Chapter Nineteen - Suzy
The message comes in quiet as a confession, tucked between junk emails and unanswered texts: a single line from my father, asking me to call when I’m alone.
It shouldn’t matter—I know what he is, what he wants, what he’s always asked of me—but still, hope stirs in my chest, reckless and stupid as ever. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe this time, he’ll ask if I’m safe, if I’m happy, if I regret the bargain he struck on my behalf.
I slip away from the halls, find an empty sitting room and shut the door behind me. The house is cavernous, but tonight it feels like every sound might carry. I dial before I can talk myself out of it. My fingers tremble on the glass, breath caught tight in my chest.
He answers on the third ring, voice as cold and measured as the marble floors beneath my feet.
“Suzanne,” he says. He doesn’t ask how I am, doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. There’s no warmth—only the smooth, controlled cadence I know too well.
“What do you have access to?” he asks, as if this is the most natural question in the world.
“Files, codes, anything that’s not in public sight.
What’s locked? What’s guarded? I need a list of when Leon’s meetings are, who comes and goes, what he’s hiding.
You’re there for a reason. Don’t forget who you’re meant to protect. ”
For a moment, I say nothing. The hope dies, brittle and quick. I listen, numb, as he explains—so matter-of-fact—how it’s my duty, how he’s counting on me, how this is for the good of everyone. His tone never wavers. He calls it family loyalty, strategy, necessity.
When the call ends, I just sit there, phone pressed to my thigh, staring at the pale morning light filtering through the window. I’m not sure how long I stay like that.
Maybe I’m hoping I’ll stop shaking.
Maybe I’m hoping I’ll feel nothing at all.
The house is silent, wide and echoing, and for the first time, it feels less like a cage and more like a trap—built for people like me to lose themselves in.
I wander the halls, restless, lost. Every locked door I pass feels sharper, more personal.
Every closed room reminds me of the conversation—of the way my father never once asked if I was afraid, or angry, or hurt.
He never has. Not really. It’s always been about the family, the legacy, the cost of staying in power.
Even now, when the danger is my danger, when the cost is mine alone to bear.
I tell myself I won’t do it. That I’m finished being used, finished being the dutiful daughter, the reliable pawn.
It’s harder than I want to admit. Old instincts die slow. The voice in my head—his voice—keeps whispering that I chose this, that I wanted to matter, that loyalty and survival are sometimes the same thing.
By the time I find myself in front of Leon’s office door, I’m not even sure how I got there. My pulse hammers in my throat. I stare at the smooth wood, hand trembling as I test the handle. It gives, almost too easily, and I step inside before I can change my mind.
The room is dim and spare, dark wood and steel, the faint scent of Leon’s cologne clinging to the air. It’s cleaner than I expect—orderly, everything in its place. My eyes find the desk, the top drawer slightly ajar.
I move toward it, each step deliberate, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. I know the cameras are there. I know someone might be watching. Still, I can’t make myself stop.
My fingers hover over the drawer before I open it, half hoping for nothing, for something mundane. Instead, I find exactly what I shouldn’t: folders stamped with codes, reports marked confidential, slips of paper with details I don’t understand.
It’s all right there, all the leverage my father wants. The line is so clear it makes me sick. This is it. This is the moment where I could close the drawer and walk away.
I don’t. I can’t. His words are still in my ear—reminding me who I belong to, who I’m supposed to protect, who I’m expected to betray.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
I take photo after photo, working fast, terrified of being caught, terrified of what I’m becoming.
When I’m finished, I stack the papers carefully, put everything back as it was. I wipe the desk where I touched it, try to calm my breathing, try to make myself small and invisible. The whole room seems to hum with danger, every shadow sharper, every corner suddenly too exposed.
By the time I step away from the desk, every part of me is strung tight as piano wire. I feel the blood in my ears, the sweat prickling down my spine, the ragged pulse that has nothing to do with the risk and everything to do with what this means.
My chest is tight, nausea swirling with adrenaline, the sting of betrayal burning in my throat. I want to scream. I want to run. I want someone to ask me what I want, for once, instead of who I can be useful to.
The truth is as heavy as stone: I’m caught between two men who see me as a weapon, a prize, a means to an end. Neither of them—neither my father nor Leon—ever asks what it will cost me to survive.
I’m breathless, nearly sick, terrified not just of what I’ve done but what I might still do.
The Sharov home feels monstrous in its silence—every creak, every flicker of light on polished wood a threat.
I try to remember how I used to walk the halls, how I tried to convince myself this was my home, that I could ever belong here.
My hands shake as I press them flat against my skirt, trying to smooth away the panic. It’s too late to run. Too late to pretend I haven’t already betrayed something, someone.
All I can do now is look like I’m supposed to be here, like I have nothing to hide.
Then I hear the footsteps. Not the polite shuffle of staff, not the hurried tread of someone who doesn’t belong. These are slow, sure, the measured pace of someone who owns this place and everyone in it. I know that walk. I could pick it out of a crowd of hundreds. It’s Leon.
Panic explodes in my chest. For one dizzy, helpless moment, I nearly bolt—run for the side door, make some excuse, throw myself at the mercy of the world outside these walls. But that would only confirm everything. I’d never make it far. I never have.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, wiping my palm on my thigh, desperate to calm the shaking.
My heart is hammering so loud I’m certain whoever’s outside will hear it.
I try to steady my breathing, lift my chin, stand in the center of the room as if I belong here, as if I’m not sweating guilt and fear.
The footsteps slow. Leon pauses just outside the door. For an instant, there’s only the soft shift of weight, the hush before a verdict.
I stare at the door, unable to move, feeling the full weight of what I’ve done bearing down on my shoulders.
My mind races with escape plans. Should I say I was looking for him? Should I claim I got lost? Should I pretend I needed a book, a pen, some trivial thing I might find in a husband’s office? Or should I just stand here and wait for whatever judgment is coming, as if I deserve it?
I hate how small I feel in this moment. I hate that fear has become my only familiar thing—fear of discovery, of Leon’s anger, of the way his disappointment would cut deeper than any threat. I hate most of all that part of me is more afraid of losing him than being caught.
The handle turns. I force myself not to flinch. I make my expression bland, practiced, the mask I’ve worn my whole life. The moment before the door opens is endless, every second stretching out and tightening, until I can barely breathe.
When the door finally swings inward, the room floods with harsh, artificial light. I brace myself for his presence—the force of it, the weight of his attention, the possibility of his fury. I expect to see him, hard and unreadable, all cold eyes and clipped demands. I expect the worst.
It isn’t Leon. It’s one of the senior staff, an older man with gray hair and a habit of glancing past me, never at me. He pauses, seeing me framed by the desk, his expression caught between surprise and calculation.
“Mrs. Sharov,” he says, deferential, careful, as if any wrong word might detonate the situation. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Relief and terror mix so violently that I almost laugh. I force myself to smile, shaking my head.
“No, thank you,” I say, voice barely wavering. “I was just looking for something to read. Leon keeps the best novels in here. I thought I’d borrow one.”
He nods, accepting this without comment. “Of course, ma’am. Would you like me to fetch you anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” My voice is steadier now, sharper, more familiar. “Thank you.”
He hesitates for a moment, eyes lingering on the desk before flicking back to me. There’s something knowing in his gaze, but he says nothing. Instead, he offers a shallow bow and withdraws, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
I sag, knees weak, breath rushing out in a shaky exhale. I wait a full minute before I dare move, listening for any sign of return, any hint of accusation.
When the silence holds, I slip out, careful to leave everything just as I found it. Every step down the hall is agony, each shadow a threat, each closed door a test.
Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed, phone clutched tight in my fist. My chest aches with guilt and relief and something like grief.
I replay the last five minutes on a loop—what I did, what could have happened, the sound of my father’s voice and the image of Leon’s hands, the way each of them wants to carve me into something useful.
I want to scream, to cry, to undo every choice that led me here.
Except I can’t. I can only lie there, waiting for the consequences I know are coming, wishing for once that someone would ask what I want, instead of what I’m willing to give up.
The line I crossed is behind me now. All that’s left is to see how far I’ll fall.
I lie on my bed, pulse still fluttering, the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on my chest. The room feels colder now, vast and unfriendly, shadows stretching long across the floor.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to steady my breathing, but the fear refuses to let go.
Every sound in the hallway makes me jump, convinced that Leon will burst in, demanding answers I’m not ready to give.
My phone is still warm in my hand—a silent witness, a loaded gun. I want to throw it across the room, to undo the last half hour, but I can’t.
All I can do is wait, heart hammering, caught between guilt and dread, wishing for any escape.