4. Katya
Katya
Dmitri’s jaw twitches when I ask about my parents.
That’s all the answer I need.
We’re back in the penthouse now, with him nursing a glass of vodka while I curl up on the leather sofa.
The evening at Beluga was lovely, but something about the dinner felt staged.
Everything tonight felt rehearsed. He seemed on edge anytime I deviated from the script, and I didn’t want to make a scene, especially after that incident with the drunk, so I let it go.
Now, in the somewhat familiar surroundings of what’s supposed to be my home, I want answers.
I asked about my childhood: family traditions, holiday memories, anything to anchor me. He said my parents were dead. When I pressed for details, his demeanor shifted. Of course, that only made me push harder.
“What happened to them?” I press. “My parents, I mean.”
“Car accident.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Three years ago. You were devastated.”
“Where are they buried?”
“Cremated,” he responds, clipped. “You scattered their ashes in the Volga. Said they would have wanted to return to the water.”
The story flows too easily, and it’s too perfectly crafted to answer questions I might ask. Like he’s prepared responses for every inquiry about my fictional past.
“Did I have siblings? Close friends from before we met?”
“You were an only child. Very private person; kept mostly to yourself. You said the art world was full of fake people and that you preferred books to parties.”
I hate how he’s glued to his phone while rattling off these “facts” about me. Everything about his posture screams avoidance, like he’s talking about a character in a book rather than his wife’s family history.
The more he dodges, the more I wonder what he’s hiding.
“That doesn’t sound like someone who would marry a man like you.”
That gets his attention. He sets the phone down and cranes his neck to look at me. “What do you mean, ‘A man like you’?”
“Dangerous. Connected. The kind of man who owns pieces of restaurants and makes waiters nervous with just his presence.”
His nostrils flare, and something tells me I’ve struck a nerve. “Maybe the quiet art curator act was just that—an act.”
“An act for whom?” I knit my brows together.
He lets out a low chuckle, then says, “For yourself. Some people spend their whole lives pretending to be someone they’re not because it feels safer than embracing who they really are.”
I want to argue, but something about his words resonates in a deeply uncomfortable way. Like he’s describing something true about me that I can’t access.
“Speaking of acts,” I begin as I tuck my legs under me and start tracing the tattoo on my wrist, “I’ve been going through the closet, the jewelry, even my supposed favorite books, and nothing triggers any emotional response. Why do you think that is?”
“Memory and emotion are linked. When you lost one, it affected the other.”
“But my physical muscle memory is intact. I can speak French fluently, and I knew how to handle that drunk at the restaurant. Why would some memories survive and others disappear?”
Dmitri takes a long sip of vodka before answering. “I’m not a doctor, Katya. All I know is that the brain is complicated. Trauma affects people differently.”
“That’s what you keep saying, but it doesn’t explain why I feel like a stranger in my own life.”
He rolls his shoulders like he’s working out tension and lets out a frustrated groan. “Give it time, kotyonok. Recovery isn’t linear.”
I stand and walk to the wall of photographs, and my thoughts from the other day about them being too candid resurface. I know Dmitri is frustrated, but I can’t help myself.
“These photos.” I point to one that shows us at a charity gala. “Why would we have professional photographers for everything? Most couples just use their phones. But every photo here looks like it was shot for a magazine.”
“I hired photographers for special occasions,” he snaps, flicking his hand like he’s brushing the question away. “I wanted to preserve our memories.”
“Or create them.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and the silence that follows feels dangerous.
“What are you implying?” His tone drops, carrying the same edge I heard during that phone call. The kind that says violence is never far away.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to understand why everything feels so manufactured. Like props in someone else’s play.”
“Maybe because you’re looking for problems.”
He stands and stalks toward me, and I find myself cataloging his approach. Distance, probable weapons, available exits. Why does my brain work this way if I’m supposed to be a harmless art expert?
“Why do I do that?” I blurt out.
“Do what?”
“Assess threats. Track exits. Calculate distance and advantage.” I motion toward the room. “There are three ways out, two things I could use as weapons, and I know how many steps it’d take you to reach me. That’s not how art curators think.”
“Maybe you’re just more observant than most,” he says with a shrug that feels too easy.
“Or maybe I’m something else entirely.”
Dmitri stops just close enough that I tilt my head to meet his eyes. The cedar and smoke scent hits me again, and my body responds before I can stop it.
“What else would you be?” The question sounds more like a dare than an inquiry.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think I was ever some quiet, bookish woman.”
“No,” he agrees, gripping my jaw firmly and tilting my face up to his. “You weren’t.”
I draw in a breath. “What do you mean?”
“You were passionate. You had opinions about everything and weren’t afraid to share them. You could argue politics or art or philosophy for hours, and you never backed down from a fight.”
This version of myself sounds more appealing than the withdrawn introvert he described earlier. “Then why did you tell me I was private and preferred books to people?”
“Because I thought it might be easier for you to accept a simpler version of yourself while you recover.”
“Easier for whom? Me, or you?”
His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling for the rapid beat like he’s testing how much fear he can wring out of me.
“I want the truth, Dmitri. All of it. Not the sanitized version you think I can handle.”
“The truth can be complicated.” His hand drifts lower, fingers pressing into the fabric at my collarbone, his touch more possessive than gentle.
His thumb lingers against my skin, a firm press that borders on a warning.
He’s trying to distract me, and every other time, I’ve let it happen. But not now.
“More complicated than waking up with no memory married to a man who terrifies restaurant staff and conducts business that sounds suspiciously like organized crime?”
His hand stills on the top of my breast. “You think I’m in organized crime?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Would that bother you?” His face betrays nothing.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Should it?”
“The woman I married wasn’t bothered by moral ambiguity.”
Another piece of information that contradicts his earlier description. I step back, needing space to think.
“How many versions of myself are you going to give me? First, I’m a quiet introvert. Now, I’m a fierce debater who doesn’t mind criminal activity. Which is it?”
“People are layered. You contained multitudes.”
“ Contained . Past tense.”
“Poor choice of words.”
I walk to the window and look out at the Moscow skyline while trying to work through the contradictions in his story.
“I want to see where I worked,” I say without turning around. “The gallery you mentioned. Maybe being there will trigger something.”
“The gallery is closed indefinitely after the bombing.”
“What about my former colleagues? Friends from work?”
“Most of them have moved on to other positions. Different cities.”
How convenient that every person who might know the real me has disappeared or become unavailable.
“What about my medical records? School transcripts? Anything that might help me understand who I was before the accident?”
“Lost in a fire at the records office last month.”
I turn to face him, no longer trying to hide my suspicion. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Moscow is an old city. Fires happen.”
“Dmitri, do you expect me to believe that every piece of evidence about my past life has been mysteriously destroyed or made inaccessible?”
“I expect you to trust your husband to help you through recovery,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“And if I don’t? If I want to investigate my past independently?”
Something cold enters his eyes, and I get a glimpse of the man who makes waiters nervous and conducts threatening phone calls.
“Where would you go?” he asks. “What life would you return to? You have no family, no friends, and no job to go back to. I’m all you have left, kotyonok. The only person who cares whether you recover or disappear.”
The words are delivered gently, but they carry the unmistakable undercurrent of a threat. He’s right, of course. Without my memories, I have no identity outside of what he’s given me. No way to verify his story or seek help from anyone who might contradict his version of events.
“That’s convenient for you,” I observe.
“It’s reality. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but that doesn’t make it less true.”
I study his face for cracks in his composure, but he gives nothing away. Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s a masterful liar.
“I’m tired,” I finally breathe out. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Good idea. Tomorrow, maybe we can visit a spa. Anything to help you feel more comfortable.”
He’s being kind again, the threatening edge replaced, but I no longer trust the rapid shifts in his demeanor.
I retreat to the bedroom and close the door behind me, wishing it had a lock. Something about our conversation has left me unsettled, like I’ve stumbled onto information I shouldn’t have.
A few hours later, I can’t sleep, and Dmitri has disappeared, so I decide to explore the penthouse some more. Maybe I’ll find something that contradicts his story or triggers a genuine memory instead of another violent flashback that makes no sense.
I start with the home office, but the desk is locked. I don’t want to risk noise if he’s still somewhere in the penthouse. The bookcases contain mostly business texts and classic literature, nothing personal or revealing.
The kitchen yields nothing more interesting than expensive ingredients and top-shelf alcohol.
But when I open the hall closet looking for blankets, something stops me cold.
Hidden behind winter coats, secured in a panel that looks like part of the wall, is a collection of weapons that would make a military unit jealous. Handguns, knives, and specialized surveillance equipment.
No art curator needs an arsenal.
More disturbing is that the sight of them doesn’t shock me the way it should. Instead, I find myself evaluating their quality and condition, automatically checking which ones are loaded and which need maintenance.
How do I know these things?
I close the panel carefully, making sure everything looks as I found it, but my hands are shaking as I back away from the closet.
Whatever Dmitri has told me about my past, and whatever identity he’s constructed for me doesn’t explain why the sight of enough weapons to outfit a small army feels familiar instead of terrifying.
Something is very wrong here.
I’m starting to think the problem isn’t my missing memory.
The problem is that I’m beginning to remember things I’m not supposed to know.