Chapter 25
25
ANNA
T he harp arrived just after sunrise.
I’d barely finished dressing—one of the outfits Ryker had retrieved from my condo—when I heard the soft murmur of voices downstairs. By the time I reached the landing that overlooked the main foyer, the men were already inside: gloved hands lifting the instrument’s case with the kind of reverence most people reserved for holy relics.
They didn’t know it, but it was. For me, at least.
I blinked, stunned.
Ryker and I had talked just a few hours ago, in the middle of the night. Somehow, in the time it had taken me to sleep and wake again, he’d gone to my condo, found a way into the Philharmonic’s conservatory, arranged for secure movers, and delivered my harp here. Smooth. Seamless. Like it was nothing. All while a storm brewed outside.
It should’ve been impossible.
But that was the Dane brothers. When they moved, the world made room.
And now, so had this house.
I stood near the top of the stairs and watched the movers ascend then carry my instrument toward the far wing—toward the room Atlas had apparently chosen himself. Something with the right acoustics. The right light. The right view of the harbor.
When I stepped inside a few minutes later, I nearly lost my breath.
It wasn’t a room. It was a sanctuary.
Stormlight filtered through the tall windows on the eastern wall—gray and fractured, like the sky couldn’t decide whether to break open or hold back. The wind pressed against the glass in restless waves, making the panes tremble.
The ceiling arched high above like a chapel, ribs of dark wood carved with motifs I couldn’t name—sacred and watchful. The air held its own kind of hush, thick with tension, but reverent.
Even under stormlight, the space felt holy. And I could hardly imagine how beautiful it would be on a clear day—when sunlight poured through those tall windows without interruption, gilding every corner in gold. When the world outside wasn’t unraveling.
In the center—anchored like a monument—stood my harp.
Familiar. Unchanged.
My hands trembled as I stepped closer. Not from fear. But from something older. Deeper. A reunion with the one constant in my life that had never failed me.
I sat.
The bench was already placed, adjusted to my usual height. Someone had thought of everything.
I ran my fingers gently over the strings—no sound yet, just the lightest touch. Then I closed my eyes, settled my breath, and played.
It started slow. Hesitant.
A simple progression. Familiar. Safe.
Then came the turn—my fingers moving faster, my wrist loosening, and the sound swelling to fill the space like it had always lived there. No sheet music. No plan. Just the language of my soul, pouring out through strings that remembered what my mouth forgot how to say.
Dominion Hall held its breath.
And for a few minutes, I wasn’t a scandal. I wasn’t suspended from the Charleston Philharmonic. I wasn’t the woman who’d been engaged to a man who betrayed her.
I was just a musician. A girl with a harp, finally able to speak.
When I finished, the room was quiet. Still. Then, behind me, I heard a soft sound.
A throat clearing.
I turned—and found Papa standing in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
“Papa.” I stood too fast. “I didn’t know you were?—”
“I followed the music.” His voice was low. Gentle. “I would have followed it anywhere.”
My throat tightened.
He stepped inside, slowly, his gaze sweeping the room. “Atlas had this made for you?”
“He cleared it out,” I said. “Had it set up. Had my harp delivered.”
Papa nodded slowly. “He listens.”
I sat back down on the bench, unsure what to say.
He stepped closer. Not all the way. Just enough.
“Anya,” he said softly. “Do you remember when we first took you to see the Boston Symphony? You were six. Could barely sit still.”
“I remember,” I said. “I remember Mama bribed me with chocolate to behave.”
He smiled faintly. “And still, halfway through Mahler’s Fifth, you stood up on your seat and pointed at the harpist like she was made of magic.”
“She was,” I whispered.
He nodded. “You said, ‘I want to do that. I want to make the gold sound.’”
I laughed. “I was such a little nerd.”
“You were a wonder.” He said it so easily, so plainly, it nearly undid me.
Silence stretched between us for a moment. Then Papa walked slowly to the window and stood there, his hands still behind his back.
“I spent my life studying the brain,” he said quietly. “The way it processes fear. Pattern. Memory. Survival. But you … you reminded me there are things beyond what we can easily measure. Music. Emotion. The part of the mind that heals instead of calculates.”
I swallowed hard.
“I don’t want to fail you,” he said quietly. “Your mother and I … we don’t always know the right thing to say. Or how much to push. How much to stand still. We come from a world that values silence, and I’m afraid that silence might hurt you.”
I reached for his hand. “You came. You’re here. That’s what matters.”
“No,” he said. “What matters now is what comes next. You’re here. You’re in love with a man most fathers would not understand. And still … I trust you.”
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. “Papa?—”
“You are your mother’s fire and my precision,” he said gently. “You see things clearly. You feel them deeply. And when the time comes to choose what kind of life you want to lead, I know you’ll do it without fear.”
I stood again, crossed the space, and wrapped my arms around him before I could overthink it.
He held me tightly, fiercely, like he hadn’t in years.
Papa didn’t let go for a long time.
When he finally did, it was with a slow exhale, like something heavy had been unspooled from his chest. He turned back toward the window, and I caught something in his expression I couldn’t name.
Not grief. Not fear. Something older than both.
Regret, maybe.
“Can I ask you something?” I said softly.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp despite the fatigue I knew he carried. “Anything.”
“Why did you and Mama leave Russia?” I asked. “I mean, I know the official story. ‘More opportunity. A better life.’ But you never really told me the full reason. Not the real one.”
Papa was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned away from the window and walked to the carved armchair in the corner, lowering himself into it with the slow grace of someone carrying weight that didn’t belong to his body.
“We told you what we thought you needed to hear,” he said quietly. “At the time, it was true enough. The Russia we left behind was not a place of safety. Not for what we wanted. Not for who we were.”
I tilted my head. “You always said it was because you wanted me to have more options. A better future.”
“And we did.” His voice didn’t waver. “But sometimes, to protect a child, a parent has to simplify the truth.”
A chill slid down my spine. “You’re saying it wasn’t just about opportunity.”
“No.” His eyes met mine, unblinking. “It was also about survival.”
I sank slowly back onto the bench, my fingers resting on the strings without plucking them.
“You were a brilliant researcher—even back then,” I said. “Your work in neuroplasticity, trauma adaptation, and cross-lateral rewiring was well established. But you left all of your progress there behind.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “Some work attracts attention. Sometimes from the wrong places.”
I studied him. “What kind of attention?”
He didn’t answer. Not directly.
“I was offered a position at MIT before we ever set foot on American soil,” he said instead. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
My heart ticked faster.
“You mean someone helped.”
“Yes.”
I leaned forward. “Who?”
He gave me a quiet smile. Not condescending—sorrowful. “There are some questions, Anya, that only lead to more doors. And not all of them should be opened.”
I swallowed. “But why not tell me?”
“Because you were a child,” he said. “And then you were a teenager. And now—now you’re a woman. A musician. A public figure under pressure from people we don’t yet understand. And there are parts of our past I’ve kept sealed because once they’re open, you can’t unsee them.”
The harp felt warmer beneath my fingertips, like it could sense the shift in temperature inside me.
“You had help getting out,” I said softly. “Didn’t you?”
Papa didn’t move. But something shifted in his face. The barest flicker. A shadow behind the eyes.
“I had … connections,” he said finally. “People who wanted to see us safe. Who believed it was time to go.”
“That kind of help doesn’t just show up,” I said. “Not in Russia. Not back then.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It doesn’t.”
My pulse thudded, but I couldn’t stop. “So, it wasn’t just about giving me opportunity.”
“No,” he said again. “It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
He turned away, back toward the window, the stormlight throwing silver lines across his cheekbones. He didn’t speak for a long time.
“There were things happening,” he said finally, choosing each word like it was delicate. “In our country. In our field. In the circles your mother and I moved in. Things that … shifted. Quietly at first. Then not.”
I swallowed. “Things dangerous enough to make you run?”
“Things dangerous enough,” he confirmed. “But not just for us. For what we stood for. What we knew. And what we wouldn’t become.”
A chill rippled down my arms. “You’ve never told me this.”
I rose from the bench and moved to the far window, placing a hand against the warm glass. Rain streaked across the pane like veins. The harbor churned in the distance, gray and wild.
Papa watched me for a moment, then gave a quiet sigh. “I’ve already said too much.”
I turned from the window. “But not enough.”
“Enough for today,” he said, not unkindly. “Storms aren’t just outside, Anya. They build in the mind, too. Let this one pass before we unearth any more.”
I nodded slowly. The room hummed with unspoken things. But I let it be.
He stood and rubbed his hands together. “Now. Tell me—what does one eat for breakfast in Charleston?”
I smiled, already feeling my stomach wake up. “Well, shrimp and grits were last night’s showstopper, so I doubt we’ll see that again so soon.”
Papa nodded. “Pity. I rather enjoyed it.”
“I did, too,” I said. “But I’ve learned that breakfast in the Lowcountry is a whole different ritual. Think flaky buttermilk biscuits, pimento cheese, maybe fried green tomatoes, or something called hoe cakes. There’s usually pork involved—bacon, sausage, maybe both. And sweet tea flows like water.”
He gave a slow, approving nod. “A far cry from black coffee and a dry croissant.”
“Boston mornings weren’t built for leisure,” I teased. “Mostly we grabbed a bagel and ate it in traffic.”
“Or cold kasha on the train,” he added wryly.
I laughed. “True. This place … it lingers a little more. Even the food knows how to take its time.”
He offered me his arm, ever the gentleman. “Then let’s follow its lead.”
“Gladly,” I said, looping my hand through his. “I think we’ve earned a slow morning.”
We left the sanctuary room together, my fingers brushing the frame of the harp as we passed. A quiet promise to return.
In the hallway, the wind howled harder against the windows. The lights flickered once, then steadied.
Papa glanced toward the far end of the corridor. “We should find a television. If nothing else, the local news might tell us how bad it will get.”
I gave a short nod. “The brothers seem calm, but that radar map last night … it didn’t look good.”
“No,” he said, voice distant. “Storms rarely do up close.”
We reached the main staircase. I rested my hand on the carved rail.
A beat passed before Papa said quietly, “This place—Dominion Hall—it’s extraordinary. And the Danes … I’m not sure how to express what it means, knowing your mother and I are safe here. That you’re safe.”
“They didn’t hesitate,” I said. “They heard you were coming and made space. For us all.”
Papa nodded. “They made room for your harp, Anya.”
His voice caught on that.
“For your music. That tells me everything I need to know about the kind of men they are.”
We kept walking. Toward breakfast. Toward weather reports. Toward the next fragile, necessary hour of peace before the wind rose higher and the sky split wide.