18. Alina
ALINA
T he estate feels too quiet tonight.
I’ve been pacing the length of my room for nearly an hour now, retracing the same path over and over again. Twenty-three steps from the window to the door, turn, twenty-three back. My feet move on instinct, worn into the carpet by restless repetition, my thoughts spiraling faster with every lap.
Sasha has been home from his meeting for hours.
I know because I saw when he arrived. I heard the distant echo of doors opening and closing from the dining room when I’d been in the middle of lunch, the low murmur of voices that cut off too quickly for me to hear what had caused him to leave so suddenly in the first place.
I waited for his footsteps to head toward the dining room to find me.
Waited for him to appear once I lifted my head from my soup bowl.
But he never came.
After the last time we slept together, I thought something had finally changed.
Not fixed—nothing between us could ever be that simple—but…
shifted, at least. I thought the distance he’d put between us after the first time had finally righted itself, that the walls he rebuilt so quickly might have finally fractured for good.
I thought he would come to me, not necessarily with apologies or explanations—Sasha isn’t the type to offer those easily—but with something that proved that last time hadn’t been a mistake he intended to bury and forget.
Instead, he’s stayed away.
Again.
The hurt sneaks up on me, sharp and unwelcome.
I stop pacing and press my hands to the window, staring out at the dark grounds below.
Snow glows faintly beneath the estate lights, the world outside deceptively calm despite the turmoil.
Somewhere in this house, he’s moving through his domain like nothing has changed, while I’m here twisting myself into knots, replaying every word, every touch, every breath we shared.
What stings the most isn’t just that he hasn’t come. It’s that he hasn’t said anything at all. There’s been no explanation, no boundary drawn. Nothing like last time. It’s just been heavy silence.
Did either of us plan to fall back into each other’s arms again? Of course not. But planning, or the lack of it, doesn’t erase what has happened. We crossed that line again knowing full well the damage it could do.
If, for him, it was just another moment of weakness needing to be stamped out, another mistake to lock away behind iron discipline and colder distance, he should just say so.
If ignoring me is his way of pretending it never happened and that it never mattered enough to disrupt his carefully controlled world, I have a right to know.
I drag a hand through my hair and exhale shakily.
Then again, asking anything like that of Sasha Sokolov is next to impossible.
The worst part is that I don’t even know what I want from him anymore. An apology wouldn’t change the truth between us. But this limbo, this aching uncertainty, is unbearable in a way I hadn’t prepared for.
We already fell into each other, whether we meant to or not.
And now there is no going back.
My eyes drift toward the door, toward the dark stretch of hallway beyond it, and the decision settles slowly in my chest.
Maybe it would be better to face him. Not after I’ve worked myself into another sleepless spiral or rehearsed a hundred imaginary conversations that end with my saying nothing at all. Now. Tonight .
Forcing him to give me an answer, even one I don’t want, would be better than living in this suspended state where nothing changes.
Uncertainty has always been my greatest enemy.
It gnaws and festers until it becomes something unmanageable.
At least truth, no matter how brutal, has an end I can brace myself against.
Confronting the truth would force us to look at what exists between us objectively, strip away the heat of stolen moments and the desperation of grief and see what remains when all that’s left is fact.
I’m not naive enough to believe Sasha is capable of the kind of softness I once dreamed of in a life partner. The fairytale I carried with me as a girl, the gentle love and safety, was never meant for someone like him.
But… maybe it was never meant for me, either.
Maybe my one true fairytale was never going to look like the stories I grew up on.
Maybe I was always destined for something darker and more complicated.
Maybe it took being sold into it, ripped out of the life I thought I wanted, to finally see the one I was not only meant to survive but to fall for too.
I blow out a slow breath and move toward the door.
I press my ear to the wood and listen. There’s nothing.
The hallway beyond is silent. Lately, the guards who used to linger outside my door have been conspicuously absent.
I don’t know whether that’s Sasha growing lax with my security or an intentional change meant to lull me into a false sense of freedom, but I’m not about to question it before using it to my advantage.
I turn the handle slowly, easing the door open just enough to peek through the gap. The corridor is empty, lit only by the soft glow of wall sconces casting long, distorted shadows along the carpet. I step out and pull the door closed behind me, the latch clicking softly into place.
The sound seems impossibly loud in the stillness, but nothing stirs.
I move down the hallway quietly, my bare feet barely making a sound. When I reach the staircase, I don’t hesitate. I take the steps two at a time, my pulse thrumming louder with every descent until the main floor opens up before me.
The estate at night feels different. I move through it like a trespasser in my own captivity, guided by instinct rather than familiarity.
I haven’t been to Sasha’s office since the last time I stood inside it and discovered the paperwork that shattered my world. Since the night I learned the truth about my mother and realized just how deeply my father’s betrayal ran.
At this point, it’s in the past now.
There is nothing either Sasha or I can do to undo what’s already been done. No confession, no punishment, no reckoning will ever bring her back. However, unlike my father, Sasha doesn’t seem to relish being the cause of her demise.
He doesn’t polish the memory into something palatable or necessary. He doesn’t dress it up as sacrifice or pretend it was a noble act committed for the greater good. There is no boasting about it in private moments to justify it with ambition the way Viktor does.
Sasha treats it like what it is—a completed transaction. Something sealed and buried, never to be reopened unless absolutely necessary.
That doesn’t absolve him, but it tells me something about the kind of man he is.
While I don’t sense guilt in the traditional sense, at least not the kind that keeps someone awake at night or sends them crawling toward forgiveness, I do sense regret. I know if I were to press him about it, really press him, I know he’d hesitate.
Sasha Sokolov does not hesitate often. He is a man built on decisiveness and certainty, on the belief that doubt is a luxury he cannot afford.
So the fact that I know he would matters.
It’s not remorse, but it is acknowledgment for the pain he’s caused me, even if I had never been the direct target.
For someone like him, that is as close to a guilty plea as I will ever get. It’s enough for me to understand that while he pulled the trigger my father loaded, he refuses to celebrate the echo it left behind.
When I find my way down the hallway leading to Sasha’s study, the faint glow beneath the door stops me short.
It stretches across the floor in a thin, stubborn line of light, cutting through the darkness. It’s the only proof I need that he’s awake and working, refusing sleep the same way I have.
It’s ridiculous, really, the longing that tightens in my chest at the simple knowledge that he’s on the other side of that door. He hasn’t sought me out or explained himself, yet here I am, drawn to him like a moth to something that has already burned me once.
Call me a masochist if it helps make sense of it.
The more I tell myself to turn back and return to my room and wait for him to come find me when he’s ready, to let the night pass the way all the others have, the more the restlessness sharpens. It crawls under my skin, needling at my nerves until it becomes unbearable.
So I move.
My steps are careful as I approach the door, my body remembering long before my mind does the last time I lingered outside a closed door in this house, listening when I shouldn’t have been. The consequences had been swift.
Hopefully, tonight will be different.
The wood is cool beneath my palm when I press my hand against it, grounding myself for a moment. Then I lean in, just enough to catch the soft murmur of voices on the other side.
One of them is Sasha’s. I would know it anywhere. The other belongs to Lena.
My stomach tightens.
Whatever they’re discussing isn’t trivial.
I can hear it in the rise and fall of Lena’s voice, the sharp edge that creeps in when she’s trying to convince rather than command.
I can hear it in Sasha’s responses too, stripped of the warmth he rarely gives but does not entirely withhold from her.
This isn’t a debate over territory lines or shipments. This is something much heavier.
I draw in a shallow breath and lower myself to the floor, moving slowly.
My knees press into the marble as I fold myself down until I’m flush with the ground.
The position is awkward, but I don’t care.
I inch closer to the door and press my ear against the narrow strip of space between the door and the floor, the sounds sharpening instantly.
Lena’s voice comes through first. “Nikolai wants it clean. He isn’t going to give you long. You know that. Going up against his authority will start a war.”
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
War?