40. Aurora
40
AURORA
THREE WEEKS LATER
The sunlight warms my skin as I sit in the garden in a pair of Loro Piana shorts and a matching blouse, watching Ruslan pour imaginary tea into tiny china cups. Stella giggles when he pretends to burn his finger on the "hot" teapot, shaking his hand dramatically while keeping his face comically serious.
"Uncle Ruslan! It's not real hot! It's just pretend!" Sofia protests, her gap-toothed smile widening as she pushes a plate of plastic cookies toward him.
"Not real hot? Then why is my finger melting off?" He wiggles his fingers in front of her face, making her shriek with laughter.
My chest tightens watching him. This hulking, dangerous man who commands an army of criminals, who has killed men with those same hands, is now delicately balancing a tiny teacup on his finger to make his nieces laugh.
Three weeks.
Three weeks since Sienna Voss's post. Three weeks since the entire world could have learned that Aurora Castellanos was once Jamie Fields. Three weeks of checking every shadow, startling at every sound.
Three weeks of nothing.
Could I possibly be this lucky? Could Kristofer simply not have seen it?
The strange limbo of waiting for a disaster that never arrives has left me perpetually off-balance. Each day that passes without Kristofer appearing on our doorstep feels like both a blessing and a cruel extension of my anxiety.
I'm so lost in thought I don't notice Mikayla until she sits beside me on the garden bench, her serious eyes watching the tea party unfold.
"He used to be the same with me," she says quietly. "Before I learned about the requirements of this world."
I turn to her, noting how her hands rest perfectly folded in her lap, the rigid posture she maintains even while relaxing.
"What happened?" I ask.
"I grew up." Mikayla shrugs. "And father decided it was time I understood what being a Dragunov meant."
She watches her sisters with something like envy in her eyes. I follow her gaze back to Ruslan, who's now letting Sofia place a ridiculous floral crown on his head. My heart swells at the sight.
"I wanted to ask you about that post," Mikayla says suddenly, her voice dropping lower. "The one from Sienna Voss."
My muscles lock tight.
"What about it?" I manage to keep my voice steady, though my pulse races beneath my skin.
Mikayla's eyes remain fixed on her sisters and Ruslan. "My mother knew about Sienna Voss long before that night at your club."
"How?" The word comes out sharper than I intended.
"Mother likes to keep tabs on Uncle Ruslan." Mikayla picks at an invisible thread on her skirt. "When he was seeing Sienna, Mother had people watching them both. It gave her... information."
The casual way she says this sends chills through me. Teenage girls should be gossiping about celebrity crushes, not discussing their mother stalking celebrity rivals.
"At first, she was just interested because it was an easy way to watch Uncle Ruslan from a distance," Mikayla continues. "But after that first post of you appeared, she became obsessed."
My mouth goes dry. "What do you mean, 'obsessed'?"
"She had Sienna come to our house. Right after Father and Mikhail were killed." Mikayla finally turns to look at me, her eyes too old for her face. "Spent hours with her alone. Talking about Uncle Ruslan. Trying to find out about you."
My God… Tamara had been looking into me this entire time?
Before I can say anything, Daria hurries toward us, her usually composed face tight with worry. She has something in her hand.
A small box.
"Aurora," she says. "This is for you."
I stare at the small box in Daria's hands, a sudden chill creeping up my spine despite the warm afternoon sun.
"What is this?" My voice sounds thin, distant even to my own ears.
"A delivery." Daria's expression remains carefully neutral, but I catch the tension around her eyes when her voice lowers to a whisper. "Addressed to Jamie Fields."
My stomach plummets.
Not Aurora Dragunov.
Jamie Fields.
"Who brought this?" I whisper, unable to take the package from her hands.
"One of the security guards found it at the gate. No messenger, no delivery person." Daria hesitates. "Do you want me to call Ruslan?"
I glance toward the tea party, where Ruslan is still making Sofia and Stella laugh. Mikayla watches us now, her intuition picking up on the tension.
"No," I decide. "Let him have this moment with them."
With trembling fingers, I take the box. It's plain brown cardboard, wrapped in twine, with "Jamie Fields" scrawled across the top in familiar handwriting.
Handwriting I hoped I'd never see again.
I untie the twine and lift the lid, my pulse thundering in my ears.
Inside sits a tiny ornate music box. The polished walnut surface gleams beneath the sun. I recognize it instantly. It's an exact replica of one my mother kept on her dresser.
I turn it over and see a message with the same handwriting: TO MY BEAUTIFUL JAMIE.
"What is that?" Mikayla appears at my side, peering into the box.
"A message," I manage, my throat constricting. I reach for it but stop when I see what lies beneath.
A pair of silver handcuffs. Hanging from the chain between them are tiny charm letters spelling out "RUSLAN."
My vision tunnels, and for a moment I think I might faint. Kristofer knows. He knows about Ruslan. He's been watching us.
"There's more," Mikayla says, reaching in.
"Don't!" I start, but she's already pulled out the envelope at the bottom.
Photographs spill into my lap. My hands shake so badly I can barely hold them. The first shows Stella skipping down the garden path, her face bright with laughter. The second captures Sofia asleep in the library, curled up with a book. The third is Mikayla standing at her bedroom window, gazing out.
Each bears a date written on the back. Yesterday. The day before. Last week.
Mikayla's face drains of color as she sees herself in the photos.
"These are from the security cameras." She points to the security camera mounted on the corner of the mansion, then to the angle of the photo. "Someone must've tampered with them. Or hacked them from the inside."
I stare at the photographs scattered across my lap, my throat constricting until I can barely breathe. The music box, the handcuffs with Ruslan's name.
All of it screams Kristofer.
He's not just watching from a distance anymore.
He's already here.
The thought that he's been watching us through our own security cameras is sickening.
What else has he seen? Has he been watching us in my most intimate moments with Ruslan? Has he seen us making love, whispering secrets, sharing our darkest fears?
My skin crawls with invisible insects. I feel violated down to my bones, as if Kristofer has somehow reached through time and space to place his hands on me again.
"Mikayla," I manage, shoving the photos back into the box. "I need you to go play with your sisters. Keep them occupied."
She studies my face. "Are you alright?"
"No." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "But I need you to keep your sisters distracted while I talk to Ruslan."
Mikayla nods, her posture straightening as she accepts her mission. She walks over to the tea party, bends down to whisper something in Ruslan's ear, then smoothly takes his place.
Ruslan's eyes immediately seek me out, concern darkening his expression as he approaches. He's beside me in seconds, all traces of playfulness gone, replaced by the alert vigilance of the pakhan.
"What's wrong?" His voice is low, steady.
I wordlessly hand him the box, watching as he examines each item: the music box identical to my mother's, the handcuffs with his name, and finally, the photos of his nieces.
"He's inside our system," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Kristofer is watching us through our own cameras."
Ruslan's face hardens into something terrifying, but his touch remains gentle as he takes my trembling hands.
"Is he—" I can't finish the question, but Ruslan understands.
"I'll call Artyom," he promises, his thumb stroking my wrist. "Do a full security sweep."
I glance at Stella and Sofia still playing with their tea set, their faces bright with innocent joy, unaware of the darkness creeping around us.
"Not here," I whisper to Ruslan, clutching the box to my chest. "Not in front of them."
Ruslan nods, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. "Okay."
We walk toward the mansion, and I can't stop myself from looking up at the security camera mounted near the doorway. That small black lens that once represented safety now feels like Kristofer's eye watching my every move. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself.
Once the heavy wooden door closes behind us, Ruslan pulls out his phone.
"How could this happen?" My voice trembles. "You said this place was secure."
"It was." Ruslan rakes a hand through his hair. "But I don't know how the full security software works."
"Or they hacked in remotely," I suggest, placing the box on the side table as Ruslan starts talking to Artyom in Russian.
A few seconds later, Ruslan pockets his phone and turns to me. "Artyom's on his way. Five minutes."
I take out the music box again, running my fingers over the polished surface.
"It has to be Kristofer. This looks exactly like my mother's. Down to the chip in the corner." I turn it over, showing him. "See?"
"Or it's someone who wants us to think it's Kristofer," Ruslan counters, his voice measured. "Someone trying to get you to panic. Someone who has something to gain by you panicking."
"You think Tamara is behind this?"
"I think it's possible she had someone interfere with the security software when she interrupted the wedding. We were distracted that night."
Heat rushes to my face remembering how I ran and hid, how he came to find me, and how his hands calmed me as we made love on the floor of that room atop my wedding dress.
"But the music box," I interrupt my own thoughts. "How could Tamara know about that? No one knows about my mother's music box except Kristofer."
Ruslan's expression darkens. "If Tamara learned your real name, she could have hired someone to dig into your past."
I shake my head. "No. This feels like him. The handwriting on the box. The handcuffs with your name..." I shudder. "I know it's him. I can feel it in my bones."
The front door opens, and Artyom strides in, laptop case in hand. His eyes dart between us.
"What's happened?"
Ruslan gestures to the box. "Someone's compromised our security cameras. I need you to find out how, and when."
Artyom's expression hardens as he examines the photos. "I'll check for any unauthorized access to our system. Backdoors, remote login attempts."
"Check on the day of the wedding," Ruslan adds. "It's the most likely time they could've done this."
I watch Artyom's fingers fly across the keyboard, his brows furrowing deeper with each passing minute. My stomach feels like a block of ice, heavy and cold. Ruslan paces behind us, his footsteps growing increasingly agitated.
"Well, fuck me," Artyom swears suddenly, his fingers freezing over the keyboard.
"What is it?" Ruslan stops pacing, his voice sharp.
"See this?" Artyom turns the laptop toward us. "Someone installed a backdoor into the security system. They've been siphoning the feed for weeks right under our noses and passing it through a third-party gate."
The technical jargon means little to me, but I understand enough. I try to swallow but my mouth is bone dry.
"When?" Ruslan demands, leaning over to examine the screen.
"Like you said. Since the day of the wedding." Artyom points to a timestamp. "Someone must've gained access to the system."
Ruslan's jaw tightens. "How?"
"It's quite clever actually." Artyom scrolls through lines of code I can't begin to comprehend. "They piggybacked off a connection already on the Wi-Fi network to inject a script that bypasses our authentication protocols. Once inside, they used the same path to duplicate the camera feed to transmits it without tripping any alarms. I'd be impressed if I wasn't so fucking furious."
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling suddenly cold despite the warm day. "Can you find out who's doing the transmission?"
"Working on it," Artyom says, his fingers working again. "But whoever did this is fucking clever. It bounces the feed off multiple MAC addresses. I'm tracing it now."
The silence stretches as we wait, broken only by the clicking of Artyom's keyboard. But I can't help my mind turning towards scenarios that get darker with each thought. Kristofer watching me sleep. Kristofer watching me with Ruslan. Kristofer watching the children as he contemplates writing those awful words on the walls of the mansion.
Look what you made me do .
"Found it," Artyom announces, his voice oddly tight. He turns to Ruslan with an expression I can't read.
"Who?" Ruslan's voice drops dangerously low.
Artyom nods, turning the screen for us to see as he takes a trembling breath. "It's Mikayla."
"No, that can't be right," I say, my voice barely audible as I stare at the screen. "Mikayla wouldn't do this. Not to Ruslan."
"Run it again," Ruslan demands, his knuckles whitening as he grips the edge of the desk.
Artyom's fingers fly across the keyboard again, pulling up screen after screen of logs and code.
"It's not a mistake." He points to a series of numbers on the screen. "That's Mikayla's phone. The intrusion originated from there. And the external transfer routes through there as well. I can run this again, but it's going to tell you the same result."
I watch the transformation happen on Ruslan's face—disbelief morphing into rage, his golden eyes darkening to amber. The muscle in his jaw ticks rapidly.
"Ruslan," I reach for his arm, my fingers curling around his tense forearm. "Think about it—Mikayla is fifteen. How would she know how to hack a security system this complex?"
"She wouldn't need to," Artyom interjects. "If someone sent her a link, or even a QR code… She could've done it without realizing what it was."
"I need to talk to her," Ruslan says flatly. "Find out for sure."
"How would she be able to tell you?" I argue, stepping closer to him. "She might have no idea about any of this."
Ruslan shakes his head, his voice cold in a way I've never heard before. "It doesn't matter if she knew. Her phone has been compromising our security for weeks."
"But—"
"Artyom," Ruslan cuts me off. "Bring my nieces inside. Have guards take Stella and Sofia to their rooms and keep them there. I want to speak with Mikayla. Alone."
Artyom nods and disappears through the door, leaving me alone with a man who suddenly feels like a stranger.
"Ruslan, please," I plead. "Don't treat her like a criminal before we know?—"
"We know enough."
His eyes meet mine, and the hardness there makes me recoil. It's not my Ruslan looking back at me—it's the pakhan.
"If Mikayla is innocent, she needs to prove it."
"To whom does she need to prove her innocence?" I ask, my voice rising. "Her uncle? Or her pakhan?"
And right now, I'm not sure which one I'm talking to.
"It needs to be done, Aurora." His voice is measured, controlled—the voice he uses when speaking to his men. "Someone has compromised our security. Someone has endangered not just us, but my nieces."
I step closer, refusing to back down. "She's a child, Ruslan."
"This is for their own good." His eyes harden further. "I'm trying to protect everyone. From themselves if necessary. I don't want to do this, but I have to."
Those words make me back away from Ruslan, my heart thundering against my ribs.
"You sound just like him." I continue, my voice shaking. "Just like what he told me when he wrote those awful words on the wall in my parents' blood."
Look what you made me do.
The freedom I thought I'd found in Ruslan's arms suddenly feels like another kind of trap. His desire to protect has transformed into control.
And in the process, it has become another cage.
"Aurora, I?—"
"I won't let you interrogate her like she did something wrong," I don't give him the chance to justify himself. "She deserves better than that."
Ruslan's expression doesn't change as he reaches for me. Before I can step away, his arm circles my waist, grip firm but not painful.
"This isn't open for discussion," he says, walking me toward the door.
I twist in his grasp. "Take your hands off me?—"
The door opens, and Artyom appears with Mikayla beside him. Her eyes are wide, frightened.
"Uncle Ruslan?" she whispers, voice small.
"Inside," Ruslan orders Mikayla as he points to his office, his tone brooking no argument.
Mikayla's eyes find mine, fear written across her face. My heart breaks seeing her so scared. I reach for her hand, but Ruslan steps between us.
"It's okay," I try to reassure her. "Just tell him the truth."
Mikayla nods once, her face pale as she walks into the office.
"Artyom." Ruslan points at me, his voice hard as steel. "She stays outside. Eto moi prikaz. "
Then, the heavy door closes behind them with a final-sounding thud.
Artyom crosses his arms over his chest, positioning himself squarely in front of the door. His expression is apologetic but resolute.
"Move," I demand.
"No," he says softly.
I glare at him, then at the closed door, tears of frustration burning in my eyes. The man I thought was different from other monsters is showing his true colors after all.
And there's nothing I can do.