Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Katya
Itwisted my wet hair into the towel and glanced at my reflection in the fogged-up bathroom mirror.
The bland brown hair dye felt like a betrayal, erasing the bold, choppy black streaked with colors that used to scream my identity.
Now I just looked… plain. Anonymous. Which was the point, wasn’t it? Blend in, avoid attention, survive.
I tightened the towel and stepped into the main room of my tiny studio apartment.
The bed creaked as I sank onto it, staring at the uninspired pile of clothes laid out before me.
It was a depressing assortment—khakis, button-up shirts in muted pastels, and a navy cardigan.
They were all provided by the UNHCR, and while I was grateful for the practicality and their obvious intent to keep me safe, I couldn’t help but mourn my old wardrobe: leather jackets, ripped jeans, band t-shirts.
Clothes that felt like me. Now I was wearing someone else’s life.
I picked up a pair of beige slacks and held them against me, grimacing. I’d never wear something so boring back in my former life. But then again, my former life had nearly gotten me a permanent home in a gulag, or worse.
Pulling on the slacks and a pale blue blouse, I tried to steady my nerves.
Relief and terror fought a battle in my chest. Tonight, I was leaving this claustrophobic apartment for the first time in days.
Charlotte Tyler, the US Ambassador to the United Nations, had invited me to meet her at a jazz bar.
The Village Vanguard, a place I’d heard of even in Russia but never imagined visiting under these circumstances.
I looked out the grimy window at the darkening sky.
The thought of stepping outside made my stomach twist. What if someone recognized me?
What if Russian agents were lying in wait?
I could imagine the scenarios all too clearly.
A black car pulling up to the curb just as I stepped inside the bar.
A cloth over my mouth, the world going dark.
Or maybe a stranger in the crowd slipping a blade between my ribs.
I shook my head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they clung to me. What if photographers were waiting to plaster my image on the internet? Would they figure out where I lived? Would the people who wanted me dead find me?
The knock at the door jolted me. My heart pounded as I crept toward the peephole. Relief washed over me when I saw the familiar face of one of my handlers. I unlocked the door, opening it just a crack.
“It’s me,” she said. Her name was Sara—mid-thirties, with short blond hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. “Are you ready?”
I opened the door wider, and she blinked, clearly startled by my appearance. “You… look different,” she said, taking in the dull brown hair and boring clothes.
“That’s the idea,” I replied with a tight smile.
She gave a quick nod. “It’s good. You’ll blend right in.”
“I hate it.”
Her expression softened. “I get that. But you’ll be safe. There are three of us escorting you tonight. You’ll have eyes on you the entire time.”
“Why am I not meeting her at the UN?” I asked, folding my arms. “Wouldn’t that be safer?”
Sara shook her head. “The ambassador insisted on somewhere discreet. There are reporters swarming the UN every day, and if you showed up there, it would be a circus. A jazz club is an excellent solution. Low-key, and it’ll be nice to hear some music, right?”
I let out a sigh. “I guess.”
She gestured toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get going. The others are waiting downstairs.”
I sat in the backseat of the SUV, staring out the window as the lights of New York blurred past. The city was everything and nothing like I’d imagined.
The street outside the jazz club was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling chaos I’d seen out the apartment windows.
It should have felt like a relief, but instead, it left a hollow ache in my chest.
Homesickness.
I hadn’t expected it to hit like this. Russia had been a cage, oppressive and dangerous, but it had been my cage.
Here in New York, the fear and uncertainty clung to me just as tightly as they had back home.
Maybe tighter. At least back there, I’d known who my enemies were.
Now, even the people meant to protect me felt like shadows, always watching, always judging.
My handlers weren’t so different from the Russian agents who used to follow my every move. They just had different motives.
The SUV slowed, and Sara turned in her seat to glance back at me. “We’re here,” she said. The driver parked along the curb, and one of the other handlers, a burly man named Eric, opened my door.
“Stay close,” he said in a low voice.
I stepped out, pulling my coat tighter around me as I looked at the exterior of The Village Vanguard. The neon sign hummed faintly, casting a red glow on the damp pavement. The quiet street felt exposed, and I hurried toward the door, flanked by my handlers.
Inside, the club was dim and intimate, the air warm with the faint scent of aged wood and something bittersweet, like whiskey.
Small, round tables dotted the room, lit by low, flickering candles.
The stage at the far end was empty, but instruments were set up: a piano, a double bass, a drum kit.
It felt familiar, almost like the clubs I used to frequent back home.
Music was music, no matter the country. It was the universal language, the only thing that could cut through borders and barriers.
“The ambassador is in the back,” Sara whispered, nodding toward a table tucked into the far corner of the room. My eyes followed her gaze, and I saw a figure seated there, poised but relaxed, her sharp silhouette outlined by the dim light.
“Are you coming with me?” I asked, my voice low.
Sara shook her head. “We’ll stay close. Just a few feet away, in case you need us.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the warm air. “Okay.”
Taking a deep breath, I started across the room.
The low hum of conversation dulled as I neared her table.
When our eyes met—bright blue and unyielding—a flicker of something passed between us, sharp and electric.
She stood, her movements deliberate, as though the room itself moved in time with her.
“Ms. Romanova,” she said, her voice rich, steady, and impossibly smooth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Ambassador Tyler,” I replied, sliding my hand into hers. Her grip was firm, her palm warm, rough with calluses that didn’t fit the perfect veneer of her polished exterior.
“Please, sit.” She gestured to the chair opposite her.
I sank into the seat, conscious of her gaze lingering just a second too long.
My heart raced—a mixture of nerves and something else I wasn’t ready to name.
I smoothed my slacks and met her eyes, steady but curious.
Despite the distance this moment required, there was a pull, subtle but undeniable, that made me feel both exposed and strangely steady under her scrutiny.
She studied me, her expression thoughtful yet unreadable. Her posture was flawless, every motion deliberate. There was an elegance about her, but it wasn’t just polish—it was precision. Confidence. She radiated a quiet power that felt both intimidating and alluring.
“So, Ms. Romanova,” she began, folding her hands neatly on the table. Her voice softened, carrying a note of curiosity that bordered on intimate. “Now that you’re here in the States, what are your hopes? Your dreams?”
I hesitated, the weight of her question pressing down on me. Hopes? Dreams? Her gaze didn’t waver, as if she could see straight through my silence. It unnerved me.
“For now, I just want freedom,” I mumbled, my voice steady but low. “I want to stop looking over my shoulder every time I leave the apartment. That would be enough.”
Her blue eyes softened, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s understandable. But I hope you’ll allow yourself to dream bigger in time.”
The corner of my mouth lifted at her optimism. “We’ll see.” My eyes flickered to her hands resting on the table. Strong, capable hands—hands that didn’t belong to a mere diplomat. Without thinking, I asked, “Ambassador, you’re very sophisticated. Why are your hands calloused?”
Her lips curved into a grin, and for a moment, the sharpness in her gaze gave way to something lighter. “Please, call me Charlotte.”
“Charlotte,” I repeated, testing the intimacy of her name. It felt strange on my tongue—too personal, too close—but the way she said it made it impossible to resist.
Her grin deepened as she leaned back slightly.
“I grew up on a plantation in Virginia called Sherwood Forest. My family kept horses, and I spent a lot of time riding and working in the stables. Later, in school, I played field hockey at St. Catherine’s in Richmond.
It’s a private girls’ school. Very proper. ”
“Field hockey?” I raised an eyebrow, curious.
“It’s a sport,” she explained. “Played on a field with a ball and curved sticks. Fast-paced. You can’t play without getting a few blisters. Or worse.”
I imagined her younger, fierce and determined, charging across a field with the same grace she carried now. The image caught me off guard—a sudden intimacy that felt almost indecent. I cleared my throat, pushing the thought aside.
“What was it like growing up in your famous family? The Tylers?”
She blinked, momentarily thrown. A flicker of vulnerability crossed her face before she regained her composure. “I’m surprised you know of my family. What was it like growing up a Romanov?”
The question hit harder than I expected.
“I’m sure it was nothing like growing up a Tyler,” I said, sharper than intended.
“My family told no one about our lineage. For generations, we kept it secret. When the USSR collapsed, there was a brief moment of hope. Then Putin came to power, and everything reverted back to the murky darkness we were used to.”
Charlotte nodded slowly. “That’s a heavy burden to carry,” she breathed.
“It is,” I admitted, and for a moment, the weight of her gaze felt almost comforting, like a hand brushing against mine.
A server interrupted, and the moment shattered, though the tension lingered. When I ordered Polugar vodka, her head tilted slightly, her interest as undeniable as the way her lips parted—barely noticeable, but enough to make my pulse quicken.
“Polugar?” she asked, her voice lighter now.
“It’s nothing fancy,” I admitted, leaning back in my chair. “But it tastes like home.”
Her smile widened, and for the first time, I saw a crack in her polished facade—a flicker of something raw, something real. The air between us shifted, warmer now, alive with an undercurrent I couldn’t name but didn’t want to escape.
She seemed to notice my lingering gaze. “What is it?” she asked, her voice steady, yet there was a hint of curiosity beneath it.
I hesitated, then blurted out the question that had been circling my mind about her, and perhaps myself, too. “Do you ever regret it? The choices you’ve made to get where you are today?”
Charlotte tilted her head, considering the question. Her blue eyes—so sharp, so striking—softened as they met mine. For a moment, I could see past the polished diplomat, past the poised ambassador, to the woman underneath.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve learned that regret doesn’t change the past. It only holds you back from the future.”
Her honesty took me by surprise. It wasn’t the answer I expected from someone like her—someone so polished, so sure of herself. And yet, in that moment, I realized she wasn’t untouchable after all. She was human, just like me.
“What about you?” she asked, her gaze unwavering. “Do you regret being a Romanov?”
I hesitated, the question cutting deeper than I expected. “I regret what it’s cost me,” I said finally. “But I can’t regret who I am. Even if it’s complicated.”
A flicker of understanding crossed her face, and she leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table.
“You’re stronger than you realize, Katya,” she breathed, and the way she said my name sent a shiver down my spine.
Before I could respond, the server returned with my drink. He set the glass down in front of me with a flourish, then disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.
“To strength,” I said, raising my glass in a toast.
Charlotte’s lips curved into a faint smile, and she lifted her own glass. “To freedom,” she countered.
Our glasses clinked softly, the sound a quiet promise between us. I took a sip, the sharp bite of the vodka familiar and strangely comforting.
Charlotte watched me, her gaze lingering. “Do you miss it?” she asked.
“Miss what?”
“Home.”
Did I miss Russia? The place that had shaped me but also tried to destroy me? I wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Parts of it,” I said eventually. “I’ll admit to being a little homesick, but not enough to go back.”
She nodded, as if she understood. And maybe she did. I studied her as she gazed out at the room, her profile illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. There was a quiet strength in her, a resilience that intrigued me.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, breaking the silence.
She turned to me, her expression unreadable. “I’m thinking that you’re not what I expected.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And what did you expect?”
“Someone… colder,” she admitted. “Harsher. But you’re not. There’s a fire in you, yes, but there’s warmth too. And vulnerability.”
Her words caught me off guard, and I felt a faint blush rise to my cheeks. I wasn’t used to being seen so clearly, so completely.
“You’re not what I expected either, Charlotte.”