Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Katya
Iwoke alone in her bed, the sheets still warm beside me.
For a moment, I thought maybe I was dreaming. The sunlight was creeping across the floor, soft and golden, and the entire room smelled like her — like amber and clean cotton and something else I couldn’t name.
But then I caught it: the scent of coffee drifting in from down the hall.
She was awake.
A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
Last night had been…
No. There weren’t words.
No woman had ever touched me like that — not just her hands, but her attention, her presence.
Charlotte hadn’t just made love to me. She’d seen me.
And I knew she felt it, too. I saw it in her eyes when I pulled her against me. The way her body melted into mine. In every whispered breath against my neck.
God, I wanted to tell her.
But it was too soon.
Too much.
Too everything.
I didn’t even know what I was doing with my life yet.
Now that my security detail was gone, I had no idea how much longer I’d even be allowed to stay in that shitty little studio apartment the government had dumped me in. My “safe house,” as if anyone ever felt safe there.
I needed to start over.
I needed to make music again. Build a new platform. Let people in this country hear what I had to say.
I needed to find myself again.
But first—I needed coffee.
I sat up slowly, muscles aching in the best way. I stretched, letting out a little sigh at the soreness between my thighs, the pleasant heaviness that reminded me of everything we’d done.
I pulled on my underwear, then jeans, then my bra. I skipped the shirt. My skin still smelled faintly, like Charlotte’s perfume and sweat. I didn’t want to cover it up just yet.
I padded barefoot down the hall and into the living room.
She was on the sofa, legs curled under her, staring down at her phone like it had just punched her in the face.
I leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
She gave a little start, then muttered, “Coffee’s ready in the kitchen.”
I smiled and headed that way.
The first sip was pure heaven — rich, bold, and hot.
I carried the mug back to the living room and dropped onto the couch beside her.
She looked over and smiled. Tired, but sweet. And a little sad.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
She hesitated. “I will be.”
That wasn’t exactly comforting, but I let it be.
A moment passed in quiet. She set her phone down, then turned toward me slightly.
“Hey…” she said, voice soft. “Would you want to go to a wedding with me?”
I blinked. “Whose wedding?”
“My brother William. He’s marrying a girl I went to high school with. Anne McElroy.”
I stared at her. “You want to introduce me to your family?”
Charlotte gave me this little smile — part shy, part brave. “I want to tell the whole world about you.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t.
My heart was pounding, and my throat was tight.
And somewhere, buried beneath the fear and uncertainty and baggage, I felt something else blooming.
Hope.
Charlotte reached over and took my hand, her fingers threading with mine.
“I need to talk to you about something first,” she breathed, eyes dropping to our joined hands. “The mistake I mentioned yesterday. The enormous mistake.”
My heart gave a slow, cautious thud.
I already knew what this was about — or I thought I did. I’d watched the speech. Sat cross-legged on my narrow bed in that miserable studio apartment and stared at the livestream on my second hand laptop, mouth falling open in disbelief.
It hadn’t sounded like her. Not at all. The Charlotte I knew — the woman who’d held me like a lifeline, who kissed me like I was something holy — she wouldn’t have delivered a hollow, bureaucratic nothing of a speech. Not when the world was burning.
But I didn’t say any of that. I just gave her hand a squeeze and said, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
She drew in a breath like she was about to dive underwater.
“Yesterday I gave a speech to the UN General Assembly. A speech written for me by the state department that said and did nothing about the horrible things Belaruska has done. But I’d written a different speech,” she said. “One that told the truth.”
Her voice was steady, but I could feel the tension in her hand.
“I was going to talk about the election fraud — what Belaruska did to France, and the evidence we’ve been collecting. In fact, I was even going to suggest…” she faltered. “I mean, I suspect they interfered in last year’s elections here, too. In the US.”
My eyebrows lifted slightly.
She rushed on. “I was also going to speak out about the human rights violations. The disappearances, the imprisonment of activists, the censorship. Everything. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.” Her jaw tensed.
“But just before I went up there, Secretary Whitaker walked into the General Assembly. I saw him — standing in the aisle, staring straight at me — and I panicked. I gave the speech he wanted me to give. The one full of diplomatic hedging and meaningless platitudes. It was safe and cowardly. And it was everything I swore I wouldn’t be. ”
Her eyes finally met mine. Shining with something like shame.
“I felt sick the moment I started. I knew it was wrong. But I just… I froze. I let them win. And if we’re going to be together, Katya — really together — I need to be honest with you. I can’t ask for your heart if I’m hiding pieces of mine.”
I looked at her. At this woman who’d just peeled herself open like an orange, letting every vulnerable part spill out in the hope I might not turn away.
For a second, I said nothing. I just studied her face. The guilt and the regret. The quiet plea beneath it all.
Then I smiled. Slow. Soft.
“I already knew.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I watched the speech,” I said. “And I know you. That wasn’t your voice. It wasn’t your heart. It wasn’t the woman who held me last night like I was something worth protecting.”
Her eyes shimmered, and she let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-relief.
“You knew and you still…?”
“I’m still here,” I said simply.
And then I leaned in and kissed her — gently, because we were still on fragile ground, but with enough certainty to let her know I wasn’t going anywhere.
Back in my shitty little studio apartment, I sat cross-legged on the bed with my laptop balanced on a throw pillow, trying not to scream at how slow the Wi-Fi was being.
The radiator clanked like it was dying. The window was drafty even with the towel shoved in the crack, and something in the tiny kitchen smelled faintly like cheap takeout and mold.
Home sweet purgatory.
My inbox was a mess — mostly junk. Unread newsletters, spam in three languages, and a few vaguely threatening messages from trolls who hadn’t forgotten who I used to be. I was just about to close the whole thing when two subject lines made me pause.
The first was from the UNHCR.
My stomach dropped.
I clicked it open, and there it was in plain, clinical English:
I had two months to vacate the apartment.
They’d “fulfilled their obligation to provide temporary transitional housing.”
There were links to the U.S. State Department — a list of resources for applying for a green card, and a strongly worded recommendation to find an immigration attorney “as soon as possible.” The message was polite, distant, and final.
I closed it with a sigh and rubbed my face.
Okay. Not a surprise. But still — shit.
The second email was from something called the William Morris Agency.
I had no idea who they were. At first, I hovered over the delete button, fully prepared to chalk it up as spam.
But something stopped me. A hunch. Or maybe just curiosity.
I opened it.
Dear Ms. Romanova,
My name is Alexandra Kim. I’m a talent manager with the William Morris Agency, one of the leading firms representing artists, musicians, and public figures across the globe.
We’ve been following your story, as well as revisiting some of your past work — which, frankly, holds up incredibly well.
Given your unique background, political courage, and proven track record as a hit maker, we believe there’s a genuine opportunity to build a meaningful and impactful career for you here in the West.
If you’re open to a conversation, we’d love to set up a meeting.
Warm regards,
Alexandra Kim
I stared at the screen, rereading it three times before it actually sank in.
A genuine opportunity. Here. In this country.
Music. My voice. My life — not as a refugee, not as a cause, but as an artist again.
I jumped off the bed and screamed — a real scream, loud and sharp and full of disbelief. It bounced off the peeling walls and made my upstairs neighbor thump on the ceiling with a broom or maybe a boot. I didn’t care.
This was it. A door was opening. The first one that actually led to something I wanted.
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing a little in the tiny room, heart racing like I’d just won something. Maybe I had.
This was everything I’d hoped for.
Then I paused, an uncertain question hovering in my mind.
Would Charlotte still want me in her world if I started building one of my own?