36. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six
Aurora
The morning of my discharge from the hospital, a wave of nausea washes over me—not from any lingering pain, as the medicine’s been taking care of that—but from the daunting reality of returning to the world outside these sterile walls.
My mom’s suggestion to move to Pennsylvania has been swirling in my mind.
It feels like admitting defeat, a retreat to a safer, less complicated place.
But even without Sergei and Misha, my life is rooted here—my friends, my memories, everything I know.
A part of me, fueled by newfound resolve, refuses to wave a white flag.
Plus, I still owe Sergei an apology—a real one, not one uttered while being held at gunpoint.
I want him to understand my sincere regret for my actions and that I don’t blame him for wanting nothing to do with me anymore.
But the mere thought of standing in front of him, speaking these words, knowing it’s likely to be our last conversation, lodges a rock in my throat.
Maybe I’m trying to prolong the inevitable.
Because—despite my far-flung redemption fantasies—there’s no scenario in the world where he forgives me. Not after everything.
“Ready to go?” Mom’s voice snaps me back as she strides through the doorway, guiding a wheelchair that rattles softly against the floor.
“Mom, I was shot in the shoulder. I don’t need a wheelchair,” I protest, grabbing my phone with my uninjured hand.
“Trust me,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “I tried telling that to the nurse, but she insisted it was hospital policy. We had words.” She gestures to the chair.
With a sigh, I lower myself into it, feeling smaller than usual.
She wheels me out of the room, and we almost collide with Sergei’s imposing figure.
I lift my eyes, taking in his shiny shoes and the green suit jacket he let me borrow the night I quit Dancing Monk.
Suddenly, I’m grateful for the hospital’s strict bureaucratic procedure because my heart threatens to burst from my chest. It’s been almost two weeks since I last saw him, though it feels like time has stood still, like I’ve been holding my breath ever since.
His shoulders tense as he rubs his hand over his low stubble. “Hello,” he says, and I’m struck by how much I missed his voice.
God. He looks so tired. He must have been drowning beneath it all, the truth about Anton, Alessia’s betrayal, the reopened investigation dragging him back through an old wound. On top of his crushing work schedule and me not being there for Misha.
My fingers twitch involuntarily as if wanting to reach out to him in comfort, but I clutch my hold on the wheelchair handle. When I open my mouth to respond, it goes completely dry.
“Do you know this man, Aurora?” My mom’s question cuts through the tension, and a jolt of anxiety hits me.
I want to say “biblically,” but the weight of the moment fogs my mind. I quickly nod, eyes locked on Sergei.
“Are you the one who shot her?” she asks.
I’ve always admired her no-nonsense approach, but right now, I wish I could shrink away.
“No,” Sergei replies, his gaze shifting from me to my mom.
“So, the other one.” Her tone changes, but I can’t fully identify the emotion behind it.
I’d caught her up on everything that’s been going on these past few months. It felt strange at first—but like a crack in a dam, once I started, I couldn’t stop.
For several long moments, they just stare at each other. Like opponents sizing one another up. Well, more like my mom sizing up Sergei. He doesn’t flinch. He just stands there and lets her assess him.
Apparently, whatever she sees is sufficient for her, because she blows out a sharp exhale and steps in front of the wheelchair. “I’m going to call Grandma now. I’ll see you later?” she asks but doesn’t wait for my response as she’s already heading toward the staircase.
“Mom?” I call out. “Mom!” I say again, but she continues to ignore me. “We are definitely going to talk about this later!” I add, trying to mimic her tone, but it comes out as a frustrated whine.
Sergei steps behind the wheelchair. “I can give you a ride,” he offers, and I think I hear Layla’s scoff in my mind.
I shake my head, shoulders slumping, as my fingers tighten around my phone. What is he doing here? “I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure you’re busy with Misha and work. I can get a rideshare.” Summoning courage, I finally look up at him, trying to hold his gaze.
Sergei’s face is collected and firm, like a perfect statue. “It’s no trouble,” he says and begins pushing the wheelchair toward the elevator.
Did he come to confront me? To talk to me about what happened? To what end? He won’t forgive me for what I’ve done. So did he come to tell me that he hates me? My fear of his answers keeps me silent.
After we exit the hospital, the valet brings the car around. Sergei opens the passenger door, offering his hand to me. I swallow hard before reaching for him. The touch sends a jolt through my body, electric and familiar.
“I hope this is all right?” he asks as he guides me gently into the seat. More gently than I deserve.
I dip my chin, pressing my lips together while tears start to pool in my eyes. He’s being so nice to me. So tender. I don’t deserve this. Not after everything.
He opens his mouth to say something, but at the last second changes his mind. I wish he would tell me how much he hates me, how he can never trust me. Just get it over with—rip off the Band-Aid in one swift motion.
Without another word, Sergei walks to the other side and slides into the driver’s seat before starting the car. We don’t speak, so the drive is enveloped in silence—even the usual traffic hum feels muted, making the quiet almost suffocating.
Thoughts twist my stomach, and I wrap my uninjured arm around myself. My heartbeat pulses insistently, each beat urging me to speak. Talk! It beats. Apologize! Another beat. Say something. Anything! But the words won’t come.
Minutes pass, and I realize I never asked Mom where she’s staying.
“I can text my mom for the name of the hotel. Sorry again for the hassle,” I say.
I still can’t believe she left the way she did.
Here I thought we were making progress toward rebuilding the trust of our relationship and—poof—it eviscerated back to square one.
“I arranged for her to stay at mine,” Sergei replies as he switches lanes.
I do a double take, and the sharp movement sends a jolt of pain through my recovering shoulder.
Noticing my wince, Sergei reaches out, his hand hovering near me, concern flashing across his face. “Do we need to go back?”
I shake my head. He doesn’t seem to be fully convinced, but he continues driving. Why would he have Mom stay at his hotel? Does he feel responsible for Anton’s actions? And now he thinks he needs to take care of me, or my mom?
“How’s Misha?” I ask, needing to focus on something else.
“He’s… well,” Sergei responds.
I want to ask if he already has a new nanny. Does she cut his pancakes into small pieces? Does she know his bedtime routine by heart? Before I get the chance, we pull into the parking lot of his apartment building, and confusion washes over me.
Why is he bringing me here? Is he expecting me to gather my things before heading to the hotel?
I say nothing, hoping to see Misha. I never got the chance to say goodbye, and the thought of never seeing him again, never hugging him again, makes my eyes sting.
As much as I’ll miss Sergei, I’ll miss Misha even more.
He pierced my heart like an arrow, keeping me afloat during the months I lost faith in myself and my abilities.
He motivated me to get back on the path I hope to follow.
No, the path I know I’ll return to.
We ride the elevator in silence. The weight of this moment is paralyzing, as if the air is burdened by our unspoken words. For a fleeting moment, I wish the elevator would get stuck, trapping us until we’re forced to talk.
As my vision blurs from the tears I’m desperately trying to hold back, they start to trickle down my cheeks anyway. I quickly wipe them away, hoping to avoid drawing attention. Sergei remains focused on the elevator doors.
When they open, he steps out, holding his arm across the threshold. I hesitate in the hallway, waiting for him to lead the way. The apartment is quiet, and I’m devastated that Misha isn’t here.
Sergei takes off his shoes and turns to face me, his eyes darting to mine.
I look down at my shoes. “Oh, sorry,” I mumble, bending to take them off.
“Let me,” he offers, kneeling before me.
What is he doing? As he removes my right shoe, I start to lose balance and instinctively grasp his strong shoulders.
A rush of memories floods back—my hands on his back as he moved on top of me.
He looks up, as if he’s remembering the same thing.
Are my nail marks still etched into his skin?
Does his body ache for mine, as mine screams for his?
The vulnerability in his face sends shivers down my spine.
When he helps me into my designated house slippers, he remains on his knees. Why are those still here? Did he simply forget to throw them away? Or maybe…
“Rora…” he whispers, his hands sliding up my legs to rest at my lower back.
The air thickens with unspoken tension hanging heavily as my fingers tangle in his soft hair.
I will myself to speak, to explain everything that has happened, but as I open my mouth, he exhales and rises to his feet, extending his hand to me.
I hesitate for a moment, then place mine in his as he leads me into the guest bedroom.
We stop in front of the room that was mine for the past couple of months. Sergei swings the door open, gesturing for me to enter. The smell hits me first—sharp notes of paint and cleaning supplies mixed with an earthy, musty undertone that reminds me of the library archives.
My old bedroom has transformed from bare decor into something out of an Agatha Christie novel.
The walls are adorned with patterned green wallpaper, delicate pink flowers underlined by rich red and maroon hues.
A large canvas of blueberry muffins arranged in a makeshift bouquet of flowers hangs by the window.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases line the other wall, reminiscent of the majestic library in Sergei’s office.
I step closer, drawn to the timeless magic of the books.
I hesitate before reaching for them, mystery novels staring back at me, their spines worn yet inviting.
Beside the bookcase sits a dark green velvet settee, its beautifully edged wood framing a cozy nook.
And beneath my feet, the rug I would’ve given up blueberry muffins for—soft and plush.
“What do you think?” Sergei breaks the silence.
I turn slowly, still taking in the room. “What is this?” My voice trembles, barely more than a whisper. I notice a bowl of fresh oranges on the small round coffee table by the settee.
“This—this is an Aurora room,” he explains.
Summoning the courage, I meet his gaze.
“I had it redecorated based on the things you like,” he continues, walking toward me. “I wanted you to know that no matter what, you have a place here”—he swallows hard—“a home.”
My heart races, threatening to leap from my chest. I involuntarily step back, trying to make sense of everything. “Wh—why?” My voice quivers. “Why would you do this? I lied to you, I spied on you, I betrayed your trust.”
Sergei shakes his head. “I don’t care about any of that.” He steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “I was so terrified when I saw Anton holding a gun to your head. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. I thought I failed again, that I couldn’t protect you.”
My instinct to comfort him overtakes me, so I reach for his lips with my fingers, hovering near them.
“I don’t know if it was real for you,” he begins, his voice soft yet intense.
“I don’t know about your relationship with Daniel or what…
” He steps even closer, and this time I don’t move.
“But it was real for me, it is real for me.” He wets his lips and reaches for my hand.
“I recently realized that I’ve been walking in shadows, drifting through life, always seeking the path of least resistance…
But then you came into my life during the messiest time, and you felt like a lifeline.
It’s going to sound crazy, but…” He envelops me in his arms, cocooning me in warmth.
“You made me a dad to Misha.” He presses his forehead against mine, and I release a shaky breath.
“You gave me the space, the chance to be a better papa for him, to be who he needs me to be.”
I touch his cheek, and he leans into my hand as my thumb skims his smooth skin.
“I can’t remember what life was before you,” he murmurs, his hands moving to my lower back, running up and down it.
“Rora… I just want you. You are my light, my gravitational pull to the things that matter, to Misha, to home.”
His words hang in the air, filled with raw emotion. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
“I love you, Rora,” he whispers.
My eyes snap open, air catching in my throat. I want to beg him to repeat those words, to ensure the sound of the gunshot didn’t impair my hearing.
“But I betrayed you,” I mutter. “I was working with Daniel, and I gave him information that could hurt you. I thought I only wanted to find the person who took Misha’s mom from him, having always been fascinated with crime, but it was more than that.
I… When he asked for my help, I felt needed.
I felt important, like I could really make a difference.
” I finally let out all the words I had been holding inside.
“By the time I realized what you and I had…” I let out a shaky breath.
“I was in too deep, and I gave Daniel too much... and, and, and…” I think I might be hyperventilating.
“Shhh…” Sergei kisses the top of my head.
“It doesn’t matter. None of that matters.
You are safe, and that’s all I care about.
” His hands cup my face. “I love you,” he says it again, and maybe my hearing is fine after all, because I see him utter the words, I see them on his perfect lips. He said them. He loves me.
“Just a minute,” I manage to say, pushing away from him and rushing into the bathroom before he can react.
He loves me. Sergei loves me. He doesn’t hate me.
He forgives me. Inside, I pull out my phone and open the app I’ve used countless times over the past few months.
My fingers tremble as I type with my non-dominant hand, misspelling simple words and correcting them repeatedly.
I read and reread the message, checking it again and again to ensure it’s right.
Taking a deep breath, I rush back into the room. Sergei is still standing where I left him, shoulders hunched low.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” I say and run into his arms.