Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Anna
Ivan left.
He said he'd come to me tomorrow. He begged me to give him time—he'd tell me everything.
I didn't know if I should believe him.
That image consumed my mind.
The wine-red velvet slip dress, slit all the way up to her thigh. She sat in his lap, arm hooked around his neck, body pressed against his. Her skin glowed ivory white under the light, hair spilling down like rumpled silk. Her fingers worked at his belt.
My fingertips still rested on the door handle, cold metal against my skin, but my whole body burned—that fire churning up from my stomach, tightening my chest until my breath came short and sharp.
I saw it. Every single detail, crystal clear. Her collarbone. Her slipping strap. Her knee pressed between his legs. And that heavy perfume of hers drifted through the crack in the door, sickeningly sweet.
How long did I stand there?
I don't know. Maybe three seconds. Maybe five. Maybe longer. Long enough to see her pull down her strap. Long enough to see him sitting there, not pushing her away.
In that instant, my mind went blank—my body just moved. I turned and walked quickly back to my room.
I closed the door. Locked it. Slid down against it to sit on the carpet, knees drawn up, face buried in my arms. Something lodged in my throat—couldn't swallow it down, couldn't spit it out.
She was right. What was I, anyway?
A tutor. Someone he'd bought at an auction.
He and his ex-wife had a tangled past—a child, a shared life. And me? I was just a shadow borrowing space in someone else's home.
I had no right to ask why he didn't push her away. No right to demand an explanation for why that woman could sit in his lap late at night.
But my heart wouldn't obey. It still twisted, burned, hurt.
Those words I had tried so hard to ignore came flooding back—Victoria's voice telling me that Ivan had called her a toy in bed. That he was only playing with me, and that when he grew tired of me, he would simply throw me away.
I had heard those words countless times, but I had never really believed them. Until what I saw today made the first crack appear in my certainty.
Was he really just playing? If he actually cared about me, why would he let his ex-wife sit in his lap without even pushing her away?
Footsteps sounded outside.
Quick, heavy, one after another, stopping at my door. Then Ivan's voice, muffled behind the wood, carrying an urgency I rarely heard from him. "Anna, it's not what you think. Open the door. Let me explain."
I buried my face deeper.
My nose pressed against the fabric of my pajamas, the fine texture pressing into my skin.
I heard my own breathing—rapid, unsteady, like something was yanking it back and forth.
I wanted to open the door. Wanted to let him explain. Wanted to hear him say that woman barged in on her own, that he did nothing. But I was afraid too—afraid he'd say something I couldn't accept. Afraid he'd admit he really had wavered.
"Anna, don't do this." His voice came again, lower now, like he was forcing down some emotion. "It's not what you saw. She barged in herself. Nothing happened between us."
I bit my lip. Said nothing.
I really didn't know what to say. That image filled my head completely, leaving no room for anything else. I just curled up on the floor, feeling the door vibrate slightly from his weight against it.
"You really don't need to." I finally spoke, my voice colder than I expected. "You don't need to report anything to me. I'm just your daughter's tutor. An insignificant employee."
The breathing outside paused. Then silence. Long silence, so long I thought he'd left.
"Anna." He spoke again, voice rough. "To me, you're not insignificant. Come out. Let's talk this through."
I didn't move. But something in his voice stopped me from shutting the door completely—that layer of exhaustion about to crack, like he was genuinely afraid. Afraid I'd misunderstand. Afraid I'd leave.
The hallway stayed quiet for a long time. Long enough for the clock on the wall to tick through a full circle. I heard him take a deep breath.
"Anna, give me some time tomorrow. I want to tell you what's in my heart. Everything—I'll tell you everything. Okay?"
I didn't answer. But his words dropped into my heart like a stone falling into deep water, sinking down, still descending.
He said everything. Those secrets he'd kept hidden. Those things he'd covered up, wouldn't let me touch. He said he was willing to tell me now. That sentence carried more weight than any explanation.
The footsteps outside finally receded, slowly disappearing down the hallway.
I leaned against the door, lifting my hand to wipe the corner of my eye, only then realizing it was wet.
I didn't know if I should believe him. But I knew the sorrow in his voice was real. His urgency was real.
And if there was one person in this world willing to lay out their darkest, most hidden parts for me to see, I should at least sit down and listen. Not for him—for my own answers.
The next morning, when I woke up, there was a note on the nightstand.
The handwriting was bold, a bit rushed.
"Company emergency. I'll be back at noon. Wait for me at home—I have something important to tell you. There are blueberry croissants you like in the fridge. Antonia will make coffee for you—Ivan."
I turned that note over twice.
He was making amends. He was also afraid. So I decided to wait for him to come back. Wait for him to speak those secrets he'd kept for five years, one sentence at a time.
Unfortunately, I didn't wait for him to return. I waited for Victoria instead.
She walked down the hallway in a light purple dress, heels clicking, every step deliberate and confident.
She stopped in front of me, looking down, that triumphant gleam in her eyes nearly spilling over.
"Oh, still here?" She laughed, light but barbed. "I thought you'd have the sense to leave last night. Turns out—you're more shameless than I imagined."
I said nothing. Just tightened my grip on the note.
"Ivan and I had a great talk last night, you know?" Victoria stepped closer, leaning against the wall, head tilted as she studied me like she was admiring her own work. "He said he'd consider getting back together with me. The condition? You stay—as his mistress."
That word drove into my stomach like a needle. I felt my stomach clench, but I kept my face blank.
I just looked at her quietly. Looked at that carefully calculated smile.
"He said," Victoria continued, "you've got no money, no background. As a mistress you're obedient enough, and it doesn't interfere with him getting back with me anyway."
I stood up, folding the note and putting it in my pocket. "That's nice." My voice was steadier than I expected. "Let him tell me himself."
Victoria's smile froze. She hadn't expected that—she thought I'd cry, make a scene, storm out. But I just walked past her toward the stairs. Her voice came from behind, sharp with wounded pride. "Where are you going? Did I say you could leave?"
I ignored her. I walked straight downstairs and left.
Sharing space with Victoria was suffocating.
Besides, I really hadn't been outside in so long.
When the gate closed behind me, the morning breeze hit my face—cool, carrying traces of dew and earth. I glanced at my phone. No message from Ivan. Maybe he really was busy.
I walked along the street for a while, all the way to the corner store. Bought water. Sat on the bench outside.
I wanted to wait, but I couldn't sit still.
Victoria's words crawled through my mind like insects—mistress, remarriage, obedient.
She was ridiculous.
What a shame—I didn't even want to engage with her.
I even thought what she said five years ago about discussing me with Ivan in bed was all lies.
I stood up, about to head back.
Just then, a black van suddenly shot out from the alley beside me, screeching to a stop right in front of me.
The door slid open. Before I could react, a hand clamped over my mouth and yanked me inside.
I struggled instinctively, my scream trapped in my throat by that rough-gloved hand.
The door slammed shut. The van shot forward.
I was pinned to the back seat, my knee slamming into a hard metal armrest. Pain brought tears to my eyes.
Two men in the back seat—one holding my shoulders, the other rifling through my bag. The driver up front was on the phone.
"Got her. The woman had no one with her. Must've slipped her security."
He paused. "Right. Bringing her now."
My mind went strangely cold in that instant.
I stopped struggling. I knew that the more I fought back, the harder they would hold me down, and the more injuries I would suffer.
I simply curled up, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible, while desperately forcing myself to memorize that street in my mind—the trash can at the corner, the distance between the streetlights, the delivery truck that had been unloading just moments ago.
I saw the license plate, but it was blocked the next second.
I didn't know where they were taking me, but I knew one thing: I couldn't panic.
The vehicle weaved through the city for what felt like forever.
I could feel it taking one turn after another, stopping and moving again, as if they were deliberately trying to take a winding route.
I remained hidden in the darkness, pressed against a toolbox, my arm against its icy metal surface.
My fingers gripped the blanket beneath me until my knuckles tightened.
Then I felt something small and hard pressing into my elbow from beneath the seat. I carefully worked it free with my fingertips, inch by inch. When no one was watching, I flipped it over and glanced at it—a tiny, inconspicuous black disc, with a delicate metallic ring embedded around its edge.
A tracker. Someone had planted a tracker on me.
The thought split through the darkness in my mind like a beam of light. My hand trembled slightly, but I didn't let it make a sound. I quietly tucked the tracker back into the seat crevice, wedging it firmly between fabric and springs.
The van kept moving. I slowly steadied my breathing, hiding my face in the corner.
I'd done what I could.
Now I could only wait. Wait for him to come. Wait for him to find me. Wait for him to tell me what he left unsaid.
Ivan, you'd better hurry.