6. Sofia #2
I’m already slipping off the side of the bed to stand. “You’re not well enough to—”
Rowan’s hand closes around my upper arm. It’s not bruising but it’s firm enough that I feel the heat of his palm through my sleeve, firm enough that I understand resistance is pointless.
“Out,” he says.
I yank at the arm he has a hold on roughly. “I was talking to my uncle.”
He simply tightens his grip. “And now you’re leaving.”
He’s already steering me toward the door.
My cheeks burn as humiliation and fury twist together inside my chest until I can’t tell which burns hotter.
I twist in his grip, trying to look back at my uncle, but Rowan’s body blocks the view like a wall.
The door shuts behind us with a solid, final sound.
I yank my arm free the second we’re in the hallway.
“Don’t do that,” I snap.
Rowan doesn’t even glance at me. “Walk.”
I want to scream and plant my feet on the ground and refuse to move until someone explains what the hell is happening, but as soon as his hands grip my shoulders and steer me forward, I move.
Unfortunately, I’ve come to know exactly how this works now.
I’ve observed enough about the goings-on in this place to understand power here isn’t negotiated. It’s enforced.
So I walk.
I’m escorted to one of the smaller sitting rooms in the east wing, the one with the big stone fireplace and tall windows that look out over the gardens in the back.
The fire is already lit, crackling softly inside the wide stone hearth, its glow spilling across the polished floors and deep green armchairs surrounding it.
The room is beautiful in that severe, expensive way the entire estate is.
Antique side tables are stationed on either side of the armchairs, heavy curtains drawn away from the tall windows facing the back gardens.
The art on the walls is abstract looking and costs probably more than a year’s worth of tuition at my former university.
I step inside and turn to complain to Rowan again, fully prepared to tell him exactly where he can shove his authority and that infuriatingly even tone when giving me orders, but he’s already swinging both doors shut behind me, sealing me inside.
For a second, I just stare at the closed doors.
Since staying here, I’ve come to realize Rowan has perfected the art of ending conversations by physically removing himself from them.
It’s one of his most irritating talents, second only to looking unreadable no matter what the conversation we’re having is about.
I sigh and rub both hands over my face.
Anger still burns beneath my skin but exhaustion has started to dull its edges.
I can feel the weight of the last few days settling over me all at once, dragging me down into a strange, depressive slump.
I had assumed that once my uncle came back home, I would finally get real answers.
Clearly, that had been too much of a delusional wish.
When I turn toward the fireplace, my entire body freezes. A woman sits curled up in one of the deep armchairs. Her long, dark hair is braided over one shoulder, her posture tense like she’s trying very hard to look relaxed and failing miserably.
She rises the moment she sees me. “Oh. I didn’t realize this room was going to be occupied. I can leave.”
I exhale, too tired to be polite. “It’s fine. Please sit. I don’t feel like finding somewhere else in this house to mope.”
Her brows lift slightly, as if my honesty catches her off guard. For a moment she hesitates, her eyes flicking over my face, reading whatever is written there before deciding better than to argue with me.
I drop into the opposite one with far less grace and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear my boarding school matron gasping at the lack of manners, but at this point, all my politeness has gotten me is being thrown behind locked doors, evasions, and Rowan Vasiliev treating me like a burden he can’t wait to be rid of.
The silence stretches around us. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, just heavy, broken only by the occasional pop of the fire and the faint tick of an old clock on the mantel.
The woman glances toward the windows once, then back to me, clearly trying to decide whether I am safe to talk to or dangerous.
I can’t say I blame her. In this house, those two things probably look exactly the same.
She clears her throat eventually. “I’m Alina, by the way.”
“Sofia.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Ah. Are you… a guest of Ivan’s?”
The careful phrasing makes me narrow my eyes. Something about the way she says guest feels… off. “Something like that. Why?”
“I, um, only meant do you live here, or are you…” Pink climbs up her cheeks. She gestures vaguely toward the door. “Involved with Kuznetsov?”
For one stunned second, I just stare at her.
Then I laugh.
It bursts out of me loudly, the sound echoing off the high ceiling, startling even me. I haven’t laughed since the plane touched down in Moscow. Maybe since before the men walked into the cafe and tore my life down the middle. For a moment, it feels almost obscene, and once it starts I can’t stop.
“Oh, God, no.” I press a hand to my mouth, my shoulders still shaking slightly. “Ivan is my uncle.”
Embarrassment floods Alina’s face. She covers her mouth with one hand, eyes wide with horror. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to assume… shit, I always do that. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I wave my hand, wiping at the corners of my eyes. “Honestly. That’s the funniest thing anyone’s said to me in weeks.”
In this fortress of secrets, the absurdity of someone assuming I might be involved with Ivan is so violently ridiculous, it punches straight through the tension that’s been holding me hostage for weeks.
For one blessed second, I am not the hidden niece of a man who rules Moscow in the shadows and has kept me away since my mother died.
I’m just some woman laughing with another.
Alina exhales with a short laugh of her own. A small, sheepish smile curves her mouth up. “Well, glad I could lighten the mood by being an idiot.”
I lean forward slightly, a teasing edge creeping into my voice. “Does this mean you’re with the guy who just arrived? Nikolai Malyshko or whatever?”
Alina’s chokes out a small noise. “God, no. We’re friends, that’s all.”
I hum, not entirely convinced but gracious enough not to say so.
“Friends,” I repeat.
Her smile turns wry. “I’m with someone else he and Kuznetsov know.”
“Do you normally come around here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, not really. I’m accompanying Nikolai… sort of. It’s complicated.”
“My uncle seemed on edge when he was mentioned.”
She hums softly. “That happens a lot. He’s less terrifying once you understand him.”
I study her more carefully now. There is grace in how she holds herself, a quiet poise that makes me think she’s sort of like me—has learned how to survive in uncomfortable situations by giving those around her nothing to notice to be later used against her.
She acts nothing like the women I knew in Italy.
There is no careless, languid confidence born from never having to wonder whether the people surrounding her might turn into wolves without warning.
Which means she isn’t just a guest, then.
She belongs to this world in a similar way that I do, or at least she has been pulled in enough to understand it adjacently.
I’ve found that those near men like my uncle, and maybe those like Nikolai Malyshko too, learn quickly that there is safety in being careful.
“That word seems popular in our circles,” I say.
Alina tilts her head, studying me in return. “Have you been here long? I don’t remember anyone mentioning Kuznetsov has a niece.”
I suppose I can’t blame her for being curious. If I understood anything since returning to Moscow, it’s that my existence has been treated less like lovingly being sent away to further my education elsewhere and more like classified information kept tight to the chest.
I lean back into my chair. “I went to boarding school since I was a little girl in Switzerland then immediately moved to a university in Italy. So… it’s been a while since I’ve been back here.”
Alina’s expression softens. “That sounds amazing to be that well traveled. I’ve always wanted to visit other countries but never had the opportunity to do so until recently.”
The wistfulness catches me off guard. My life abroad has been many things.
Beautiful, yes, and quite privileged. And it also has been lonely in ways I rarely let myself acknowledge.
Not many realize that being away from the place you come from can also feel like exile when it’s not your choice to begin with.
I never asked to be sent away, even if it had been marketed to me as an incredible opportunity to see the world and broaden my horizons.
As a child who had not only lost her mother but her father too, all I truly wanted was to be with my family, kept safe behind the iron-forged walls of the Kuznetsov estate.