Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Katya
Isat up in bed, my back pressed against the cool wall, strumming different chords on my new guitar.
The light filtering through the curtains cast a warm glow on the notebook lying beside me, its pages scattered with half-finished lyrics.
Writing songs in English for the first time felt like fumbling through an unfamiliar dance—awkward but thrilling.
I prayed I wasn’t screwing it up too badly.
My voice was soft as I sang a stanza aloud, letting the words take shape.
“No chains to bind, no walls confine, a love that dares to cross the line. In freedom’s breath, my heart takes flight, To hold and be held in the open light.”
I paused, fingers still on the strings. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt raw and true. I scribbled a note in the margin to revisit the second line when there was a sharp knock at the door.
My heart leapt, the guitar slipping to my side. I stood and crossed the room quickly, my bare feet silent on the floor. Peering through the peephole, I saw a man in a black suit. My pulse quickened—I didn’t recognize him. Panic crept in as I pressed my forehead against the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
The man held up an ID card against the peephole. “John Prescott, UNHCR. I’m here to update you on your case.”
Relief washed over me, loosening the tight coil in my chest. I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, just enough to see his face clearly. He was tall and nondescript, with a face you wouldn’t remember in a crowd—a detail I found oddly comforting.
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside.
John entered, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He handed me a small folder, but I didn’t open it yet. His expression was serious, a practiced neutrality that made me uneasy.
“They reassigned your former handler, Sara,” he began, folding his hands in front of him. “Your security detail has already been reduced, and over the next few weeks, it will probably shrink to nothing unless there’s an imminent threat.”
I swallowed hard, then sighed. I’d grown used to the quiet presence of people watching my back, ensuring I stayed safe. The idea of being without them felt like standing on a ledge with no safety net.
“Why?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Standard protocol,” he said. “We believe the immediate risk has diminished, and we’re reallocating resources to higher-priority cases.”
I nodded slowly, trying to mask my anxiety. It wasn’t just the loss of security that unsettled me; it was the reminder that I couldn’t stay hidden forever. If I was serious about working with Amnesty International, about using my voice to fight for change, I had to step into the world without fear.
“Understood,” I said finally, more to myself than to him.
John gave a small nod and glanced at his watch. “The UN ambassador has requested to meet with you this evening,” he said. “There’s a concert at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art. Seven o’clock. Do you accept the invitation?”
I blinked, surprised. “The UN ambassador?”
He nodded. “Charlotte Tyler.”
A smile tugged at my lips, a warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of seeing her again.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
John turned to leave, but I stopped him at the door. “Wait,” I said, my tone suddenly lighter. “Do you know where I can find a decent second-hand clothing store?”
The sun was bright overhead as I walked through the crowded streets with John.
His black suit and tie made him stick out like a sore thumb amidst the colorful murals and effortlessly stylish locals.
I almost laughed at how robotic he looked, like a caricature of a secret agent dropped into the wrong movie.
Still, I found his stiff demeanor oddly endearing.
“Are you always this serious?” I asked, glancing at him as we navigated around a street vendor selling vintage sunglasses.
“It’s my job to be serious,” he replied without missing a beat.
I smirked. “You’re like a robot. Do you ever loosen up?”
He didn’t answer, but I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, just a little.
“We’re almost there,” he said, ignoring my teasing.
Beacon’s Closet was everything he promised it would be.
The moment we walked inside, I was hit with the sight of rack after rack of clothes in every color and style imaginable.
My grin stretched wide as I took it all in.
Compared to the god awful, shapeless outfits the UNHCR had been giving me, this was heaven.
“I’ll be over here if you need me,” John said, gesturing to a quiet corner where he could lurk inconspicuously.
I waved him off, already drawn to a section with beautiful antique gowns.
The dresses were exquisite, like something out of a dream.
One had intricate lace sleeves and a high neckline, delicate yet bold.
Another was a deep emerald green with a plunging back and shimmering beads that caught the light just so.
I ran my fingers over the fabric, my heart lifting with each discovery.
Then I saw it: the perfect gown. It was a soft, dusty blue with an empire waist and tiny pearls sewn into the bodice. The skirt flowed like water, light and ethereal. I pulled it off the rack, holding it against myself as I walked to a mirror.
Turning side to side, I imagined wearing it to the museum tonight. It wasn’t a date—not really—but I couldn’t help wishing it were. I smoothed the fabric over my front and smiled at my reflection. For the first time in days, I felt like myself again.
“What do you think?” I asked, turning to John.
He looked up from his spot in the corner, bewildered. His eyes darted from the dress to my face and back again, as though I’d asked him to solve an impossible puzzle.
“Uh,” he said, clearly out of his depth. “It’s nice?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re hopeless,” I teased, turning back to the mirror.
Holding the dress against me again, I tilted my head thoughtfully. “Do you think a string of pearls would work with this?”
The cab smelled faintly of something vaguely floral—a scent that seemed out-of-place considering the cab driver’s austere appearance.
He wore a black hat perched atop neat curls of side-locks, a crisp white shirt, and a black coat.
His beard was thick but trimmed, framing his face in a way that made him look both dignified and deeply serious.
I had never been in such proximity to a Hasidic Jew before, and I found myself utterly fascinated.
I mumbled to myself in Russian, mostly a half-hearted attempt to steady my nerves as the cab jostled its way through Manhattan traffic. To my surprise, the driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror and responded in Russian, his accent rough but clear.
“Don’t worry, everything will work out in time.”
I blinked at him. “You speak Russian?”
He nodded, his eyes crinkling in the mirror as he smiled faintly. “I lived in Odessa for a few years, long ago. Beautiful city. Terrible bureaucracy.”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re not wrong. All of Russia is like that.”
“What brings you here?” he asked casually, weaving around a delivery truck with practiced ease.
“A new life,” I said, keeping my answer purposefully vague.
He nodded, as though that answer made perfect sense to him, and returned his attention to the road.
The rest of the ride passed in relative silence, aside from the occasional comment he made about the traffic.
When we finally pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I felt a strange pang of disappointment that the ride was over.
I paid him and stepped out of the cab, smoothing the pale blue gown I’d found at Beacon’s Closet.
The fabric shimmered faintly in the glow of the streetlights, and the faux pearls around my neck felt cool against my skin.
The museum loomed before me, all grand arches and columns lit dramatically against the night sky.
It reminded me so much of the architecture in St. Petersburg that I had to pause for a moment just to take it all in.
“This way,” John said, breaking me out of my reverie. He adjusted his suit jacket and gestured toward the entrance.
We hadn’t made it more than a few steps when I saw her. Charlotte.
She was standing near the entrance, her hair swept up elegantly, and her tailored black dress hugged her figure in a way that was both sophisticated and breathtaking.
The museum’s lights reflected in her bright blue eyes, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
I stopped dead in my tracks, and she turned toward me as if drawn by some invisible thread.
We just stared at each other. Her gaze softened, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. I didn’t know how long we stood there, caught in a moment that felt suspended in time, but eventually, John cleared his throat.
Charlotte blinked, as if suddenly remembering where she was. “Katya,” she said, her voice warm and smooth, “you look stunning.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks and glanced down at the gown. “Thank you. It’s, uh, secondhand.”
“You’d never know,” she said, her eyes lingering on me in a way that made my heart skip. “The pearls are a lovely touch.”
“Where is the rest of your security detail?” Charlotte asked, her brow furrowing slightly.
John answered for me. “My name is John Prescott. Her security detail has been minimized because her threat level is considered low.”
Charlotte didn’t look convinced. Her frown deepened as she glanced at me again, but she didn’t press the issue. Instead, she straightened her posture and held out her arm with a charming smile. “Are you ready for some Mozart?”
I grinned and took her offered arm. “Always.”
John took his seat a few rows back, leaving me and Charlotte together.
As the lights dimmed and the first notes of Mozart’s String Quartet No.
19 in C Major floated into the air, I felt a sense of longing.
The music was a shimmering tapestry, every note weaving into the next with breathtaking precision.
But more than the music, it was Charlotte who held my attention.
Her leg brushed mine, a whisper of contact that sent a spark up my spine.
At first, I thought it was accidental, but as it happened again, I began to wonder.
Did she notice? Was it intentional? I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, but her face was serene, her attention fixed on the quartet.
Her profile in the dim light was like a sculpture—all elegant angles and soft curves. She was utterly captivating.
The music transported me back to my brief, bittersweet time at the St. Petersburg Conservatory.
I’d been just a teenager then, full of dreams and na?ve hope.
My family had been so proud to send a Romanov girl to the conservatory, even though we were barely scraping by.
It was a gesture of defiance, a way of saying that despite everything—the revolution, the purges, the decades of silence—we were still here.
But dreams didn’t pay the bills. After my first year, I’d had to leave and find work to help support my family.
It had been a quiet heartbreak, one I’d never quite gotten over.
Listening to the quartet now, I felt a pang of longing for that lost part of myself.
But tonight wasn’t about the past. Tonight, I was here, sitting beside Charlotte, feeling alive in a way I hadn’t in years.
As the last notes faded into silence, the audience erupted into applause. I clapped along, my hands stinging from the force of it. Charlotte turned to me with a radiant smile, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. “Beautiful, wasn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” I managed. My voice sounded shaky, even to me. “Incredible.”
We stood as the musicians took their bows, and I felt a rush of gratitude for the evening, for this moment. But before I could say anything more, John appeared at my side, his expression as neutral as ever.
Charlotte’s smile faltered slightly as she glanced at him. “Katya, would you mind if I had a private word with John?”