Chapter 25 – Valeria
After I leave Timofey and his men in the strategy room, I head back to the bedroom.
My mind doesn’t settle. It keeps moving, circling the same thought over and over, threatening to wear me down through repetition alone.
I may have stood firm in that room. I may have insisted I stay. But now that I’m alone…it feels different. I sit on the edge of the bed, one hand instinctively drifting to my stomach.
The feeling there grounds me—and terrifies me at the same time.
When will Anton come for me?
The question doesn’t leave. It just changes shape.
Could it be today?
Tomorrow?
Is he already close enough that I’d never know until it’s too late?
My breathing tightens slightly, and I force myself to slow it down. Inhale. Exhale. Like I’ve been taught. Like I’ve learned to do when fear starts trying to take over my body before my mind can stop it.
My gaze drifts across the room. Eventually, it lands on the vanity.
The folder is still there.
Sergei Volodin’s folder.
I haven’t touched it since he left it with me before he died. I keep telling myself I’ll get to it, but I never do.
But now…I don’t have the luxury of avoiding anything anymore.
Not when everything is already closing in.
I stand slowly and cross the room. My fingers hesitate for only a second before they close around it. It’s heavier than I remember, or maybe it just feels that way now.
I sit back down on the bed with it in my lap.
For a moment, I just look at it.
Then I exhale and open it.
The folder is filled with paper, ink, signatures…yet it feels like something far more dangerous than any weapon I’ve held.
Financial records. Ownership certificates. Legal seals. Structures of companies I’ve only ever heard spoken about in passing, now laid out in precise, undeniable detail. Layer after layer of documentation that connects everything back to one point. One name. One line of inheritance.
Mine.
My breath catches slightly, but I keep reading.
Each page confirms it. In law. In structure. In cold, irreversible proof.
The Petrov empire still belongs to me.
I’ve always known it, but seeing it in front of me is freeing.
Anton may have taken power through force—through fear, through violence, through whatever control he’s managed to claw together—but none of it changes what sits here in black and white.
He never actually inherited it.
He never secured it.
He only occupied it.
My fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the folder as I continue scanning. There are notes in the margins. Legal commentary. Historical transfers. Protective clauses my father must have put in place long before any of this began. Safeguards I never understood until now.
A system designed to outlive chaos.
And Anton is standing outside it.
Completely.
This is why he’s coming after me. I’ve understood that for a long time now—maybe longer than I’ve admitted to myself.
A small smile touches my lips. Not because anything is funny, but because somehow I’ve lost my nerves.
At the back of the page, there’s a list of contacts. Loyalists to my father. Petrov loyalists. Names I am not meant to use casually. Names that are meant to stay buried until the moment they are needed.
Now is the moment.
My fingers hover over my phone.
Then I pick it up.
My pulse is steady now.
I dial the first number. Artyom Pavlov. An old general.
It rings once. Twice.
Then a voice answers—low, older, cautious.
“Da?”
I inhale slowly.
“My name is Valeria Petrova,” I say clearly.
Silence hits the line immediately.
Long enough that I almost think he’s going to hang up.
Then, in a quieter voice: “…that’s not possible.”
“I’m alive,” I reply. “And I need you to listen carefully.”
Quiet.
Then—wariness.
“Valeria Petrova died,” he says. “That was confirmed days ago.”
“I am very much alive.” I tighten my grip on the phone slightly. “I can never die and let Anton win,” I say firmly. “And I haven’t.”
Silence again. This one different. He’s listening now.
“I’m calling because I’m taking back what belongs to my family,” I continue. “The Petrov empire. And I want to know who still remembers who they serve.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
When he speaks again, his voice has changed. Less doubt. More recognition.
“…if you are who you say you are,” he says slowly, “then Anton has been sitting in a house that was never his.”
I don’t answer immediately. I let him finish.
His voice hardens.
“If you can kill him,” he says, “and take back your legacy….”
A breath. Like a decision being made in real time.
“I will serve you,” he finishes, “until I die.
“Wonderful.”
As soon as I hang up, I dial the next number.
Mikhail Orlov. Another general.
“Who is this?”
“I’m calling on a Petrov line,” I say evenly. “Listen carefully.”
Silence. Then a short, skeptical laugh.
“Petrov line?” he repeats. “That family is gone.”
“I’m not,” I reply.
Silence. Then his tone shifts—still doubtful, but sharper now. Assessing.
“And who exactly are you supposed to be?”
“Valeria Petrova. I will take back my father’s throne.”
Another laugh follows,
“That name ended weeks ago,” he says. “And even if it didn’t, a woman cannot—”
“I didn’t call for your opinion,” I cut in calmly. “I called to inform you that Anton Petrov’s reign is ending.”
That shuts him up.
A long pause follows. Longer than the first. I can hear him thinking now instead of dismissing.
“You expect me to believe that?” he asks finally.
“I expect you to remember who you served before Anton started pretending he owned what my father built.”
Silence again.
Then something changes in his breathing. Subtle.
“…if you’re lying,” he says slowly, “this is a very dangerous game.”
“It’s not a game,” I reply. “It’s a return.”
Another pause. Then his voice hardens.
“If you can take him down,” he says carefully, “and reclaim the Petrov name…” He exhales once, like the decision is heavier than he wants to admit. “…I will swear loyalty.”
“Not just loyalty,” I say. “I need obedience when it matters.”
“…then you’ll have it,” he replies.
I hang up.
And I dial the next number.
One after another. No hesitation now. No doubt.
Old generals. Financial minds. Men who once moved entire regions under my father’s name. Men who were told I was gone. Erased. Finished.
But they remember the structure. Even if they thought the person behind it was dead.
Each call follows the same rhythm.
Doubt. Recognition. Resistance. Then something older underneath it all—memory. Loyalty that never fully disappeared, only went quiet.
By the time the hour passes, my fingers feel steady in a way they weren’t before.
Not because everything is solved.
But because I’ve confirmed something important.
They were waiting.
Not for Anton.
For me.
It’s a heady feeling.
I’m ending the last call when Timofey walks into the bedroom.
The door closes softly behind him, and his eyes find me first. Then the phone in my hand. Then my face.
He doesn’t rush. He never does. He just studies me for a second longer than necessary.
“Who were you speaking to?” he asks quietly.
I tell him everything. About the contacts in Moscow. About the names I’ve just spoken to. About what they still are beneath the surface of Anton’s control. Not gone. Not broken. Just…waiting for me.
The Petrov network didn’t disappear when my father died. It went underground. Fragmented. Silent. But not erased.
And now, it’s responding again.
Timofey doesn’t interrupt me once. Not even when I pause. He just listens—fully, completely. When I finish, there’s a brief silence. Not heavy.
Then he exhales softly.
He smiles. “You’ve been busy.”
“I know. I think I’ve made over sixty calls. I’m exhausted.”
“I love you,” he says. “I trust you completely.” Then: “And I’m proud of you.”
The words land deeper than I expect them to. Not because they’re new; he’s said them a few times before. But because of the timing. Because of everything that sits between us and Anton, still waiting to break.
I let out a soft breath, something almost like a smile forming without permission.
“I already know,” I say gently. “I love you, too.”
For a second, he just looks at me. Like he’s absorbing the words instead of hearing them. Like they land somewhere deeper than the surface of this moment.
Then his arms come around me, pulling me in without hesitation. There’s nothing rushed in it. No urgency. Just certainty, like this is the one thing in the entire world that still makes sense, no matter what else is collapsing outside it.
I sink into him immediately.
His hand settles at the back of my head again, guiding me closer as he leans down.
The kiss is soft.
It’s like he’s trying to remind me, without words, that I’m still here. That he’s still here. That, for a few seconds, nothing else is allowed in.
His arm around me loosens slightly, but doesn’t let go. He keeps me close even after the kiss breaks, forehead resting briefly against mine as his breath steadies.
Then—
The world snaps.
A sound tears through the estate. Not just noise, but force. A violent, concussive blast that hits the walls like something alive and angry.
The windows shudder in their frames. Dust jumps from the ceiling edges. Somewhere deep in the mansion, alarms begin to scream into motion.
We break apart instantly.
My heartbeat spikes so fast it feels like it skips. I look at him at the exact same moment he looks at me. No confusion in his eyes. No guessing. Just immediate recognition.
Anton Petrov has arrived.
Not in theory. Not in intelligence reports. Not in predictions.
Here.
Now.
The war isn’t approaching anymore.
It’s inside the perimeter.