Chapter 59 Sima
SIMA
My childhood bedroom looks, objectively, like shit.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Dad never had a smidge of taste—it was all Mom’s doing. Whatever he did in here, he clearly did without her blessing, like Maks said.
Then again, he couldn’t very well ask her opinion on the decor of his personal whorehouse.
Seeing my room like this cures me of any nostalgia I might have felt. Which means I have no qualms about turning it upside down.
Maksim stepped out a while ago, and no one has been back since.
I’ve been waiting to see if guards would show.
Or Father, perhaps, here to gloat. But he’s already made it clear he’d rather get his family jewels lasered off than be in the same room with me for one more second, so I’m not too worried about that.
At worst, he’ll send someone in the morning.
Before that happens, I need to be long gone.
I was honest with Maksim. With my father. I’m Sima Gubarev now, and I won’t turn my back on that, no matter the price.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to stick around for the bill, though.
I have a daughter to get back to. A husband. One who’ll tear this whole place apart to find me. I can’t let him risk getting hurt for me, not again.
Unless he bought Kira’s story. That thought needles at me in an ugly way. Unless he’s not coming.
No. Petyr’s coming. And if he’s not, I’ll just have to come to him.
I press my palms against the glass and look out.
The garden below glows with faint lantern light.
Mom’s touch again. My chest clenches at the memory of how much fun we used to have getting our hands dirty in the earth, trimming the roses.
She used to come alive when she was making something, be it cooking or gardening. Creation was her kingdom.
Once I’m through with Nikolai, I’ll bring her back to herself. I’ll keep at it for as long as it takes. After what I’ve put her through for the past thirteen years, I owe it to her.
And selfishly, I want my mother back, too.
I look outside again. Somewhere beyond those trimmed hedges, my father is probably having a drink and a night stroll, pleased as punch with himself. He thinks he’s won. That he can use me as bait, dangle me like a prize to draw Petyr in.
He has no idea how much fire he’s playing with.
I try to open the window. The handle rattles but doesn’t budge.
Figures. Bratva men love their locks. I’ve learned that lesson by now. Bet Father must have regretted not putting one there before I turned twelve.
There aren’t any other exits, though. I search the room from top to bottom and find nothing. Zilch, nada, nichego. The balcony doors are sealed shut, and while I try for a good ten minutes to find a loose hinge I can leverage, it’s just not there.
I knock on the walls next. Softly, as not to draw attention. The room next to mine used to be Lara’s, so it should be empty, too. Another thought that squeezes my heart dry.
No dice, though. The walls are solid rock. Dad always had a thing for European-style castles, and this place is a small-scale replica of that, architecture included. I don’t even want to think about how much it cost.
He didn’t splurge for a moat, though. Or a dragon at the gates.
Bet he’s gonna regret that, too.
But the more I search the room, the less my bravado holds up. I start feeling anxious, fidgeting with the hem of my sweater. The vent that used to be up on the ceiling has been filled in and shut. Probably for noise insulation. Talk about nightmare fuel.
I search for something sharp next. Anything I can use to carve the glass without shattering it and drawing attention.
But the room isn’t heavily decorated, despite the gaudiness of the bedding. An armoire in the corner, a dresser, and that’s it. No conveniently positioned paperweights for me.
The ensuite is bare, too. The mirror has been taken. The pipes are buried in the walls. Nothing in sight I can break, and nothing to break it with.
Finally, my hopes begin to flag.
“Come on, think.” I sit on the edge of the bed and try really hard not to let my mind cook up any more grim scenarios. “Think, Sima. How did you get out of a locked room before?”
The window, answers my twelve-year-old self.
A belt and a lie, says the Sima from last year.
Anya, murmurs the Sima of a few months ago.
So many versions of me, all of them experts at running. And yet, as I sit here staring at the room I grew up in, I realize I’ve finally met my match.
I’m not going to get out of here, am I?
This is bad. My heart starts pounding. If I can’t get out, Petyr will be in danger. He’ll either burst through those doors and risk a bullet for me, or he’ll stay home, eating out of Kira’s palm. Believing her lies.
She might kill him next. Betray him again. And then…
Lilia.
I spring to my feet again. I don’t care what I’ve got to work with, I have to get out of here. Losing Petyr is not an option. And losing my daughter?
Not in a million fucking years.
I can’t imagine a world without them. I don’t want to.
If Kira has her way, she’ll send Lilia here, too. And what will my father do then?
He’d hurt her. Raise her just like he did Lara and me. Use her, abuse her, sell her out to the highest bidder once she’s old enough.
Like hell am I going to let that happen.
I go back to the ensuite and start rummaging through every drawer. There are all sorts of little things: face creams, moisturizers, cylindrical bottles I refuse to touch with a ten-foot pole.
But then my fingers hit something rough.
A nail file.
Bingo.
I try the lock on the window, but it’s too tiny for the file to go through. I’d need a bobby pin for that, and tonight, I didn’t have the presence of mind to do up my hair. A mistake I’ll never make again.
I turn to the lock on the door. It’s bigger. I can’t unlock it, but with some luck, maybe I can jimmy it.
I work at it for the next ten minutes. Then for ten more. My fingers are raw, but I don’t even think of stopping.
And then, finally…
Click.