Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AVELINA
At the end of the day, the house settles into its familiar nighttime quiet, broken only by the soft footsteps of guards patrolling the grounds.
I linger outside the children’s room, watching Babulya’s weathered hands turn the pages of Alice in Wonderland for Sofia’s third reading tonight.
Leon shifts in his crib but doesn’t wake.
I didn’t know what to make of Viktor’s grandmother when I first arrived.
Her reaction to me, her whole wing of the house, her fierce Russian scolding of careless soldiers, her knowing blue eyes that sparkle just like Viktor’s.
And when she spoke Russian to me, testing whether I understood, and her reaction when I did… The memories tug up my lips.
“Baba, I’m heading out,” I murmur in Russian. “An hour, maybe two. Are you sure you’ll be okay with the children? You’re not too tired? Because I can always stay—”
Babulya waves me away without looking up, but her eyes hold that familiar sparkle of understanding. Her weathered expression softens into a smile as Sofia stumbles over a difficult word. Watching them together makes leaving easier somehow.
I grab my bag and keys from Viktor’s room, slipping out into the cool night without another word.
Most of the men are gone, including Viktor.
If I told him where I was going, he’d insist on coming or send someone to shadow me.
I truly appreciate everything he’s doing for me, but honestly, I’m wrung out by the constant presence of protection and the knowledge that I’m never truly alone.
When I skate, it’s because I need something that’s just mine.
Just for a little while. And I always make sure that I’m extra careful.
The streets are empty, that particular stillness that settles over the city after it exhales at the day’s end, and we’re far enough from the Strip that the quiet feels genuine.
Then it appears. A large, unremarkable brick building tucked behind a strip of shops and hidden by trees.
The parking lot is empty at this hour. I look up at the rink, and my insides tighten with recognition.
I haven’t been here since losing my position at the university, back when we’d rent ice time whenever the hockey team claimed priority over the university’s own rink.
My key still works. I slip inside, grateful for the offer from the owners, as if they’d known I’d return someday. The familiar chill wraps around me, sharp and unforgiving, carrying the scent of old wax and something sterile. I breathe it in like a prayer.
In the locker room, I pull the outfit from the bottom of my bag.
Pale green fabric shimmers with hand-stitched sequins and fake stones.
My Tinkerbell dress, with its gossamer sleeves and light skirt.
The material feels well-worn between my fingers, hugging me like a whisper of who I used to be.
The girl who believed in magic and safety, who thought the world would open its arms to welcome her.
I lace up my skates with practiced muscle memory, each movement automatic. At the edge of the boards, I pause, listening to the hum of blowers, the distant creak of pipes, and the echo of silence.
My eyes close.
And I glide onto the ice.
It greets me like an old lover. My blades hiss against the surface as tension melts from my spine with each push forward. Arms extending, my heart finds a rhythm that feels sacred.
I connect my phone to my speaker, cueing up the playlist. The music begins softly. Piano and violin, gentle as snowfall. My body responds before my mind can question whether I remember the choreography. It’s buried too deep to forget.
A slow spiral first, leg extending behind me in a perfect line as I coast the rink’s length. Arms arch, fingers flutter. Elegant. Precise. Controlled.
A three-turn flows into a double toe loop, landed clean. My mind empties, and my muscles remember.
Another pass, building speed. Arms cutting through air, legs pumping strong. Double loop into Salchow. Airborne, spinning once, twice, landing with a small spray of ice and wind rushing past my face.
My cheeks flush, lips parting as I breathe through the exertion. Spin sequences flow. My back arches, fingers reaching toward the ceiling as my blade lifts overhead. The burn is exquisite, familiar, and I hold it until the music crescendos before releasing.
I let my body interpret each note, every emotion and ache pouring into glides, spins, and jumps. I leap. I twirl. I lose myself in the feelings, in the music, and in the profound familiarity.
The final minute builds, and I go for it breathlessly.
Triple toe loop.
Perfect takeoff. One rotation, two, three, and I land as the final note fades. I extend into an arabesque, coasting to a stop with chest heaving and arms lifted like wings.
The rink falls silent.
No applause.
No cheers.
Just me.
Alone in the cold.
My hands tremble as I lower my arms. Adrenaline fades, leaving only labored breathing, burning muscles, and an ache so deep that a sob strangles my throat.
Tears burn my eyes. My knees buckle. I fold onto the ice, legs tucked beneath me, fingers spread against the cold surface that stings even through my tights.
My breath creates soft puffs of fog. The tears come without warning.
Fast and hard, shaking my chest with each silent sob. I press my forehead to the ice.
Maybe it’s because this place, once magical and full of possibilities, was where I felt most in control. Where I was valued for my skill. I cry until my tears freeze against my cheeks. Until I can’t breathe. Until I have nothing left for this cold, glittering stage but quiet gasps.
When I finally sit up, the rink feels too large. And even lonelier than before. “Pull it together, Ave,” I whisper, wiping my cheeks with trembling fingers.
But the words ring hollow. I don’t want to pull it together, to piece myself back and smile pretty. I want someone to sit with me, to notice that I need to fall apart. To hold my hand and say I did well, that I’m worth loving even without competing. That I matter beyond any accomplishment.
No one—not the nuns at the orphanage, not Geliy, not anyone in my fleeting life—ever made me stop longing for it. For that acceptance, for that approval, and for that unconditional love.
I lie back against the ice, staring at the ceiling as tears cling to my lashes. The white lights overhead hum softly, blurring into gentle glows.
Eventually, I’m wrung dry. The silence wraps around me in its icy embrace, and for the first time in forever, I let myself simply be still. The cold bites through my dress, but I lie there anyway.
No running. No pretending. Just me.
Avelina.
And tonight, I let the emotions wash through me as I try to remember who I was…and who I wanted to be.
The day before I start the new job in Viktor’s office, I decide to run some errands. Sofia’s shoes are getting tight, and Babulya offers to look after Leon while I take Sofia to the mall today to pick out new ones.
Viktor drives us there and arranges to pick us up in an hour.
The next sixty minutes are spent visiting various stores, but Sofia is not keen on any of the shoes she tries on.
Her autism means she finds new clothes and shoes difficult because they feel very strange to her body.
I would order them online, but with shoes, I’ve found we only get a good fit by trying on shoes with the help of a knowledgeable assistant.
The third store we arrive at is the last store I planned to visit today. But as I help her try on a pair of shoes, within a few seconds, Sofia has reached her limit. Her scream rips through the store like a siren. Piercing and raw.
My heart pounds as she collapses onto the cold, tiled floor.
Her little hands are clawing at her shoes like they’re burning her skin. Her face is bright red, wet with tears, and she kicks out as she screams at the top of her lungs.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside her, trying to soothe her. “We can take them off. And we’ll go straight home.”
But she’s too far gone. Her stress spirals higher, feeding off the bright lights, the chatter, the clatter of footsteps. The store feels too small, too loud, and too full of people for her.
And they’re all staring. I can feel their eyes like poisonous needles in my back. Mothers clutching their children closer, an older woman tutting loudly, a man muttering something about a lack of discipline.
My cheeks burn. I want to scream at them that this isn’t a tantrum. That my little girl isn’t bad. She’s just overwhelmed. She’s just neurodivergent. And she’s just struggling with the world today. But my throat is tight, and my words are trapped beneath a lump of shame and exhaustion.
With trembling fingers, I wrap my arms around her as her heels drum the floor. I’m trying to hold her tight as a woman shoves past me, snapping that I’m in everyone’s way. Her tone is so cutting, making me feel like I’m about to burst into tears, when a deep, steady voice cuts through the chaos.
“Move!” the voice growls in a low rumble.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Viktor strides in, all dark authority and barely leashed fury.
He crouches beside me, his big frame shielding us both from the gawking crowd. His gaze sweeps over Sofia, then me.
“They need help, not judgment,” he grits out at the onlookers, each word sharp and precise. “If you don’t understand the difference, get out of the way.”
Silence falls. People scatter. And they’re suddenly fascinated by anything that isn’t us.
My breath hitches. No one’s ever defended us like this before. Not even Geliy when something similar happened when he was in a store with Sofia and me.
Viktor takes over from me, holding Sofia tightly and speaking to her in a low voice, until she finally calms down forty minutes later. He’s unbothered by the people who dare to glance at him or my little girl. His sole focus is Sofia and making her feel better.