14. Katerina #3
But sitting here now with his hand warm against my face and no lies left between us, I finally understand something I’ve been avoiding since the first time we slept together. Whatever this is between Aleksandr and me isn’t just desire.
This isn’t the leash I once feared would kill me. This is something deeper, something I’m not sure I want to continue depriving myself of any longer.
That truth terrifies me far more than any monster, real or not, ever could.
After weeks of planning and sleepless nights spent pouring over data points and documents, the moment I’ve been working toward finally arrives in the form of a high-profile military gala.
Black tie. Televised. Attendance mandatory for anyone who matters in Moscow’s overlapping worlds of power. Politicians, generals, oligarchs will all be in attendance.
The event will be staged in the grand ballroom of the Hotel Metropol this coming Friday, the same gilded hall where Soviet-era medals were once pinned to chests and where today’s elite still gather to pretend the past never ended.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars will be hanging overhead.
Red velvet drapes will frame tall windows overlooking Theatre Square.
A string quartet will undoubtedly be playing Tchaikovsky softly in the corner, his favorite, while waiters in crisp white uniforms glide through the crowd with trays of caviar and chilled vodka.
It’s meant to be the crowning moment of my father’s career.
The night his legacy is broadcast live across state channels and preserved forever in highlight reels just before his nomination into the upper echelons of the Russian political circuit before he officially takes his seat on the Security Council.
He will soon be a voice in rooms where real decisions are made and matter. It will be the final, glittering stamp on forty years of carefully curated heroism rewarded with a position that will influence millions.
The irony makes my stomach twist so hard I have to press a hand to my abdomen to steady myself.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room and turn slowly, assessing what I see.
The dress Aleksandr chose is black silk, floor-length with a high neckline and long sleeves that make me look like I’m in mourning rather than celebrating the accomplishments of a decorated man.
The fabric clings perfectly to my curves, highlighting the parts of me that still pulse gently from the pair of hands that had been touching me only a few hours before.
I stare at myself for a moment longer before retrieving the tablet from my vanity and run through the intel details once again. Guest list, security rotations, camera placements, speech order—every piece we’ve spent weeks gathering, cross-referencing, and triple-checking are laid out before me.
The plan is elegant in its simplicity. I will walk onto that stage during his acceptance speech, interrupting him mid-sentence, and lay out the evidence we’ve compiled while a live video of his records will be playing on the screen behind us.
Everything from his financial records, wire transfers, casino logs, witness statements from men who’ve already been quietly pressured into never speaking a word of his habits, will all be displayed front and center for the hundreds of people in attendance.
And at the very end of it, I will tell the world what he did to his own daughter to wipe it all away and walk away scot-free.
My father has always understood optics better than anyone.
He knows how to speak about sacrifice while hiding what it costs others around him.
He knows how to angle his shoulders so the medals on his chest catch the light just right, displaying the years of service he’s dedicated toward this country.
He knows how to pause for effect when the cameras zoom in on him and lower his voice so the microphones have to strain to catch the tremble of emotion he can summon on command.
He built his entire public life on performance which makes it all the more perfect that I will be burying him with it using his own playbook. Tonight I’ll turn that stage into his gallows and walk away with the closure I need to move on with my life.
My reflection stares back at me.
The woman in the mirror isn’t the obedient daughter he raised.
She isn’t the grieving girl who cried herself to sleep after finding out she was sold to a man he knew could have hurt her or worse.
She isn’t even the woman who once believed duty and honor were the same thing and that sacrifice was the greatest gift to give for the country and her family.
She is something else entirely.
Something he created without meaning to.
Something he will come to regret.
I set the tablet down on the vanity and lock the screen. I smooth the silk over my waist and adjust the single diamond drop at my throat—Aleksandr’s gift, chosen because he claimed it would catch the light for every camera without being ostentatious when I’m up on stage—and take one last breath.
I feel ready.
Whatever comes after this and whatever the fallout looks like in the aftermath doesn’t matter anymore.
All that does is that I will soon be free.