21. The Photograph
The Photograph
The study was empty when I found it.
I hadn't been looking for anything specific.
I'd been wandering again—the way I always wandered, my feet carrying me through rooms I didn't belong in, past doors that should have been locked.
The gala was over, the guests gone, the house settling into its usual quiet hum.
Aleksander was in his office, taking calls.
Gabriel had gone to bed. Nathan was... somewhere. I didn't want to know where.
The study was dark, the fire burned low, the shadows pooling in the corners like water. I should have left. I should have gone back to my room, climbed into my bed, pretended I hadn't seen what I was about to see.
But I didn't.
I walked to the desk, my fingers trailing across the polished wood. The surface was clear—Aleksander was meticulous, his papers organized, his pens aligned. But there was a drawer that wasn't quite closed, a sliver of darkness that caught my eye.
I opened it.
Inside, there was a photograph.
I picked it up, my hands trembling. The woman in the photo was beautiful—dark hair, dark eyes, a smile that seemed to hold secrets. She was standing in a garden, the same garden I'd walked through with Gabriel, the same flowers blooming around her like a halo.
I turned the photo over. On the back, in neat handwriting: Elena. 1987.
Elena.
His wife.
I stared at the photo, my heart pounding. The woman was young—younger than me, maybe, or the same age I was now. She was wearing a white dress, her hair loose around her shoulders, her hand resting on her stomach.
She was pregnant.
I set down the photo and looked through the rest of the drawer. Letters, old and yellowed. A lock of hair, tied with a ribbon. A newspaper clipping, folded and refolded until the creases had worn through.
I unfolded the clipping.
The headline was stark: WIFE OF LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED IN HOME INVASION.
I read the article, my hands shaking. The details were sparse—a break-in, a struggle, a woman found dead in her bedroom. The police had no suspects. No leads. No one had been arrested.
Aleksander's wife had been killed. Not by illness. Not by accident. By someone who had broken into their home and taken her life.
I thought about the way he'd talked about her—the way his voice had gone soft, the way his eyes had gone distant. I thought about the way he'd said her name, like it was something sacred.
I thought about the way he'd looked at me.
He'd told me I was valuable to him. He'd told me he loved me. He'd given me his name, his protection, his bed.
But he hadn't told me about her.
He hadn't told me that his wife had been murdered.
And he hadn't told me why.
And Gabriel had told me that she died from an illness. Even good Gabriel, sweet Gabriel, had lied.
I found Pavel in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee.
He looked up when I entered, his old eyes sharp and assessing. He'd been with Aleksander for decades—longer than I'd been alive—and he knew things. Things I needed to know.
"Miss Monika," he said. "You're up late."
"I found something." I set the photograph on the table, sliding it toward him. "In Aleksander's study."
Pavel looked at the photo. His face didn't change, but I saw something flicker in his eyes—something old and dark.
"Where did you find this?"
"In a drawer. In his desk." I sat across from him, my hands folded on the table. "Tell me about her."
"Elena." Pavel's voice was soft. "She was a good woman. Kind. Gentle. She didn't deserve what happened to her."
"What happened to her?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The kitchen was dark, the only light coming from the stove hood, casting shadows across his face.
"She was killed," he said finally. "Twenty years ago. A rival family—the Volkovs. They wanted what Aleksander had. They thought killing his wife would break him."
"Did it?"
"It broke something. But not the way they expected." He took a sip of his coffee, his hands steady. "Aleksander didn't fall apart. He didn't grieve. He hunted. He spent years tracking down every single person involved in her death. And when he found them, he killed them. One by one. Slowly."
I felt cold. So cold.
"He killed them all?"
"All but one. The one who gave the order. The head of the Volkov family." Pavel set down his cup. "He's still out there. Aleksander has been searching for him for twenty years. And now—" He stopped.
"Now what?"
"He thinks he's found him."
I stared at him. The pieces were falling into place, clicking together like a puzzle I hadn't known I was solving.
"He's using me," I said. "As bait."
Pavel didn't deny it.
"The Volkovs have been watching the mansion for months," he said. "They know Aleksander has a new woman. They know he cares about you. The head of the family—Daxitr Volkov—has been waiting for a weakness. Something he can use."
"And Aleksander is giving him one."
"He's not giving him one. He's creating one." Pavel leaned forward, his eyes fierce. "Aleksander loves you. I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. But he's also a man who has been hunting his wife's killer for two decades. He's not going to let sentiment get in the way."
"He's using me."
"He's protecting you. And using you. Both things can be true."
I stood, my chair scraping against the floor. My hands were shaking, my heart pounding, my mind racing.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Aleksander?"
"Yes."
"In his office. He's been there all night."
I walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The portrait on the walls followed me, their painted eyes tracking my movements.
I didn't knock.
I opened the door to the study and walked in.
Aleksander was sitting at his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked up when I entered, and I saw the surprise on his face—quickly masked, quickly hidden.
"Monika," he said. "What are you doing here?"
"I found the photograph."
He didn't pretend to misunderstand. His jaw tightened, and he set down the glass.
"Monika—"
"Your wife. Elena. She was murdered. And you've been hunting her killers for twenty years." I walked toward him, stopping in front of his desk. "And now you've found them. And you're using me as bait."
"That's not—"
"Don't lie to me." My voice was shaking. "Not now. Not after everything."
He stood. Walked around the desk. Took my hands in his.
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. I could hear my own breathing, loud and ragged.
"Elena was the love of my life," he said. "I met her when I was twenty. She was eighteen. We were married within a year. She was the first person who ever made me feel like I could be something other than what I was born to be."
His voice cracked. Just slightly, but I heard it.
"When she died, I thought I would die too. I wanted to. But I couldn't. Because I had sons. I had an empire. And I had a promise to keep."
"A promise?"
"I promised her I would find the man who killed her. And I would make him pay."
He looked at me. His eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying. He was too old for that, too hardened.
"You're not bait, Monika. You're not a tool. You're the first person since her death who has made me feel alive."
"Then why are you using me?"
"I'm not using you. I'm protecting you."
"By putting me in danger?"
"By making sure you're never in danger again." He squeezed my hands, his grip fierce. "The Volkovs know about you. They've been watching. They've been waiting. If I'd kept you hidden, they would have found you anyway. This way—this way, I control the situation."
"You control it?"
"Volkov is going to make a move. Soon. He's going to try to take you, to hurt you, to use you against me." He paused. "But he won't succeed. Because I'll be ready."
"Ready for what?"
He didn't answer. He pulled me into his arms, holding me tight.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry, Monika. I should have told you. I should have explained. But I couldn't. I couldn't risk you leaving."
"I wouldn't have left."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I pulled back, looking up at him. "I know I should be angry. I know I should be afraid. But all I feel is... sad. For you. For her. For the life you lost."
He touched my face, his thumb tracing my cheek.
"You're too good for me," he said.
"I know."
He laughed—a broken sound, almost a sob.
"I love you, Monika. I know I've said it before. But I need you to know. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. More than I loved her."
"Don't say that."
"It's true."
I kissed him. Soft. Gentle. The way I kissed Gabriel, the way I'd never kissed Nathan.
"Then protect me," I said. "Do what you have to do. But don't lie to me again."
"I won't."
We stood in the dark, holding each other, and I felt something shift between us. Something that might have been trust.
Or maybe it was just the beginning of the end.