18. Final Goodbyes
Final Goodbyes
Zhenya Romanov
Low gray clouds hung over the city, casting a dim, dull light through the living room windows.
Inside, the quiet was thick, heavy with the stillness of recovery.
I stood by the kitchen island, watching Nikolai as he sat on the edge of the plush sofa.
He wore a loose red sweater—one of mine that drowned his frame—and sweatpants.
His movements were still careful, a faint grimace tightening the corners of his mouth whenever he shifted his weight too quickly.
The incision on his abdomen was healing, but the skin around it remained tender, a angry pink line hiding beneath the soft wool.
I brought over two mugs of black tea, setting one on the low coffee table near his knee before taking a seat beside him.
“How’s the pain?” I asked.
“Manageable,” he said, reaching for the mug. He blew gently on the surface, the steam veiling his face for a second. “It’s just a dull ache now. Much better than two days ago.”
“That’s good to hear.” I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist just to feel the steady, unhurried pulse beneath his skin. “If you need the medication, tell me. Don’t try to endure it.”
“I know, Zhenya.” He fought back a small smile. “You remind me every four hours.”
“Because I know how stubborn you are.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned sideways, his shoulder resting lightly against mine.
It was a small gesture, but the physical contact grounded the room.
For three days, the penthouse had felt like a fortress against the rest of the world, a sanctuary where the noise of the Romanov name couldn’t reach us.
On the wall opposite the sofa, the wide-screen television was muted, showing rolling news footage. I picked up the remote and flicked the sound on, turning the volume up just enough to hear the anchor’s polished tone.
“…speculation continues to grow surrounding the tragic demise of Mikhail Romanov,” the reporter announced, standing in front of the glass facade of the Romanov Energy and oil headquarters downtown.
“While official police reports cite a violent dispute involving armed intruders at an industrial site on the city’s outskirts, rumors of an internal power struggle within the family persist. Stock prices dropped another four percent this morning as the board of directors remains tight-lipped regarding the future leadership of the conglomerate… ”
Images flashed across the screen: an old headshot of Mikhail, and footage of police cruisers parked outside the abandoned factory.
Nikolai’s gaze fixed on the screen. His expression remained unreadable, but I felt the muscle in his shoulder tense against mine.
I didn’t let the broadcast finish. I pressed the power button, and the screen went black, returning the room to its quiet rhythm.
“It’s just noise,” I said, setting the remote aside. “Let the legal team and the board chew on it. It doesn’t concern us anymore.”
Nikolai took a sip of his tea, his eyes fixed on the empty glass of the television. “Your father told you we should leave, didn’t he?”
“He did,” I admitted. “And for once, I agree with him. Moscow is going to be suffocating for the next few months. Every reporter with a microphone will be looking for a story, and the police will take their time wrapping up the formal investigation. We don’t need to be here for any of it.”
He turned his head to look at me, his dark eyes searching my face. “Where are we going?”
“Wherever you want,” I said simply. “Somewhere far from the cold. Somewhere no one knows the name Romanov, and where we don’t have to look over our shoulders.”
Nikolai considered this for a long moment. He set his mug down on the table, leaning his chin against his hand as he looked out at the rain washing over the city.
“Bali,” he said quietly.
I raised an eyebrow. “Bali?”
“I want warmth,” he said, a faint smile surfacing. “I want the ocean, trees, and sun. I want to sit somewhere where the air doesn’t smell like exhaust or stale snow.”
“Bali it is,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll have Lev arrange the Pj and secure a villa near the coast. We can leave by the end of the week.”
Nikolai nodded, but his smile faltered slightly, shifting into something more reflective. He looked down at his lap, his fingers tracing the seam of his sweatpants.
“Before we go,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “there’s somewhere I need to visit first.”
I didn’t need to ask. “Babushka.”
He nodded once. “I can’t leave the country for months without telling her. I need to see her, Zhenya.”
“We’ll go tomorrow morning,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer. “First thing.”
* * *
The cemetery on the outskirts of Moscow was quiet, shaded by tall, ancient birch trees whose leaves rustled softly in the late morning breeze. The air was crisp, carrying the damp scent of earth and fallen leaves, but the heavy rain from the day before had passed, leaving behind a clear sky.
I walked beside Nikolai, keeping my pace slow to match his. He moved carefully, one hand resting lightly against his abdomen to steady himself over the uneven gravel path.
We stopped in front of a modest granite headstone set into a well-kept plot. The name Elena Nadezhda carved neatly into the stone, alongside a small, porcelain-framed photograph of an older woman with sharp, kind eyes and a gentle smile.
Nikolai stepped forward, crouching down with a slow, deliberate effort to lay a bundle of fresh white lilies against the base of the monument. He stayed on his knees for a moment, his fingers brushing the cold granite before he stood back up, adjusting his coat.
“I’ll give you a moment,” I whispered, stepping back toward the main path.
“You don’t have to go far,” Nikolai said, glancing back at me.
“I’ll be right by the trees.”
I walked a short distance away, giving him the space he needed while keeping him well within my line of sight. I leaning against the trunk of a large birch, folding my arms as I watched him.
Nikolai stood before the grave, his shoulders relaxed, his head tilted slightly as he spoke in a low, conversational tone.
I couldn’t hear the words, nor did I try to.
It was his time with the woman who had raised him, the one who had protected him when the world had been cruelest. Watching him stand there—pale, recovering, but whole—a profound sense of quiet gratitude settled in my chest.
After ten minutes, Nikolai turned toward me and motioned with his hand. I pushed off the tree trunk and walked back over to the plot.
As I reached his side, Nikolai looked up at the headstone one last time, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.
“I told her about Bali,” Nikolai said, looking over at me. “She always wanted to travel somewhere warm, but she never got the chance. I told her I’d take her memory with us.”
He paused, his eyes softening as he looked at me.
“I also thanked her,” he added gently. “For taking care of me until you came along. I told her I brought you here so she could see that I’m not alone anymore.”
The weight I’d been carrying in my chest eased. I looked from the photograph on the stone back to Nikolai.
He turned, taking a step to lead us back toward the path. “Come on. Lev is probably waiting by the car.”
“Wait,” I said, catching his wrist softly.
Nikolai paused, looking back at me with a faint question in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s something I need to say, too,” I said.
I turned toward the headstone, keeping Nikolai’s hand firmly in mine. The air around us was still, the rustle of the birch leaves the only sound breaking the quiet of the graveyard.
“Elena Nadezhda,” I spoke, my voice steady, carrying clearly in the cool air. “I know I arrived late into Nikolai’s life. I know there are scars he carries that I wasn’t there to prevent. But I am here now.”
Nikolai stayed completely still beside me, his breath hitching slightly as he listened.
“I am not a perfect man,” I continued, looking directly at the photograph of the woman who had loved him first. “My family is complicated, and my world can be dark. But I promise you this: as long as I am breathing, no one will ever hurt him again. I will protect him, I will stand by him, and I will give him the life he deserves. You have my word as a Romanov, and as the man who loves your grandson.”
I turned to face Nikolai completely.
His eyes were bright with unshed tears, his throat working as he tried to find words. “Zhenya…”
I reached into the inner pocket of my coat and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. I opened it with a quiet click. Inside sat a simple, thick band of polished platinum—unadorned, solid, and timeless.
I didn’t drop to one knee. I didn’t frame it with grand speeches or theatrical gestures. That wasn’t who we were.
I took the ring from the velvet slot and looked into Nikolai’s eyes.
“This isn’t a performance,” I said softly, taking his left hand in mine. “It’s a promise. Wherever we go—whether it’s Bali, Moscow, or somewhere else entirely—my home is wherever you are.”
I slipped the band onto his ring finger. It fit perfectly, the cool metal settling against his skin.
Nikolai stared down at his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched the platinum ring with his thumb. A single tear escaped, tracking down his cheek, but the look on his face was one of absolute clarity.
“Zhenya,” he choked out.
Before he could say anything else, he stepped forward, wrapping his arms tightly around my neck. I pulled him close, careful of his side, burying my face into the crook of his neck as my arms wrapped around his waist.
He held on fiercely, his fingers digging into the fabric of my coat, his forehead resting against my shoulder. We stood there in the middle of the quiet cemetery, held together by the quiet weight of the promise we’d made—not just to each other, but to the past we were finally leaving behind.
When he finally pulled back a fraction, his hands remained on my chest, his green eyes looking into mine.