergei clears his throat, uncomfortable with the intimacy.
"There's more. Anton's been seen entering and exiting Juilliard's underground facilities—the rehearsal studios and storage spaces beneath the main performance halls.
The labyrinth where they keep old sets, costumes, equipment.
He has access somehow. Forged credentials or bribed staff. "
"He's building something," I say, my voice steadier now. The panic receding enough to let me think. "He called the note 'Act II.' Lincoln Center is where he wants the performance. The finale."
Maksim's hands tighten on my shoulders. "You're not going anywhere near Lincoln Center."
"I'm the only one who knows how he thinks." I turn to face him. "His patterns. You need me."
"I need you alive." His voice is fierce, protective. The cold distance from breakfast evaporating. "Not walking into whatever trap he's building in those tunnels."
"So what? I stay here? Hide in Philadelphia while he plans whatever twisted finale he has in mind?" I stand, ignoring the soreness, ignoring everything except the anger building in my chest. "I didn't survive five years of rebuilding myself just to let him win by making me afraid."
"He's already won if you're dead."
"And he's already won if I'm hiding too."
We stare at each other. Sergei shifts uncomfortably, watching something he clearly shouldn't be witnessing.
"What happened between you two?" Sergei observes quietly.
Neither of us responds.
He continues, speaking to Maksim now. "In fifteen years, I've never seen you like this."
Maksim cuts him off, his voice ice again. "Ms. Morozova and I had a lapse in judgment. It won't happen again."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"Of course," I say, matching his coldness. "We were both dealing with stress."
But his eyes tell a different story. And the soreness between my legs, the scratches hidden under his turtleneck, the way we're both lying—all of it screams that it meant everything.
Three days pass in a tense armed truce.
Maksim increases security around the mansion. More guards. Better systems. He has Sergei monitoring my calls, my emails. Every time I mention returning to the city for gallery business, his jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
We avoid each other in the mansion's public spaces. When we must be in the same room—meals, briefings about Anton—we maintain careful distance. Professional. Cold.
But at night, I see him pacing in the north wing. And I know he hears me dancing in the guest room, working through the anxiety with the only outlet I have.
But at night, I can't sleep. I imagine him in his master suite, pacing like I dance—both of us working through what we can't say.
Friday passes. Saturday. By Sunday morning, I can't take it anymore.
The insurance investigators need to meet with me in person. The gallery damage requires my presence for the final documentation. Maya has been handling everything, but there are decisions only I can make, signatures only I can provide.
And Anton is in New York. The endgame is in New York.
I need to be there.
Maksim is in a meeting with Philadelphia Bratva associates—something about territory disputes with Brooklyn crews. I slip away around 10:00 AM, take a car service to the train station, and board the next train to Manhattan.
My phone buzzes immediately. A text from Sergei:
The Pakhan won't be pleased.
I don't respond.
By 2:00 PM, I'm at the gallery. Maya has everything prepared—documentation spread across my office desk, photographs of damaged pieces, security footage queued up for review.
"Thank god you're here," she says, hugging me. "The insurance company has been impossible. They want to contest half the claims."
We work through the paperwork. It's tedious, detailed, exactly the kind of thing I needed to be here for. Maya brings tea—my favorite Russian blend that I keep in the office storage.
"You look exhausted," she observes, pouring. "Are you sleeping?"
"Not much." I take the cup, grateful for the warmth. "It's been a difficult few days."
By 3:00 PM, we've made good progress. I'm reviewing the last set of photographs when I feel it.
Dizziness. Sudden and overwhelming.
"Sonya?" Maya's voice sounds distant. "Are you okay?"
The room tilts. My stomach churns.
"I don't—" I try to stand. My legs won't cooperate.
The teacup slips from my fingers. Shatters on my office floor.
Maya is beside me immediately, catching me as I slump forward. "Sonya! Sonya, stay with me!"
I can't. Can't focus. Can't breathe properly. Everything is spinning, and my body isn't responding to my commands.
I hear Maya on the phone. "911. I need an ambulance. My boss—she collapsed—I don't know—"
Paramedics. How did they get here so fast? Hands on me, checking vitals, asking questions I can't answer.
One of them picks up the shattered teacup and takes it away to have it analyzed.
Anton.
Anton poisoned my tea. I’m sure
He knew I'd come back. Knew I'd drink my favorite blend and poisoned it maybe days ago. Just waiting for me to return.
Act II, his note had said.
This is Act II.
I try to speak, to tell the paramedics about Anton, about the threat, about everything. But the words won't come.
The last thing I hear before darkness takes me is Maya's voice, sharp with fear: "I'm calling Mr. Petrov. He needs to know."
MAKSIM
I'm in my office, reviewing territory maps with three of my most trusted men. Discussing the Brooklyn situation, planning responses, doing the work of running Philadelphia.
Sergei told me she left at 10:00 AM.
I let her go.
Told myself she needed space. Deep down I knew that I couldn't keep her prisoner just because I was terrified of losing her. Insurance investigators needed her signature—legitimate business. I'd planned to follow in the evening, collect her myself, bring her back where I could keep her safe.
Five hours later, I'm regretting that decision.
My phone buzzes at 3:20 PM. Sonya's name on the screen—but Maya's voice when I answer.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Petrov—" Maya's voice cracks."This is Maya."
My blood goes cold.
"Excuse me," I say to my men, already moving toward the hallway.
"It's Sonya. She collapsed at the gallery. Her tea was poisoned. They're taking her to the hospital now, but she's—she's not conscious and they don't know—"
Not again.
Not another ballerina dying because I couldn't protect her.
"Which hospital?" My voice sounds distant, mechanical.
"Mount Sinai West. On 58th and—"
"I know where it is." I'm already moving back into my office, grabbing my jacket. "I'm on my way."
"Mr. Petrov—"
I hang up. Turn to my men. "The meeting's over. Sergei, with me. Now."
We're in the helicopter within ten minutes. My pilot doesn't question the urgency, just files the flight plan and lifts off.
Forty minutes to Manhattan. Forty minutes of imagining the worst. Forty minutes of fifteen years of trauma crashing back.
Elena bleeding out in my arms. Our daughter dying with her. My failure to protect them.
And now Sonya. Sonya who I took in Elena's studio. Who I claimed in the bed Elena and I shared. Who I called a mistake because I was terrified of losing her.
Who might be dying right now because I wasn't there to protect her.
The helicopter can't go fast enough.
I stare out at Pennsylvania turning into New Jersey turning into New York, my hands clenched into fists, tracing her name on my thighs without conscious thought.
S-O-N-Y-A. S-O-N-Y-A. S-O-N-Y-A.
Not a mistake.
The woman I’m falling in love with is dying, and I called her a mistake.
"Faster," I tell the pilot.
He pushes the helicopter to its limits.
It's still not fast enough.