Chapter 23
MARIYA
Ican't breathe.
The library—my library—is gone. Just… gone.
Where the building used to stand, there's nothing but rubble and flames.
Smoke billows into the evening sky, thick and black, and the acrid smell burns my nostrils and throat.
It's not just smoke I'm smelling. There's something chemical in the air, something toxic from melted plastic and burned electronics.
The heat reaches me even from here, waves of it rolling across the cordoned-off area, making my skin prickle with sweat despite the cool evening air.
Fire trucks surround the wreckage, their lights flashing red and blue.
The sound of sirens echoes in my ears, mixing with the roar of water and crackling fire.
Firefighters move through the debris with practiced efficiency.
Police have cordoned off the area and the yellow tape flutters in the wind, mocking cheerfulness against the destruction.
I can see everything. Every broken brick.
Every shattered window. Every piece of my old life reduced to ash.
The children's section where I'd spent hours reading to kids during storytime.
The reference desk where I'd helped countless students with their research.
The back office, where Daisy and I would sometimes eat lunch and complain about difficult patrons. All of it gone.
"Mariya." Andrey's hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid. "We should go."
I shake my head, unable to look away from the destruction. My eyes are watering from the smoke, or maybe from tears. I can't tell anymore. "Daisy."
"We don't know if anyone was inside."
"It's after hours." I grip the shopping bags in my hands tighter, the handles cutting into my palms. "The library closes at six. It's past seven now. Maybe no one was there. Maybe everyone got out."
Even as I say the words, I know I'm grasping at hope that might not exist. What if Daisy had stayed late to finish cataloging new arrivals? She did that sometimes, lost track of time when she was deep in her work. What if they're all dead because of me?
My chest tightens, and I realize I'm holding my breath. I force myself to inhale, but the smoke-filled air makes me cough. The taste of ash coats my tongue, bitter and wrong.
"Look." Andrey's voice is gentle, but firm. "They're bringing people out."
I follow his gaze and see firefighters emerging from the wreckage. They're carrying something… no, someone. A body bag. Black and zipped closed. The shape is unmistakable, the weight of it evident in how the two firefighters carry it between them with careful, respectful movements.
My stomach lurches, and I have to swallow hard to keep from throwing up. The expensive lunch we'd had between boutiques threatens to come back up. I'd felt so normal, so safe. Now it feels obscene.
They bring out another body. Then a third.
Three people. Three lives ended because someone wanted to send me a message. Three people who woke up this morning, went to work, and had no idea it would be their last day.
"This is my fault." The words come out as barely a whisper, but they feel like they're being ripped from somewhere deep inside me. "They died because of me."
"No." Andrey turns me to face him, his blue eyes intense.
His hands grip my shoulders, forcing me to look at him instead of the body bags.
"They died because someone is trying to scare you.
This wasn't about killing you, Mariya. If they'd wanted you dead, they would have waited until you were inside. This was a warning."
"A warning?" I pull away from him, anger flooding through me hot and sharp. It burns hotter than the fire behind me, consuming the numbness that had been holding me together. "Three people are dead! How is that just a warning?"
"Because you weren't one of them." His jaw tightens, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. "Whoever did this knew you weren't there. They wanted to show you what they're capable of. What they'll do if you don't cooperate."
"Cooperate with what? I don't know anything!" My voice rises, and several people in the crowd turn to look at us. I don't care. Let them stare. "I don't know where my father is. I don't know where your precious heirlooms are. I don't know anything that's worth killing innocent people over!"
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.
"Daisy asked me to get drinks with her," I continue, my voice breaking. "She wanted to be friends. And I said no because I was too busy keeping my distance, protecting myself. And now she's dead, and I never even gave her a chance."
Andrey's hand wraps around my upper arm, not painfully, but firmly enough to get my attention. "Keep your voice down."
I want to scream at him, want to hit him and rage against the unfairness of all of this. But he's right. Drawing attention to ourselves right now is the last thing we need.
I swallow the scream building in my throat and force myself to breathe. In and out. In and out. The smoke makes each breath taste like death.
The crowd presses closer. A woman records everything on her phone, eager for social media likes. A man shoves past me to get a better view. Someone behind me jokes about the library being an eyesore. It makes me sick. All these people treating tragedy like entertainment.
Someone shoves me from behind, and I stumble forward. Andrey catches me, his arm wrapping around my waist to steady me. His body is solid against mine, warm and alive.
I'm about to thank him when I see something… someone… who makes my heart stop.
Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of a man at the edge of the police tape. I'd know that profile anywhere—the shape of his jaw, the way he stands with shoulders hunched. The gray at his temples that wasn't there nine years ago.
My father.
He looks like a man at a funeral, standing still while everyone around him moves.
"Papa?" The word escapes before I can stop it, barely audible over the noise of the crowd and the fire.
My heart is pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat. It's him. I know it's him. I blink, and he's gone, vanished into the crowd like he was never there at all.
"What is it?" Andrey follows my gaze, his body tensing. His hand moves to the small of my back. "What did you see?"
"Nothing." I shake my head, trying to clear it. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, distant and hollow. "I thought I saw… but it couldn't have been."
He wouldn't be stupid enough to show up here, in public. I'm seeing things because I'm stressed and exhausted. But for a second, I could have sworn it was him.
"Come on." Andrey guides me away from the crowd, back toward where Matvey is waiting with the SUV. His hand is firm on my lower back, steering me through the press of bodies. "There's nothing more we can do here."
I let him lead me, my legs moving on autopilot. The shopping bags full of expensive clothes feel obscene now, the weight of them in my hands a reminder of how I'd spent my afternoon. Trying on dresses and shoes while someone was planting a bomb in my workplace.
The drive back to the estate passes in a blur.
I stare out the window, watching the city lights streak by, and try not to think about the last conversation I'd had with Daisy.
She'd asked me to go out for drinks after work.
"Come on, Mariya," she'd said with that bright smile of hers.
"You can't spend every evening alone. Live a little.
" I'd said no, like I always did. Made up some excuse about being tired or having other plans.
And now she's dead, and I'll never get the chance to say yes.
The guilt is crushing. It sits on my chest like a physical weight, making it hard to breathe.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch the city pass by.
People living normal lives, unaware that three people just died because of me.
I'd thought I was so smart, building a new identity.
I'd actually started to believe I could escape my father's legacy. What a fucking joke.
Matvey pulls up to the estate gates, and they swing open automatically. The house looms ahead, a prison disguised as a palace.
I head straight for the bedroom. Our bedroom. The one I now share with Andrey as his wife.
"Mariya." Andrey follows me inside, closing the door behind him. "Talk to me."
"I don't want to talk." I set the shopping bags down by the dresser, my movements mechanical. The bags tip over, spilling designer clothes across the floor. A silk dress in emerald green. Shoes that cost more than I used to make in a week. All of it is meaningless now. "I just want to be alone."
"You shouldn't be alone right now."
"Please." I turn to face him, and I can feel tears burning behind my eyes. My throat is tight, my chest aching with the effort of holding everything in. "Just… give me some space. I need to process this."
He studies my face, then nods. "I'll be in my office if you need me. This isn't your fault, Mariya."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my body too heavy to support.
The tears I've been holding back finally break free, streaming down my face in hot tracks.
I cry for Daisy, for the other two people whose names I don't even know.
I cry for the life I've lost and the safety I thought I'd built.
And I cry for myself, for being so fucking naive as to think I could ever escape my father's legacy.
My body shakes with sobs as I lie curled up on the bed. After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I force myself to stand. My legs are shaky, and my face is wet with tears. I need to change out of these clothes, wash my face, and do something normal to ground myself.
I shrug off my jacket, and as I do, something falls from the pocket and lands on the floor with a soft rustle.
A piece of paper.
I stare at it for a moment, confused. I don't remember putting anything in my pocket. The jacket is new, bought today at one of the boutiques Andrey took me to. There shouldn't be anything in the pockets. Slowly, I bend down and pick it up, unfolding it with trembling fingers.
It's a note, handwritten in a script I'd recognize anywhere. The letters are slightly cramped, the ink is black, and the paper is cheap like the kind you'd buy at any corner store.
My breath catches in my throat as I read the words scrawled across the paper. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely hold it steady. The paper crinkles in my grip, and I have to blink away tears to see the words clearly.
It's a note from my father.