Chapter 18 Nadya
NADYA
The scent of pine and vanilla candles greets me at the door, so foreign in our cramped apartment that I freeze on the threshold.
My hand trembles on the key as I push inside, and the sight that awaits stops my breath entirely.
A towering tree fills the corner where our secondhand television used to sit, its branches thick with silver baubles and crystal ornaments that sparkle in the lights strewn around it.
Garland spirals around the trunk, threaded with tiny white bulbs that twinkle against deep green needles.
The star at the top nearly touches the ceiling, its gold surface gleaming, and I am in utter shock.
Beneath the tree, wrapped packages crowd together in neat rows.
Red ribbons, gold bows, paper so shiny it reflects the lights as much as the ornaments.
More gifts than Anya and Mikhail have received in their entire lives combined and my stomach drops to my feet instantly as I realize what Xander has done.
Sometime when I was away and the children were at school, he's done this.
There's no other explanation. Irina would never have—
"Aunty Nadya!"
Anya's voice pierces the air as she launches herself from the couch, her small arms wrapping around my waist.
"Look what Ded Moroz brought early! He said we were too good to wait until Novy God!"
Mikhail bounces beside her, his blue eyes wide with wonder.
"There's one with my name! And Anya's! And yours!"
My stomach churns as the apartment's transformation sinks in.
It isn't just the tree.
My eyes take it in as my chest grows more and more tight.
New curtains hang at the windows—deep blue velvet that blocks the view of our neighbors' balconies.
A cashmere throw drapes across our worn sofa, and fresh flowers fill a crystal vase I've never seen before.
Xander's signature marks every surface.
"Holy…" My voice cracks, though I already know the answer.
Irina emerges from the kitchen, her face a mask of controlled fury.
Dark hair pulled back severely, hazel eyes narrowed to slits.
She holds a dish towel in her hands, wringing it between her fingers.
"Welcome home," she says, her tone deceptively calm.
The children continue their excited chatter, oblivious to the tension crackling between their mother and me.
Anya tugs on my coat, pointing to a particularly large box wrapped in silver paper.
"That one's for you, Aunty Nadya. It's huge!"
I kneel to her level, forcing a smile that feels foreign on my face.
"Did anyone see who brought all these beautiful things?"
My hands are shaking and I pray that Xander hasn't made himself known here.
That if by some tiny miracle of a chance he did this without being seen.
But her response sickens me further.
"A man in a black coat," Mikhail says, mimicking adult seriousness.
"He had helpers. They said Ded Moroz wanted to surprise good children who missed their babushka."
The mention of our mother twists the knife already lodged in my chest.
Xander knows exactly how to strike at the heart of what we've lost, how to make his generosity feel both blessing and curse.
I find myself growing as angry as Irina at the thought, because he knows how I fear upsetting her.
I've told him a dozen times already, and this crosses the line.
"Children, go wash your hands for dinner," Irina commands, her voice cutting through their excitement.
I rise slowly and stand there staring at that godforsaken tree in shock and horror.
My palms are sweating, heart racing, and my sister closes in on me.
They protest briefly but obey, disappearing down the hallway toward the bathroom.
The moment their footsteps fade, Irina rounds on me.
"How much debt are you in?"
"What?"
I hiss, spinning to take her in as I shut the door.
I'm feeling defensive instantly because Xander's grand gesture has left me in a position I can't defend.
It's like he's pushing me to just tell the truth and that's the worst idea in the world.
"The tree alone costs more than you make in two months cleaning hotel rooms."
She gestures at the ornaments, and she's probably right.
Those crystals look expensive.
I'd never even think of buying something so wasteful.
"These aren't department store decorations, Nadya. This is crystal. Real crystal."
My mouth goes dry.
"Some of the foreign guests tip well during the holidays. Americans, Germans—"
"Don't."
The single word cuts through my explanation.
"Don't lie to me."
My lies are finding me out, catching up with me.
My head is spinning as I set my purse on the counter, buying time to construct a believable story.
I feel like the walls are closing in and I pull at my collar as my breathing constricts.
She's not just suspicious, now she has proof.
"The hotel gets wealthy travelers this time of year. Business executives, diplomats. They appreciate good service, and I work extra shifts—"
"Show me your pay stubs."
She holds out her hand, crossing one arm over her middle.
"Show me the markup for your tips. Stop lying to me!"
If she spoke any louder the walls would rattle, but I can't defend myself.
"What?" I ask, feeling dazed.
I rub my face, shake my head. I'm backed into a corner.
There's nowhere to run or hide from this.
"Your pay stubs. If you're working extra shifts for generous tips, show me the documentation."
My hands shake as I pretend to search through my purse.
"I don't have them with me. They're at the hotel, in my locker—"
"When did you start wearing designer clothes?"
She reaches out, pulling at the collar of my coat until I’m turning around, bent at an awkward angle for her to look at the tag.
I glance down at my coat—black wool with silver buttons, cut to flatter my figure.
Xander had it delivered to his apartment three days ago, along with matching gloves and a scarf I had to refuse.
They scream money, and money is something I don't have.
Or I shouldn't…
"This? It's not designer. I bought it at the market—"
"The tag is still in the collar."
Irina's voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more menace than shouting.
"Valentino. I checked online. Three hundred thousand rubles."
There's no way for me to explain this away.
It's clearly not just something I picked up in lost and found.
I reach back to feel the tag, still there and damning in its presence.
"I can return it," I stammer.
"If it bothers you, I'll take everything back—"
Now I'm walking, trying to avoid her.
I move toward the couch to touch the throw, so soft and luxurious but so absolutely wrong.
"To where? What store sells coats and accepts returns without receipts?"
The trap closes around me, each word tightening the noose.
I sink onto the sofa, my legs too weak to support my weight.
The cashmere throw beneath me is softer than anything I've ever owned, and feels like it burns my skin just by existing.
I cover my face with my hands and know I've got nowhere to run.
Irina needs to know the truth, but when I tell her she's going to flip out entirely.
She'll take the kids away and I'll never see them again.
She won't believe me when I tell her how Xander is good for us.
"Talk to me," Irina says, her anger shifting until she sits next to me, hand stroking my back in compassionate circles.
"Whatever's happening, we can figure it out. But I need the truth."
The truth?
She wants to hear about me cleaning blood from floors and watching men be killed?
Xander's hands on my body, his voice calling me Ptichka as he moves inside me.
No.
I can’t tell her the truth.
It's not that she's not strong enough to handle it.
She is.
But I'm not.
"I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Can't tell you."
The admission tears from my throat.
"I wish I could, but I can't."
Irina pulls back and rubs her forehead, then pinches the bridge of her nose.
"Are you in trouble?"
Yes.
More trouble than you could imagine, I think.
"No."
"Are you hurt?"
Only in ways that don't show.
"No."
"Are you…" She pauses, searching for words.
"Are you selling yourself?"
The whispered shocked way she says it slices my heart open.
I turn to face her, seeing my own features reflected in her expression—the same dark hair, the same stubborn jawline that marks us as sisters.
Her worried expression looks like Mamochka's days before she died.
"How can you ask me that?"
"Because you disappear every night. You come home exhausted, wearing clothes that cost more than anyone should spend. You won't show me pay stubs or explain where any of this comes from."
She gestures at the tree, the gifts, the transformed apartment.
"What else am I supposed to think?"
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Irina deserves the truth, deserves to know her sister isn't selling her body for money.
But the truth would destroy everything—her safety, the children's innocence, the careful lies that keep us all breathing.
"I'm not a prostitute," I whisper.
"Then what are you?"
The silence between us is laden with everything I cannot say.
Through the walls, I hear Anya and Mikhail laughing in the bathroom, their joy unmarked by adult complications.
"I love them," I say finally.
"Everything I do is for them."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you."
Irina's face crumples, her composure finally breaking.
Tears track down her cheeks as she reaches for my hands, gripping them between her own.
"You're scaring me," she admits.
"You're my little sister. I watched you take apart radios when you were seven, watched you memorize textbooks while other girls played with dolls. You're brilliant, Nadya. You could have been anything."
Could have been.
Past tense, dreams buried with our mother.
"I'm fine," I lie.
"You're not fine. You barely eat, you never sleep. You jump every time the phone rings."
Her grip tightens.
"And now this."
She looks around the apartment.
"This looks like expensive generosity from someone who wants to own you."
The observation strikes too close to the truth. Xander's gifts aren't gestures of affection.
They're territorial markers, his way of staking claim to what belongs to him.
The tree, the presents, even the coat I wear all broadcast the same message.
This woman is mine.
And as it communicates to his enemies, it's a good thing, but maybe in my sister's eyes, it's evil.
"Maybe I should take the children to stay with Aunt Vera," Irina says quietly.
Terror floods through me.
"No, please."
"Why?"
Because Xander would notice.
Because questions would be asked.
Because the moment his interest in me becomes a liability instead of an asset, I become disposable.
"Because they're happy here. Look at them. When's the last time you heard Mikhail laugh like that?"
"Happiness bought with dirty money isn't happiness."
The phrase catches me off guard.
Dirty money.
If only she knew how accurate her instincts are.
"It's not dirty money," I protest weakly.
"Then what is it?"
I stand and walk to the window, parting the new curtains to look down at the street below.
A black sedan idles at the corner, its occupants invisible behind tinted glass.
Xander's men are watching and waiting.
They follow me everywhere now, shadows that ensure my safety while reminding me of my captivity.
"I can't explain it in a way that won't hurt you," I say without turning around.
"Not explaining it hurts more."
The car below drives away, disappearing into Moscow's evening traffic to circle the block and find somewhere inconspicuous to park.
Another will replace it within the hour.
The cycle never breaks.
"If I tell you to trust me, will you?"
"I want to."
"But you can't."
"Not while you're lying to me."
I turn back to face her, memorizing the worry in her expression.
If Irina takes the children and runs, how long before Xander finds them?
How long before his patience with my family complications runs out?
"The hotel work is real," I say, constructing truth from fragments.
"But some of the guests… they ask for additional services."
"What services?"
"Discretion. Privacy. They pay me to forget what I see, what I clean up after."
It's close enough to reality that my voice rings with authenticity.
Irina's eyes narrow as she processes the implication.
"What do you see?"
"Things I wish I didn't."
"Nadya—"
"Please."
I cross back to the sofa, kneeling in front of her.
"Please don't ask me to choose between protecting you and protecting them. I won't survive it."
The admission crushes me.
Tears finally spill over, hot against my cheeks as the pressure of everything crashes down.
Xander's world, his violence, his inexplicable tenderness toward me.
The lies that multiply daily, each one building walls between me and the people I love most.
Irina pulls me into her arms, and I collapse against her shoulder.
"I'm trying to keep us all safe," I sob, because it's true.
If I give her the whole truth, her world becomes a bigger target.
Not telling her is the safest thing.
"From what?"
From him.
From the men who would hurt you to hurt me.
From the world I've fallen into that devours everything soft and innocent.
"From poverty. From losing each other. From ending up separated and broken."
It's not the complete truth, but it contains enough reality to satisfy her temporarily.
Irina strokes my hair, her touch gentle despite the tension between us.
"We'll figure this out," she murmurs.
"Whatever it is, we'll face it together."
But we won't.
The path I've chosen leads away from her, away from the children, into darkness they can't follow.
Every gift Xander sends, every night I spend in his arms, every scene I clean for him pulls me further from the life I used to know.
The children return from the bathroom, their excitement undimmed by adult complications.
They settle on the floor beside the tree, pointing at different packages and speculating about contents.
Irina moves to serve them dinner with skepticism still in her expression and I lock myself into the bathroom to cry, and then to throw up.
It's all too much for me, and I am breaking down.
I have to put my foot down with Xander but in the same breath I have to thank him for being so generous.
I'm not sure which to do first.
I hate being so torn, so emotional, but there is no easier way out than through.
If I have to keep working with him, then I have to set boundaries.
He can't put me in this position again.
I just won't be able to take it.