Ruslan
The cabin has settled into a rhythm. That is perhaps the most dangerous part of all this.
A week ago, I was attending political functions, threatening my half-brother, and preparing to destroy a man’s career. Now I spend my mornings splitting wood, my afternoons walking mountain trails, and my evenings arguing with Emma about the correct way to build a fire.
She is wrong, naturally. Unfortunately, she remains convinced otherwise.
The first time I caught her arranging kindling, I tried to offer advice. Ten minutes later, we were standing in front of a smoking woodstove debating airflow like opposing attorneys.
The fire eventually started, but I’m not willing to admit she might have had a part in that success.
The memory almost makes me smile. It’s this part of being with her, when her sassy, hard-ass side comes out, that something in me gravitates toward her like a moon toward a planet.
This morning, the newspaper resting in my lap ruins the mood. We’ve been in West River, or just outside of it, for a total of six days.
I sink deeper into the worn armchair beside the cabin window and flip to the next page. The paper itself is local, but the story has been syndicated elsewhere.
Apparently, my return to Colorado remains excellent entertainment, despite the fact that we’re not in Denver anymore. The headline is irritating:
MYSTERY WOMAN CAPTURES SMIRNOV HEART—AND WALLET?
Creative. Something in me cringes at the idea of the smug doctor in West River seeing this.
Beneath the headline is a photograph of Emma and me back in Denver, simply walking on the street. She looks tired and annoyed, which somehow makes me even angrier, because I’ve been wasting all this time making her not happy.
I toss the paper onto the growing pile beside the chair.
There are six others beneath it.
Every morning, one of my people in Denver collects whatever garbage has been printed and sends photographs directly to my phone. Physical copies arrive the next day through more discreet channels.
At first, I thought it useful—knowing what was happening, if anyone noticed we were gone. Now it feels like torture.
I pick up my phone and scroll through another article. This one is worse.
Former Politician’s Ex Linked to Fashion Mogul.
A second photograph accompanies it. Emma standing beside me outside the museum gala. The article speculates about her motives, her intelligence, and her background. They haven’t been able to find much on her, which clinches what I already know of her past.
I just wish she’d tell me herself. It feels like the last bridge keeping us apart.
The very last line of the article speculates if she got pregnant on purpose. The implication makes my blood pressure rise immediately.
I know exactly where this is coming from.
Andrei.
The man has spent his entire adult life manipulating public perception. He understands politics better than I ever will, and politicians do not fight the way criminals do.
They smile. They leak stories. They let reporters do the dirty work.
Knowing that doesn’t make it less infuriating.
Across the room, Emma appears carrying two mugs of coffee. She sees my expression, then glances at the papers.
At least one of us has the fortitude not to read them.
“Bad?” she asks.
I laugh humorlessly. “Define bad.”
She hands me a mug before peering down at the headline currently displayed on my screen.
“Oh. That’s…creative.”
“It’s slander.”
“Not exactly, Rus. They just finally connected the dots—that I dated Andrei before…” She trails off, a pretty blush on her cheeks again. How did she make it in the FBI? Maybe that’s what happened; they let her go for blushing too much.
“Before what?” I ask, curious what made her tongue dart out to lick her lips. Her eyes rove down my chest and thighs before she puts down a coffee cup and moves across to the couch.
“Before you and I met,” she answers tightly, and I can’t help smirking back. I know that met isn’t what she was thinking about when she thought about what she and I have done.
I set the phone aside.
The problem isn’t the articles themselves. I can survive articles. What bothers me is what they represent.
Momentum. Andrei has it right now. Every day the stories become more aggressive, and reporters will have to look deeper into me. My life, my business.
That’s the last thing I want.
Every day I remain hidden in these mountains while he controls the conversation. The sensation is disturbingly familiar.
Years ago, watching opportunities disappear while Andrei shaped the story. Watching doors close. Watching people choose him and ice me out until I had to fly halfway across the country.
The memory settles heavily in my chest.
Outside, the peaceful morning is turning somehow even more peaceful as a light rain starts. We both look up and out at the patter.
It’s as if the world beyond these mountains does not exist.
“Rus.” Emma points toward something beyond the glass. “A woodpecker.”
I stand, caught off guard by the change in conversation, and lean toward the window. She’s right. Sure enough, a small bird is hammering enthusiastically at a tree near the edge of the clearing.
Emma smiles. “It’s been there all morning. I was watching it while the coffee brewed.”
I stare at it. The bird continues its work despite the rain, making the leaves tremble overhead.
For a brief moment, I’m lost in the normalcy of the day.
Then my phone vibrates, and the spell breaks immediately.
Another message. Another article. Another reminder that I can’t hide here.
My attention returns to the screen, and I can hear Emma deflate with disappointment only feet away, her hands wrapped around the coffee mug. The sigh that comes out of her makes me feel slightly guilty.
Not guilty enough to stop reading.
The latest headline appears: QUESTIONS REMAIN ABOUT SMIRNOV PREGNANCY SCANDAL.
I set the phone down harder than necessary, and the coffee on the side table sloshes. Across from me, Emma’s smile disappears.
Then she asks the question I’ve been avoiding.
“Do you think he’s winning?”
I answer abruptly: “Yes.”
That’s the problem. For the first time since returning to Colorado, I feel like I’m reacting instead of acting.
Like Andrei is dictating the pace.
Years ago, he forced me out of this state. Now, despite everything I’ve built, despite the empire waiting for me in California, despite the resources at my disposal, I find myself wondering whether he can do it again.
Sooner or later, I am going to have to pull the trigger.
* * *
Frank arrives two days later. I hear the vehicle before I see it: the low growl of an expensive engine winding its way up the mountain road. Emma is standing beside me on the porch with her arms crossed and her eyebrows tight. Together we watch a vintage Lincoln appear from beneath the trees.
The moment Frank climbs out, he stops and stares at the cabin.
Then he stares at me.
Then back at the cabin.
His expression grows increasingly horrified.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Emma tucks her chin to hide a smile. I close my eyes briefly.
Frank marches toward us, expensive wool coat flapping dramatically around his knees. He gestures at the structure as though I’ve personally offended him.
“This is where you’ve been hiding?”
“It seems to have served its purpose. The press hasn’t found us, have they?”
“Let me guess. There’s only one bathroom.”
Emma chimes in helpfully, “And just a shower; no tub.”
“There are two bedrooms.” My voice is louder than necessary, cutting off Frank’s response, his mouth still open as he scoffs.
“I wasn’t discussing bedrooms.”
Emma is openly laughing now, bumping against me as she loosens up, and I can’t help the ghost of a smile as well.
Frank looks at her, clearly delighted to have found a sympathetic audience.
“See? She understands.”
“I do not,” Emma manages between laughs. “It’s actually been really nice here. I’ve been…worse places.”
Her eyes cut away. The predator in me goes still, wondering: Is this it? Is this when she’ll finally let the past slip into the present?
“I’m surprised at you, Emma. Running away with a man who has no appreciation for luxury.”
I glance toward the mountains. The pines. The river winding through the valley below.
Then back toward Frank.
“You own fourteen cashmere scarves. Remember when you told me to figure out what has real value in life?”
“They’re different scarves. Different brands, Ruslan.”
For the first time in days, the tension in my chest eases as Frank steps up onto the porch, grasping my upper arm in greeting.
Eventually, he allows himself to be shown inside, though not before delivering several more critiques about the cabin’s lack of amenities. By lunchtime he’s claimed the armchair near the window, reorganized the kitchen, and informed Emma that my coffee-making technique is barbaric.
She seems delighted by all of it.
Traitor.
Later that afternoon, while Emma helps the caretaker collect firewood for the next few days, I find Frank standing alone near the tree line overlooking the valley. The mountains stretch endlessly beyond us.
For several moments neither of us speaks. Then Frank sighs.
“So.”
I already know where this conversation is headed, but I decide to humor him.
“So.”
“You’re really leaving.”
“Yes.”
His expression turns serious. The humor disappears. “For how long?”
“A few days.” I hesitate. “Maybe a week.”
Frank nods slowly. Both of us know I can’t put a realistic timeline on what has to be done—on what Andrei will do, or attempt to do, once he realizes what I’ve put in motion.
“What are you planning?”
The question hangs between us. I watch the wind move through the trees below. I’ve known Frank for a long time. He holds some of my best secrets, but this one, I’m reluctant to hand over.
Finally, I answer.
“What I should have done from the beginning.”
Frank’s jaw tightens.
“Rus.”
“I’m not exposing Kate.” The words come immediately, sharp as a knife’s edge, defensive. His shoulders relax slightly.
“Then how?”
Some things feel safer left unsaid. Frank studies me for a long moment before nodding. He understands anyway, at least as much as he can.
“You finally figured out what matters.”
It isn’t phrased as a question. I glance toward the cabin.
Emma is visible through the kitchen window, talking with the caretaker. Her hands move animatedly as she speaks, and even from this distance I can see her smile.
“Yes.”
Frank follows my gaze. A knowing expression appears on his face, even though it mirrors the compass that seems to have suddenly appeared in my chest. I hate him a little bit for seeing through me so easily.
“About time.”
I roll my eyes, but he ignores me, launching into a warning.
“What you’re about to do—”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice sharpens. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t look so miserable.”
That earns a humorless laugh. Because he’s right, I don’t feel victorious or relieved. I feel like a man preparing to walk into a storm.
Unable to ignore the fact that twilight is settling in, I turn toward Frank. A car will be here for me soon.
“I’ll keep her safe.”
It’s a promise that makes his expression soften.
“I know you will.”
I shake my head. “Not Emma.”
His eyebrows lift.
“The baby.”
Then Frank smiles sadly.
“There it is.”
For years, revenge has been the thing driving me forward. Now, for the first time, it isn’t.