Chapter 9 Nadya
NADYA
I freeze.
For a second, I tell myself I misheard him.
But Konstantin is standing right in front of me, eyes locked on mine, jaw tight, his whole body wound like a coiled spring. The question hangs in the cold air between us.
How did you do that?
He saw it.
Of course he did.
I should’ve moved slower. Should’ve hesitated. Should’ve let him believe it was instinct or blind luck. But in that moment, when I saw the flicker of danger behind the glass, there was no time to fake fear.
I did what I was taught.
“What are you talking about?” I say, my voice quiet but firm. I don’t look away, even though every cell in my body wants to.
He takes a slow step toward me, the weight of his stare heavier than anything else around us. “You knew before anyone else did. You reacted like you’d done it before.”
I fold my arms across my chest. Not in defiance. In defense.
“I got lucky,” I say flatly. “That’s it.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifts. He knows I’m lying. And I know he knows it.
But he doesn’t push. Not yet.
“You don’t flinch the way most people flinch,” he says after a beat. “You don’t wait for someone else to lead. You move like someone who’s trained to survive. Or trained to kill.”
My breath catches slightly, and that’s all it takes. His gaze narrows a fraction, watching me the way a predator watches something that’s not supposed to bite back.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, softer now. I hate that it comes out sounding so small.
Konstantin’s jaw flexes. “No. I don’t. But maybe it’s time I start.”
He turns and walks a few steps toward the car waiting for us, but not without casting a look over his shoulder. A look that says this conversation isn’t over.
Not even close.
And as I follow him into the shadows of the night, sliding into the back seat of the armored SUV, one thing becomes painfully clear:
I’ve spent years hiding from who I used to be.
But Konstantin is the one man I can’t hide from forever.
The ride back to his estate is quiet. Too quiet.
The inside of the SUV is dimly lit, the low hum of the engine the only sound, broken occasionally by Lev’s voice murmuring into a radio up front.
I sit back against the leather seat, my hands curled tightly in my lap. I keep my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city slide past in a blur of lights and movement, but I’m not really seeing any of it.
Because I can feel him watching me.
Konstantin hasn’t said a word since we got in the car, but he hasn’t stopped looking at me either. His gaze flicks toward me every few seconds—thoughtful, unreadable, like he’s trying to work something out in his head.
Like he’s putting pieces together.
I keep my eyes trained on the dark glass, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I can’t feel the weight of his attention like a hand pressed to the side of my throat.
He exhales slowly—not loud, but enough that I hear it. When I finally risk a glance at him, he’s staring ahead, his jaw tight, a faint frown etched between his brows.
He’s thinking. I can see it—the stillness in his posture, the way he taps one finger against his thigh. He’s pulling threads. Following instincts.
And I wonder—
Does he know?
Does he remember the night in Barcelona?
The room with the balcony and the warm breeze off the water?
The cheap champagne we drank like it was something sacred?
Does he remember me?
I look away again quickly, pulse ticking faster. There’s no sign of recognition on his face. No flicker of memory. Just that same intense, silent scrutiny he’s always given people he doesn’t quite trust.
So maybe…
Maybe he really doesn’t know.
But that doesn’t stop the worry from sinking deeper into my bones. Because if he ever does remember—if he realizes who I am, what we were, what came after—
Everything will change. And not in a way I can control.
The car pulls into the estate just past midnight.
The wrought-iron gates glide open without a sound, the long driveway gleaming wet under the low glow of security lights. Everything here is clean, precise, untouchable—like nothing that happened tonight could ever reach it.
A fortress.
The SUV rolls to a stop near the front entrance, the engine ticking quietly as the driver shuts it off.
Lev is the first to get out. He opens the door on Konstantin’s side, then walks around, his posture finally relaxing for the first time since the rooftop.
“Hell of a wedding,” he mutters under his breath. Then, with a crooked smirk, he glances toward us and adds, “You do remember the tradition, yeah? Carrying your new bride over the threshold?”
I scoff softly, more out of reflex than anything else.
He’s joking. Of course he’s joking.
I turn to look at Konstantin, expecting the same dry amusement I hear in Lev’s voice. Maybe a scowl. Maybe a dismissive wave of the hand. But I don’t get either.
He turns to me, and before I can fully process the shift in his expression, he moves.
Suddenly, I’m airborne.
His hands are under me—one at my knees, one at my back—and the next thing I know, I’m in his arms, being lifted from the SUV like I weigh nothing.
“Wh—what the hell are you doing?” I manage, breath catching in my throat.
His lips brush dangerously close to my ear, his voice low and rich with something I can’t name. “Welcome home, bride,” he murmurs.
My pulse skips violently. The words are quiet, but they wrap around me like a brand. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No mockery. Just a dark, quiet promise I don’t know how to unpack.
Inside, the estate is quiet. The kind of stillness that settles over large, expensive houses after midnight—polished, eerie, too perfect.
The only sound is the soft tread of Konstantin’s boots on the marble as he carries me inside like this is just another chore, something expected, something he has a right to do.
But I can feel it in the way his fingers flex around me—this is anything but routine.
He steps over the threshold and into the grand foyer, and for a second, no one moves.
Then he lowers me slowly—gently, even—his hands lingering for half a beat longer than necessary. One hand brushes the outside of my thigh as he lets go, the other steadies my elbow like he’s reluctant to break contact.
I step back the moment my feet hit the ground, pulse still thudding, throat tight with everything I don’t want to say.
“Thanks,” I mutter stiffly, already turning away.
“Nadya,” he says behind me. Just my name, quiet and unreadable.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
If I turn around, if I look him in the eye right now, I might say something I can’t take back. Something that blurs the line between what’s pretend and what’s real.
So I keep walking.
Through the long hallway. Up the stairs. Back into the room that smells faintly of lavender and unfamiliar soap, lit only by a warm lamp someone left glowing in the corner. I shut the door behind me with a soft click, leaning against it for just a moment.
Breathing.
Trying to remember who I am.
I take off the shoes, kick them somewhere near the chair, and walk toward the bed without turning on another light. I don’t want the brightness.
I want silence.
I want familiarity.
I want—
Them.
Mila’s tiny hands pulling at the hem of my shirt. Nikolai’s soft breath pressed against my neck when he’s too tired to climb into bed but too stubborn to admit it.
The ache starts low in my chest and spreads fast. I told myself I wouldn’t call. I promised myself I’d go two days without checking in. But that was before tonight happened.
I grab my phone and sink into the edge of the bed, dialing before I can second-guess myself.
The screen lights up.
I bring it to my ear, holding my breath. She picks up on the second ring. Irina.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I say softly, my voice already cracking.
There’s a pause. Then a breath of relief on the other end.
“Nadya. Are you alright?”
I close my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just needed to hear them,” I whisper. “Just for a minute.”
Irina doesn’t ask why I’m calling this late. She doesn’t scold me for breaking my own rule. She just says, “Of course. Hold on.”
A shuffle. The sound of footsteps. A soft click of a door.
Then, two sleepy voices. “Mommy?”
I press the phone tighter to my ear, my eyes already stinging. “Hi, babies,” I whisper. “Mommy’s here.”
There’s a little rustle, the sound of fabric shifting and a faint yawn before Mila’s soft voice fills my ear again. “Mommy? Is it morning already?”
“No, baby,” I whisper, curling forward on the bed, cradling the phone like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. “It’s still nighttime. I just…I needed to hear your voices. That’s all.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then Nikolai’s voice, still groggy, cuts in. “Did you have a bad dream?”
I smile, even as my chest tightens. “Something like that.”
“Are you okay?” he asks. He’s only five, but there’s so much concern in his voice it nearly undoes me.
I blink fast, trying to breathe through the ache. “I’m okay now,” I tell him. “Just hearing you makes everything better.”
They both mumble their I love yous, already drifting back toward sleep, and I sit there for a while longer after Irina gently takes the phone back.
She doesn’t say much—just tells me they’re fine, healthy, safe.
I thank her and hang up, pressing the phone to my lips for a long moment before setting it down on the bed beside me.
The silence afterward is thick.
I curl onto my side, pulling a blanket over me even though I’m still in my dress, my hair tangled, makeup smudged. I don’t care.
For a minute, it’s just the quiet and the ghost of their voices, the sound of my daughter’s yawn, my son’s sleepy concern.
And then I feel it.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
Just presence.
I sit up slowly, turning toward the door—and there he is.
Konstantin. He’s standing in the open doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his shirt untucked, collar loose, his expression unreadable.
I don’t say anything at first.