Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Charlotte
But I wasn’t completely focused on her beauty.
I kept circling back to Katya’s security—or the lack thereof.
The UNHCR had determined her risk level was low enough to warrant a reduced detail.
Who had made that call? And why? With Aleksei Navalny’s death, the climate for Russian dissidents was more perilous than ever.
Something didn’t add up, and it gnawed at me.
When the concert ended and the applause finally quieted, I stood and turned to John Prescott, Katya’s lone guard. He was a stoic man, his face unreadable. After excusing myself from Katya for a moment, I gestured for him to follow me a few steps away from her.
“I need to ask you something,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Who decided to reduce Katya’s security detail?” With everything going on, it seems like a dangerous call.”
He gave a small shrug, his expression impassive. “I don’t know, Ambassador. I follow orders. Decisions like that come from higher up. My job is to execute them.”
His answer frustrated me, though I expected as much. I glanced over at Katya, who was speaking to another concertgoer, her face illuminated with joy. She was glowing from the evening, her eyes still reflecting the music. I prayed she hadn’t picked up on my apprehension.
She turned to us then; her steps light as she approached. “Why do you two look so serious? Did I miss something?”
“Nothing serious,” I assured her, the corners of my lips tugging upward into a grin.
Her brow lifted, skepticism clear in her expression, but then she laughed, and I felt myself relax. “Well, if you say so.”
An idea struck me then, one I couldn’t suppress. “How about a drink?” I asked. “Now that the concert is over.”
Her face lit up, and my heart stuttered in my chest. “That sounds marvelous. Where should we go?”
A thousand possibilities crossed my mind, but only one felt right. There was no safer place in this city for her than under my roof. “My place,” I said simply.
Her lips curved into a wide grin. “Lead the way, Ambassador.”
The black SUV glided smoothly through the busy streets of Manhattan, its engine humming softly as I glanced at Katya sitting beside me.
The city lights reflected in her eyes, illuminating the awe on her face as she gazed out of the window.
I couldn’t help but smile; she looked so captivated, almost childlike in her wonder.
“Have you had a chance to explore the city yet?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
She turned to me, shrugging. “How could I? I’ve been stuck in a miserable little studio apartment. Not much of a life to explore from there.”
Her voice carried a hint of bitterness, and I felt a pang of guilt. “That’s a shame,” I murmured. “We must rectify that.”
In my head, though, I was already waging an internal battle. Keeping her safe was my top priority, not playing tour guide. Yet, part of me longed to show her everything—the art, the parks, the life of this city that had enchanted so many.
The SUV slowed to a stop in front of my building.
John, ever diligent, stepped out and opened the back door.
I climbed out first, then turned to see Katya emerge, her expression shifting as she took in the sight of my apartment building.
A smile lit up her face, brighter than the surrounding streetlights.
“Your building is beautiful,” she said, her tone full of genuine admiration.
“Thank you,” I replied, gesturing toward the door as the doorman stepped forward to greet us. He nodded politely, holding the door open as we walked inside. The lobby was as elegant as always, marble floors gleaming under the soft light of a crystal chandelier.
When we reached the elevator, I turned to John. “You can wait here in the lobby. We’ll be fine.”
He frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “Ma’am, I—”
“It is highly improbable that anything will happen to Katya here,” I interrupted, keeping my voice firm but calm. “You can sit down and relax. We won’t be long.”
John sighed, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. As the elevator doors slid open, he reluctantly sank into one of the antique chairs by the wall. I stepped inside, Katya following closely behind, and pressed the button for the penthouse floor.
The doors closed, and the hum of the elevator filled the silence.
When I glanced at Katya, she was looking directly at me, her blue eyes sharp and unwavering.
My stomach fluttered. Those damn butterflies again.
I hated them—or maybe I didn’t. God, why did she have to be a high-profile defector?
She was possibly the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, but it was more than that.
She was strong, smart, and courageous. And utterly off-limits.
If the Secretary of State ever found out that I had brought Katya to my apartment, and that this was the second time we’d gone out together, he’d have my head on a platter. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open. We crossed the plush carpeted hallway, and the only sound was our footsteps as I pulled out my key. As I inserted it into the lock, Katya’s hand suddenly covered mine. Her touch was warm, soft, and it sent a jolt through me.
I froze for a second, my breath catching in my throat. Her gaze held mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something unspoken there, something fragile yet fierce. Then I turned the key and pushed the door open.
We stepped inside my apartment, and every inch of me was hyper-aware of her presence.
The way her gown hugged her curves with an effortless elegance, the way her chin tilted upward just slightly as she carried herself through the room, regal as though her Romanov blood had shaped her into the perfect princess.
For a moment, a memory—a hazy vision of the porcelain dolls I’d adored as a child struck me.
Not the typical Barbies other girls played with, but finely crafted little princesses.
I used to sew dresses for them with my nanny, carefully attaching tiny pearls and ribbons.
Those dolls had been my first vision of beauty and grace.
And now, Katya, standing here in the soft light of my apartment, eclipsed them all.
She gazed around my home, her eyes wide with wonder, taking in the tall ceilings, the art-adorned walls, and the expanse of city lights visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “This is beautiful,” she murmured, her voice tinged with awe.
Not as beautiful as you, I thought instantly, but instead, I said, “Thank you. What would you like to drink?”
“A glass of wine, if you have one,” she replied, turning her attention to me with a serene smile.
“Of course. Why don’t you step out onto the balcony? I’ll bring it out to you,” I suggested, motioning toward the sliding glass doors.
She nodded and moved across the living room with an almost hypnotic grace. I watched her, unable to stop myself, as she slid the door open and stepped outside. The cool night air tousled her brown hair, and for a moment, she seemed otherworldly, a portrait of elegance against the Manhattan skyline.
I shook myself out of my daze and headed to the kitchen, pulling two glasses from the cabinet and pouring us each some Shiraz. As I carried the glasses toward the balcony, I reminded myself to keep my guard up. To be careful. To not get lost in her.
When I joined her outside, Katya was leaning against the railing, her hands lightly clasping the metal as she stared out at the city below. The air was crisp, the kind that made your cheeks flush. I handed her a glass, and she took it with a quiet “thank you.”
We sat down together in the cushioned chairs; the city stretching endlessly before us, alive with energy even at this late hour. For a while, we didn’t speak, letting the sounds of New York fill the silence between us.
Then Katya broke it, her voice soft but curious. “Where in the United States are you from?”
I glanced at her, surprised by the question. “Virginia,” I murmured, my accent softening the word out of habit.
She nodded thoughtfully, as though she were filing away that piece of information. Then, without warning, she asked, “Did your family… did they own slaves? Including your ancestor, President John Tyler?”
The question hit me like a sharp gust of wind, stealing the breath from my lungs. I wasn’t used to being asked so directly about the darker parts of my family history. I stared at her for a moment, unsure how to respond.
Finally, I looked down at my glass, turning it in my hands. “Yes,” I admitted quietly. “They did. My family has owned Sherwood Forest, President Tyler’s plantation, since the 1840s. Slavery was… part of that legacy.”
Katya didn’t react immediately, simply studying me with those piercing blue eyes of hers. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm. “Sounds complicated.”
“It is,” I confessed, looking out at the lights again. “It’s complicated, reconciling who they were with who I want to be.”
Katya swirled her wine gently, her gaze distant as she stared out at the city.
“When I was a girl in school,” she began softly, “they taught us that the United States was a very hypocritical country. Telling the rest of the world how to live their lives, how to be free, when your own country lived for centuries with the stain of slavery.”
I winced, though I tried to hide it. Her words were pointed but not cruel, and she spoke them as though she were reciting something learned long ago. Still, they stung. “The world has changed,” I replied, my tone defensive before I could temper it. “We’ve moved on—”
Katya interrupted me with a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“It’s not a big deal.” She turned to me, a faint smile curving her lips.
“My family wasn’t much better. According to our history, we didn’t have slaves, but we had something similar—serfs.
Entire villages of people tied to the land, working for my ancestors as if they owned them.
” She took a sip of her wine, then continued with a bitter edge in her voice, “Of course, after the October Revolution, all of that was gone. My branch of the family had nothing. Several of my relatives died when Stalin sent them to the collective farms in Ukraine during the 1930s. They were called Kulaks—wealthy peasants, supposedly—but we were far from wealthy by then. They were tortured simply because they’d once been part of the upper class. ”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I watched her, trying to imagine what it must have been like for her family to carry that history. Nobility, serf owners, reduced to nothing. Starved, displaced, worked to death in unfamiliar lands.
It struck me then, suddenly and sharply, how differently things might have turned out for my family if history had taken a different path.
What if the Civil War had ended another way?
What if the winds of revolution had reached Virginia, stripping away everything my ancestors had built and leaving them to toil on the very land they once ruled?
The thought made me feel strangely untethered, like the ground beneath me had shifted. Katya’s life, her family’s history, was so far removed from my own, yet there was a fragile thread of similarity that made me uneasy.
I cleared my throat, deciding to change the subject before I got lost in thoughts I couldn’t untangle. Without thinking, I blurted out, “The woman who’s often seen in pictures with you—Irina. Your bandmate. What was she like?”