Chapter 11 Nadya #2
The words bloom across the table, thick and cloying, almost sweet enough to hide the rot underneath.
My stomach goes stiff, as if the linen napkin in my lap has turned to stone.
Around us the easy chatter pauses, wineglasses hovering midair, forks suspended above porcelain.
Kira’s eyes widen, Dasha bites her lower lip, and Lena stares down at her plate as if she can will herself invisible.
I swallow once, the tea cooling in my mouth, and force my breath to steady.
Nikolai is not gone. He is missing, stolen, hidden.
He is breathing somewhere in this city, and I will not let Tatiana shrink him to a polite past tense.
The urge to spit something sharp and final rises in my throat, but I cage it behind my teeth.
A single outburst would give her exactly what she wants.
Instead, I lift my cup, steady as a metronome, and take the lightest possible sip. I set it down, fingertips precise against the saucer. When I meet Tatiana’s gaze, I let every shard of grief sharpen behind my eyes while my voice stays calm, smooth, almost warm.
“Mila chooses to believe her brother will be home soon,” I say, enunciating each word with deliberate care. “Children understand hope better than adults. It keeps them strong.”
Tatiana blinks once, surprised that I didn’t break. Her smile slips, a hairline fracture. Kira reaches to squeeze my hand beneath the table, the most subtle of gestures, invisible from Tatiana’s angle. Dasha exhales as though she had been holding her breath.
I continue, still looking at Tatiana, letting the steadiness of my tone carry the weight of the promise underneath. “And until he is home, Mila knows her family will never stop looking.”
I shift, straighten my shoulders, and turn to Kira. “You mentioned the crab Benedict is excellent?”
Kira nods quickly, her voice bright but controlled. “Yes, of course. The chef makes a citrus hollandaise that’s lighter than the traditional style. You would love it.”
The conversation stirs back into motion. Utensils clink, polite comments about weather and travel resume, though a faint tremor runs beneath each sentence. Tatiana lifts her glass again, but she doesn’t look at me. The point has been made.
I dab the corner of my mouth with the napkin, my pulse finally easing. Inside, my anger coils tighter, channeled into resolve. Nikolai’s name will not be spoken like a eulogy.
Kira’s bright chatter steers the gathering away from Tatiana’s misstep, and soon the plates are half-empty, the women comparing spa memberships and discreet jewelers once more.
I let myself drift at the edges of the talk, offering small comments, never more than a sentence or two.
The key is to blend—present but quiet, interested but not demanding.
When the waiter refills our glasses, I ask about the blend of the citrus hollandaise, just enough culinary curiosity to keep Tatiana’s attention off my real focus.
It's Dasha who unknowingly opens a door. She leans across the table, lowering her voice to a gleeful whisper. “Have any of you seen the new suites near the port? The ones with the private elevators? Apparently they’re impossible to book unless you know someone on the inside.” Her eyes gleam at the novelty of exclusivity.
Kira perks up. “Oh, my husband mentioned something about them. Some offshore investors bought the whole tower to host their poker nights.” She air-quotes the phrase, and the others laugh knowingly.
My pulse kicks up. Offshore investors. Portside tower. I tuck that detail away, sipping my water to hide the spark of interest. “Which tower is this?” I ask, aiming for idle curiosity.
“The Varna Quay Suites,” Dasha supplies. “My husband said their key cards have numbers, not names. Very mysterious. His friend’s was all numbers starting with something like four-zero-eight—”
“Four-zero-eight-one-one,” Lena interrupts, eyes bright with secondhand gossip. “That was the sequence. They went up for a private wine tasting. No staff on the guest floors, only a concierge coded to the elevator.”
My stomach tightens. The sequence matches the numbers on the card Konstantin found. I keep my expression neutral and trace the rim of my glass. “Seems impractical,” I say lightly. “All that secrecy for a little wine?”
Tatiana smiles, but I see the curiosity in her gaze now directed at me instead of the others.
I offer a small shrug, as if the conversation is nothing but fluff.
Inside my mind, the map redraws itself. Varna Quay.
Private elevators. Key cards marked only by numbers.
Investors who prefer to stay invisible. It can’t be coincidence.
Kira pats her lips with her napkin. “I’ve heard the money behind it came from the east. Bulgaria, maybe? Something about Varna shipping interests buying half the pier.”
I excuse myself from the table on the pretext of finding the restroom, leaving Tatiana and the others comparing Pilates studios again.
Rose’s layout is a maze of glass corridors and nautical art; the restrooms sit in a side hall that arcs away from the main dining room before curving back toward the lobby.
After washing my hands, I step into the corridor and pause to fix my hair in the mirror.
The chatter from the dining room is muffled behind the heavy door, replaced by faint piano music from the lounge near the front windows.
A low burst of laughter drifts from the lobby, deeper and more masculine than anything from brunch.
I round the corner and stop in the shadow of a large potted palm.
Konstantin is five paces away, half turned toward the bay windows, the water glittering behind him.
He’s not alone. Viktor, the man from the meeting, occupies the opposite side of a small round table, posture relaxed, smile sharp in profile.
Beside Viktor sits the same young woman who approached Konstantin at the mall—the one with the neat blond bob and the easy confidence.
Anya, she called herself. She speaks to the waiter in flawless French, then laughs at something Viktor says, her hand brushing Konstantin’s sleeve as though they share a private joke.
I draw back, letting the palm fronds hide me. Viktor taps the rim of his glass with one finger, nodding while Konstantin answers, his tone quiet but earnest, the set of his shoulders unmistakably tense in that way he tries to mask when he’s negotiating.
The woman lifts her glass, tilting it toward Konstantin, her fingernails painted the same pale shade as her dress.
He inclines his head, but his eyes flick to the entrance of the dining room, scanning the room—and for a breath I think he has seen me.
Instead, he nods to the waiter, who sets down a dark bottle that glints green in the light.
The piano melody drifts louder as the lobby doors glide open, passengers arriving for late brunch. I take the opportunity to move, walking back the same way I came. My pulse drums in my ears, a mix of surprise and anger.
The image of Anya’s hand resting lightly on Konstantin’s sleeve plays in my mind on a loop. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t even flinch, as if her touch belonged there.
I turn the corner too quickly and collide with a soft shoulder. A gentle gasp escapes as Kira steadies her clutch, catching me before I stumble.
“Hey,” she says, concern rising in her voice. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry,” I murmur, brushing an invisible wrinkle from my skirt. “I needed a minute.”
Kira shifts to the side, peeking past me toward the lounge. Her eyes widen. “Isn’t that your husband?” Her voice drops to a whisper as she spots Konstantin still seated with Viktor and Anya near the windows.
I follow her gaze and see him gesture toward a sheet of paper while Anya watches, chin propped on her hand, lips curved in an appreciative smile. Something inside me twists.
Kira’s head turns back, her expression changing when she registers the look on my face—tight, unreadable even to me.
“I won’t mention a thing,” she says quickly, placing a hand on my arm. “Your secret is safe.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
Kira lowers her hand, choosing her words with care. “In our world it’s not unusual for husbands to…wander. As long as they’re discreet, most wives let it go.”
I feel the blood rise in my cheeks, anger and shame mixing like bitter wine. “This is not that sort of secret,” I say, breathing slowly to keep the words level.
Kira’s eyes soften, genuinely apologetic. “I only meant—if something is happening, there’s no judgment from me.”
For a brief moment I envy her calm assumption, her belief that betrayal can be folded neatly under a tablecloth and ignored. I straighten my shoulders. “There is no affair,” I say. “Konstantin has obligations that cross paths with many people. That is all.”
Kira studies my face, searching for cracks, then nods. “Of course.”
The hush between us grows as waiters glide past carrying polished trays. My phone buzzes again in my clutch—another message from Rifat confirming Mila is safe at school. The mundane update anchors me. I inhale the scent of salt drifting through the revolving door, steadying my thoughts.
Kira offers a tentative smile. “Shall we go back? They’re probably ready for dessert.”
“In a moment,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my bag. She squeezes my arm once more, a silent apology, and slips around the corner toward the ladies’ room, heels clicking softly.
I linger in the corridor, half-hidden by a decorative screen of bamboo.
Through the lattice I watch Konstantin lean back in his chair, listening to Viktor, nodding at something Anya says.
She pours more wine, her movements elegant and unhurried.
He accepts the glass, his mouth forming a brief smile—genuine or polite, I can’t tell.
The hurt flares again, sharp and cold, but I hold still, breathing through it. I remind myself of the numbers on the key card, of the private tower by the port, of the lines that have begun to intersect in ways neither of us predicted.
There are bigger battles ahead. The wives can keep their gossip.
I have a war to win.