Katerina #2
But later, when I’m alone in my room, fastening my earrings for dinner, I catch my reflection in the long mirror and feel the whole weight of it again.
I’m twenty-nine now, not the girl who boarded that flight in a fitted blouse and heartbreak.
Motherhood changed my body, but not in ways this house is willing to name kindly.
I was soft before. A little full through the hips, generous in the chest, easy for people to call curvy when they meant not thin.
After the twins, I became even more that way. I’m heavier in the breasts, my waist is softer, my stomach marked and tender in ways it never was before. My hips are broader now, my thighs fuller, my body shaped less like a bride and more like a mother.
What would Roman think?
I hate myself the moment the thought comes to me. How would that even matter? I left him back in Moscow, and for all I know he’s still there.
Papa tells me at four thirty, when I’m halfway through helping Sofia button a cardigan she insists is for ‘queens only.’
“There’s a function tonight,” he says from the doorway of the nursery.
That’s all.
In our family, that means men with guns under their jackets and women in silk pretending not to notice.
I finish the last button before I look at him. “Then have a lovely time.”
He ignores the tone. “You’re coming.”
“No.”
His gaze shifts past me to Nikolai, who is kneeling on the rug with his train bridge in pieces around him, deeply committed to rebuilding it with mathematical seriousness.
“And he is, too.”
For a second, I think I heard him wrong. “Nikolai?”
“Yes.”
I stand so fast Sofia stumbles back with an offended sound.
“Absolutely not.”
Papa steps into the room. “It’s a family gathering.”
“It’s a mafia party.”
His expression does not change. “Do not use that word in front of the children.”
“Then do not invite my son to one.”
Nikolai looks up. “What’s a party?”
Sofia answers before I can. “Dancing and cake.”
Papa almost smiles. “There will be both.”
“No,” I say again, more quietly this time, because my anger has sharpened. “He’s four.”
“He’s my grandson.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough of one.”
I take a step toward him. “You’re not putting him on display.”
“Display?” Papa repeats, offended now. “He will be introduced.”
“To whom?”
“People who matter.”
I laugh once, without humor. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Nikolai is still watching us. He’s old enough now to know when adult voices turn dangerous, even if they stay calm.
Mama appears behind Papa a moment later, probably drawn by instinct. She takes in the room in one glance, Sofia hovering near the bed, Nikolai on the floor, me standing too straight, Papa too composed.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Papa wants to take Nikolai tonight.”
Mama goes still.
Papa turns slightly toward her. “It’s time people see him.”
“No,” I say.
Mama does not answer right away, and that frightens me more than if she agreed.
Papa continues, “The Kurylenkos will be there. The Anisimovs. Several old friends. They have heard enough about the boy. It’s better if they see him properly.”
“He’s not a horse at auction,” I snap.
Before Papa can answer, another voice cuts in from the hall.
“Well,” Vika says, “that depends who’s bidding.”
I do not turn. I do not need to. I can hear the smile in her voice.
She comes into the nursery dressed already for the evening, in black silk and diamonds, her mouth painted a dark red that makes her look even sharper. She leans one shoulder against the doorframe like she has every right to be there.
“Really, Katya, you should be grateful,” she says. “Most women in your position would kill for this kind of acceptance.”
I face her then. “My position?”
She lifts a brow. “An unwed mother with no name to offer and two children nobody asks too many questions about. Papa has been very generous.”
Mama’s face hardens. “Enough.”
But Vika is not looking at Mama.
She’s looking at me. “You should take the win,” she says softly. “Before people start asking why the boy is suddenly important.”
There it is. Not quite a threat. Not quite a question.
Just a knife placed on the table.
I feel the room shift around me.
Papa says, coldly, “Viktoria.”
She finally looks at him. “What? I only mean that appearances matter tonight. You’ve done so much for them; this is the least she can do.”
If Papa has decided Nikolai is going to be seen, then keeping him back will only make the questions worse. If I refuse to go, Vika will spend the night in every corner of that house smiling sadly and implying exactly what she wants.
My children do not know how often I protect them simply by being present.
I look at Nikolai.
He has gone very still. Sofia too, though she understands less. They can both feel the strain now.
Fine. If Nikolai goes, he goes with me.
No one gets him alone in a ballroom full of men who think bloodlines are assets.
“I’ll come,” I say.
Papa studies me for a beat. “Good.”
“Don’t mistake this for agreement.”
“I never mistake you for easy.”
Vika laughs under her breath. “That much is obvious.”
I ignore her. “What time?”
“Seven thirty,” Papa says. “There will be security.”
“There is always security.”
“Tonight more than usual.”
Papa gives me the kind of look that means I will get no useful answer. “It’s a large gathering.”
I don’t say anything, but I don’t like the sound of that. And I have a terrible feeling something bad is going to happen tonight.