12. Alina #2
The estate feels impossibly far away all of a sudden, like this room exists in a vacuum where only the two of us remain.
I remember the night he told me about her, how it had slipped out of him unguarded during one of my worst moments.
I’d been kneeling over the toilet dry-heaving because my stomach was empty but my body refused to accept food.
He’d stood there awkwardly and uncertain, then handed me a glass of water and said, almost to himself, I had a daughter once.
She used to get sick like this too when she wouldn’t eat.
I don’t know why he trusted me with that.
Maybe out of pity, or guilt. Maybe because he saw something of her in me.
Using it against him now makes my chest ache with shame. It feels manipulative, cruel. But desperation has a way of shaping your morals into something unrecognizable, and I don’t have the luxury of being gentle anymore.
“I just need to talk to him. I need to hear the truth from him. Not Sasha. Him .” I say, my voice cracking despite my efforts.
Lev closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. When he opens them again, something has shifted. Not fully. He’s still a man bound by orders, still a soldier first, but the edge of his resolve has softened. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep.
“You have no idea what you’re asking,” he murmurs.
“I do, and I’m asking anyway.”
He exhales, slow and resigned. “I can only guarantee you two hours. No more. If he finds out I helped you, we’ll both be dead. Do you understand?”
“I won’t let him,” I say immediately.
It’s a lie, or maybe just hope dressed up as confidence, but Lev nods like he wants to believe it too.
“Finish your food,” he says gruffly, already turning away. “We’ll leave once you’re done.”
The door closes behind him, and I sag back against the headboard, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might tear through my chest.
I stare at the tray beside me.
For the first time in days, I pick up the spoon.
The city looks different after weeks of captivity.
Gray buildings loom under a sky that seems permanently overcast, as if Moscow itself has decided not to bother pretending anymore to be happy.
Traffic moves in steady veins through the streets, headlights flickering like distant stars.
People cross intersections in thick coats and scarves, their breath puffing white into the air, their lives continuing with a stubborn indifference that feels almost cruel.
That normalcy stings more than I thought it would. It’s a reminder that I wasn’t taken from the world. I was simply removed from it, erased from the daily rhythm without so much as a ripple in the flow of time moving forward.
Lev drives in silence.
He takes the side streets, avoiding the main roads.
The engine hums, low and steady, his hands locked tightly around the steering wheel.
His jaw is clenched so hard, I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, a vein pulsing at his temple like a warning.
Every red light makes him tense. I don’t know how he managed to talk the other guards into letting me leave the estate, but I’m not going to question anything.
Neither of us speaks.
What could we say?
I press my forehead lightly against the cold glass of the window and watch the skyline crawl closer block by block.
The city I used to love slides past me in fragments—cafés where I studied between classes, the bookstore where I spent too much money on paperbacks over break, the park where my friends and I used to complain about our professors and our futures like any of it actually mattered.
I used to walk these streets freely. Now I’m being smuggled through them like contraband.
Everything feels warped. Distorted . Like looking back on a dream you once cherished, only to realize something rotten was always lurking beneath it. I don’t recognize my own reflection when I catch it in the glass. I look paler, my eyes too old for my face.
When we turn, the familiar road unfurls ahead of us, narrow and lined with bare trees. My stomach clenches hard enough that I have to press a hand against it. This road has always led home, but now it feels like somewhere else entirely.
Our family home rises at the end of the long drive.
The wrought-iron gates loom, tall and intricate, curling into elaborate patterns that once filled me with a sense of pride. They were designed by my mother, pieces of her that reflected her mark on this place long after she’d left this earth.
Now they feel like prison bars.
The guards at the gate step forward as the car slows.
They recognize Lev first, then me. I see the flicker of confusion cross their faces, followed by surprise as they exchange looks.
For a split second, I think they might stop us.
That they’ll raise their weapons or call someone to come down and chase us away.
To my surprise, though, they don’t. They open up the gates and let us through.
Lev doesn’t hesitate to drive us through. He parks the car right at the front doors, shifting it into park without killing the engine. I open the door and step out into the cold, the snowy gravel crunching under my boots sounding far too loud in the silence.
“Two hours,” he reminds me.
I nod, shutting the door with a soft click.
Returning to my family home is… disorienting.
The front doors swing open with the same quiet efficiency they always have, polished wood gliding on silent hinges as if nothing in the world has changed.
The foyer greets me just as it always did.
High ceilings, wood floors gleaming beneath soft recessed lighting, the faint echo of my footsteps bouncing off walls lined with framed photographs and curated art.
This is the space where I grew up. The place where I used to kick off my shoes without a second thought, laughing as I raced up the stairs two at a time with my backpack slung over one shoulder and my head full of nothing more complicated than homework deadlines and weekend plans.
Where my mother’s voice used to drift from the sitting room, reminding me not to run or be late for dinner.
The smells are the same too, the faint hint of citrus cleaner and expensive perfume that clings to the air, no matter the season. It’s all so familiar, it almost hurts. Muscle memory takes over as my body moves through the space, expecting warmth and safety. Expecting… home .
Staff appear as they always do, materializing quietly from the corners of the house. Someone reaches for my coat the moment the doors close behind me. Another offers to take my bag. Their smiles are polite, practiced and unchanged.
But everything is wrong.
I feel like a ghost moving through my own life.
The walls seem closer somehow, pressing in instead of sheltering me from the outside world. Every familiar object feels like a prop on a stage set, carefully arranged to sell a story that no longer exists. I can see the seams now, the cracks I was too young and trusting to notice before.
This house doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. It feels like it belongs to him .
My father’s presence lingers in every corner, heavier than it ever did when I lived here.
His power saturates the space now, tainting it.
I can’t look at the furniture without wondering what deals were signed over it.
I can’t smell the coffee without thinking about the phone calls he took in the mornings, his voice low and urgent, promising things he had no right to give away.
Everything is the same and yet nothing is, all in the same breath.
I am not the same girl who left this house weeks ago.
Now I know what he’s capable of. I know what this place really is—a beautiful shell built to hide behind.
A museum of lies polished to perfection.
Walking back into it feels like stepping into a memory that’s been poisoned, the sweetness replaced with something sour and unforgivable.
I stand there for a moment too long and realize with chilling clarity that this was never home.
It was just the first cage I’d be forced into.
I find him in his office.
He’s always in his office pretending to work, pretending to hold the crumbling pieces of his empire together with nothing but sheer will and carefully chosen optics, playing king in a kingdom that’s been dying from the inside for years.
The door is half closed when I reach it, and even before I step inside, the smell hits me.
Liquor.
It clings to the room like a second skin, layered beneath the scents of leather and expensive cologne. He’s on a call when I walk in, eyes glued to his laptop. I don’t bother eavesdropping what is being said as I slam the door shut behind me.
The sound echoes like a gunshot.
He jolts in his chair, head snapping up so fast he nearly knocks his glass over. For a split second, his face is stripped bare. Shock, fear, and something dangerously close to guilt flickers across his features before he schools them back into composure.
“Alina?” he says, ending his phone call abruptly before rising from his seat. “What are you… how did you…?”
I don’t wait for him to finish. I step forward and set the pictures I’d taken from that accursed file down on his desk right in front of him.
His eyes drop to them.
Surprise flashes first, then panic. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The practiced confusion slides into place like a mask he’s worn so long, it fits better than his own face. He lifts one brow, sitting back down in his chair as if mildly inconvenienced rather than caught red-handed.
“What is this?” he asks calmly.
My voice trembles, but it’s not from weakness. It’s fury vibrating so hard through my chest, I’m afraid my sternum might crack under the pressure. “I’m not here to confirm or deny the truth. I already know what happened. All I want to know is why .”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Where did you get these?”
“Why did you have her killed?” I spit the words out.