17. Ruslan
17
RUSLAN
I stare at the computer screen, fingers tapping against my desk as Aurora pinches her brow in concentration. The Google Maps streetview of her childhood home looks nothing like the memories she's conveying to me.
"It was a light blue," she insists, leaning closer to point at the siding. "With white trim around the windows, not black. And there used to be old gutters by this window here."
Her shoulder presses against mine, warm and solid. I take in the coconut scent of her hair, resisting the urge to bury my face in it. I jot down the details as she says them, taking in everything. From the layout of her childhood bedroom, to the faded floral wallpaper in the dining room, and down to the way the third stair from the bottom always creaked.
"We'll make sure the production designers get it right," I promise, watching her face carefully.
But something's off. I can tell.
Her eyes keep darting away, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. I've seen this behavior enough to recognize when she's holding something back.
"What's bothering you, zarechka ?" I take her hand, feeling the coolness of her skin against my palm.
She sighs, shoulders slumping forward. "Sienna Voss showed up at the auditions today."
I immediately tense, my jaw clenching. "What did she want?"
"To apologize." Aurora turns to face me fully. "She told me that Tamara threatened her life, and forced her to post about me."
"Do you believe that?" The words come out sharper than intended.
That woman's post nearly cost us everything.
"Whether I believe it or not doesn't matter." Her hazel eyes search mine. "I told her that her apology doesn't absolve her guilt. That words can't erase what Kristofer did to me because she exposed me."
I squeeze her hand gently. "Good. She doesn't deserve absolution."
Aurora's gaze drops to our joined hands. "But I can't stop feeling like I did something wrong. The way she ran out crying..." She trails off, chewing her bottom lip. "I showed her these." Her fingers trace the fading bruise on her face, then the bite mark on her shoulder. "I told her I was pregnant when Kristofer took me."
"All you did was tell her the truth," I say firmly. "Sienna needs to understand that actions have consequences. Let her cry. Her tears don't compare to what you suffered."
Aurora nods, but the troubled look doesn't leave her eyes. "It just felt... cruel. In a way I'm not sure I want to be."
I pull Aurora into my arms, feeling her warmth against my chest as I breathe in the coconut scent of her hair.
" Zarechka ," I murmur, running my palm down her back in slow circles. "You were forced to deal in a world that has done nothing but be cruel to you. What choice did you have?"
Aurora's fingers curl into my shirt. "Mikayla told me something once. That to survive in this world, I have to become a monster willing to do monstrous things." Her voice trembles. "Is this one of those monstrous things? Refusing to absolve Sienna of her guilt?"
Something clicks into place, a realization that's been gnawing at the back of my head ever since I first met her in that alleyway.
Aurora has never had a chance to advocate for herself.
Seven years in hiding, constantly looking over her shoulder, erasing every trace of who she was. All that time, she never once demanded justice. Never sought retribution.
Never even allowed herself the dignity of her own name.
Jamie Fields became a ghost, and Aurora Castellanos learned to make herself invisible.
It's why she let Tamara intimidate her at our wedding. Why she feels guilt at feeling anger at the woman who helped Kristofer find her. Why she is so concerned with others before she can even contemplate concern for herself.
She has spent so long trying to disappear that she's forgotten how to take up space in this world.
I've always sensed this about her—this hesitancy, this deference—but seeing her struggle with guilt over simply telling Sienna the truth makes it painfully clear.
Where I was raised to demand what is mine, to command respect through fear if necessary, Aurora was forced by terror to shrink, to accommodate, and to survive through invisibility.
"Tamara threatening to kill Sienna in order to expose you for Kristofer to find? That's a monstrous thing." I tilt her chin up, meeting those haunted hazel eyes. "Semyon trying to kill me and potentially even my nieces? That's a monstrous thing. Gregor sanctioning the death of my brother and nephew in exchange of peace with the Triads? That's a monstrous thing."
I trace the fading bruise on her cheek with my thumb. "Accepting the apologies of a woman who wronged you without absolving her of guilt? That's not monstrous, Aurora. That's human. It's well within your right."
She nods, but I can see in the tightness around her mouth that something else is bothering her. The way her eyes won't quite meet mine. The slight tension in her shoulders that even my touch can't soothe away.
"But that's not what's really bothering you, is it?" I ask softly. "What is it, zarechka ? Tell me."
Aurora takes a deep, shaky breath. Her hands press instinctively against her stomach where our child grows.
I watch Aurora's face carefully as she takes a deep breath, her fingers still fidgeting with her shirt hem.
"I couldn't do it," she finally admits. "The casting. I just couldn't go through with it."
"Why not?" I ask gently, keeping my voice low and steady.
"Because I couldn't bear the thought of someone else playing my Mom." Her voice cracks on the word 'Mom,' and something inside my chest aches at the sound. "Hannah suggested that I play her myself, but..."
"But what, zarechka ?"
Her eyes finally meet mine, wide and vulnerable. "I'm scared, Ruslan. It means I'd have to step onto that set we're creating and essentially relive the worst day of my life." She takes a shuddering breath. "I have no idea how I'll react seeing all the details of my childhood home brought back to life. Both when it was filled with happy memories and when it became a nightmare that still haunts me."
I nod slowly, understanding washing over me. This isn't just about making a documentary anymore. This is about confronting her trauma head-on, to walk back into the scene of her family's murder.
"Even now," she continues, voice barely above a whisper, "just going over these details of the house is more triggering than I thought it would be."
I brush a strand of hair away from Aurora's face and tuck it behind her ear.
"Do you remember what you told me in that alleyway when we first met?" I ask. "About how the hero has to empower her to face it head-on?"
I take both her hands in mine, feeling the delicate strength in her fingers.
"Let me do that for you, Aurora."
Her eyes search mine, vulnerable yet resolute.
"Playing your mother in this documentary is your chance to reclaim your story from Kristofer." I squeeze her hands gently. "No matter what happens when you step onto that set, I'll be right there beside you. Every moment. You won't face this alone."
She looks away, blinking fiercely. When she turns back, I expect there to be tears, but I see something different.
A spark of determination pushing through the fear.
"Okay," she whispers, nodding slowly. "I can do this."
"Should we take a break?" I offer, concerned about pushing her too far, too fast. "We've been at this for hours."
Aurora shakes her head firmly. "We can rest later. We need to get the set built as soon as possible. Tamara, Semyon, and Kristofer won't be resting, so neither should we."
She turns back to the computer screen, and squares her shoulders.
"The kitchen had these outdated appliances from the nineties. Mom always hated them, but Dad said they worked fine so why replace them."
I watch her with love swelling in my chest, marveling at her quiet strength. Most people see only her vulnerability, her fear. They don't see the steel beneath her softness.
"The counter space should always be cluttered," she continues, her voice steadying. "Mom kept a ceramic rooster cookie jar on the left side, right by the stove."
I jot down every detail Aurora shares, making note of the ceramic rooster cookie jar in particular. The image seems to calm her, bringing back a gentler memory before the horror.
"This is all great, zarechka ," I tell her, tapping my pen against the notepad. "Do you think we can actually find some of these items? Any specific brands or details the props department might be able to source?"
Aurora closes her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment, she's somewhere else entirely—back in that Kansas City home before everything fell apart.
"I can picture it all so clearly," she says, eyes still closed. "The rooster cookie jar was from a shop in downtown Kansas City. I could sketch it. The wallpaper pattern in the dining room had these specific roses with tiny blue forget-me-nots between them." Her eyes flutter open, and I see a flash of confidence I haven't seen before. "Give me a few days. I can find these things."
A small smile tugs at her lips, the first one I've seen since we started this painful excavation of her past.
"Remember, I actually know what I'm doing when it comes to props," she says, playfully nudging my shoulder. "It was literally my job before all this."
I smile back at her, grateful for this moment of lightness.
"I haven't forgotten."
My relief is short-lived. Aurora's expression shifts as she realizes what we need to discuss next.
The set on the night of the murders.
I reach for her hand. "We can stop if you need to."
"No." She shakes her head firmly. "I need to do this."
Aurora's eyes close briefly, and I watch her gather herself, shoulders squared, and jaw set in determination. When she opens her eyes again, they're clear but haunted.
"When I came home that night," she says, her voice suddenly hollow, "the front door was slightly ajar. I remember thinking it was strange because Dad was always telling us to close the door."
She swallows hard, her fingers tightening around mine.
Then, her finger draws an invisible line across the living room on the floor plan of the house, hand trembling.
"And that's where..." she says, her voice hollow. "That was where he wrote it. It was the first thing I'd see when I walk in."
I know what she's talking about.
The message written in her family's blood.
Look what you made me do.
I notice Aurora's breathing change, growing shallow and rapid. Her pupils dilate, and her hand starts shaking.
She's crossing into dangerous territory now, mentally walking back into that house where her entire life was destroyed.
" Zarechka ," I say softly, closing my hand over hers. "That's enough for today."
"No," she protests, but her voice sounds distant, detached. "I can keep going. We need to finish?—"
"You need to rest," I insist, gently closing the laptop.
She opens her mouth to argue, but I can see she's struggling to maintain composure. Her chest rises and falls too quickly, and a light sheen of sweat has broken out across her forehead.
"I'll have Artyom pull images from the crime scene files," I tell her, the idea coming to me naturally. "We can create an accurate recreation without you having to relive every moment."
This is precisely what I've been trying to avoid: Aurora forced to mentally return to that blood-soaked house, to walk through rooms where Kristofer butchered her family. I promised to protect her, and that means sometimes protecting her from herself.
"But—"
"Aurora." I take her face in my hands, forcing her to focus on me instead of the horrors replaying in her mind. "You've done more than enough today. You've done so well."
I run my thumbs across her cheeks, feeling her begin to calm under my touch. Her breathing slowly evens out.
"Let me do this part for you," I murmur. "Trust me."
She searches my eyes for a long moment, and then nods slowly.
"Okay," she whispers.
Relief washes through me. I stand and offer her my hand, which she takes without hesitation.
I lead her out of the office, fingers intertwined with hers, and escort her up the stairs toward our bedroom.