“You see, Anna,” he said, “you’re not powerless. You’re just undisciplined.”
I flinched.
He continued, voice low. Patient.
“Power isn’t in rage. Or grief. Or loyalty. It’s in control.”
“Control you stole from me.”
“I gave you the truth.”
“You gave me a corpse.”
His smile was thin. “And what will you give me in return?”
I met his eyes. Hold them.
He looked everywhere but the bruise. As if by pretending it didn’t exist, he could erase it. Or maybe he wanted me to squirm under the weight of that silence.
I didn’t.
“My silence.”
He considered that.
Then he nodded.
“Your silence will be useful. For now.”
He stood abruptly and left without a word, his boots echoing through the house like a death march.
***
The knock was soft, hesitant, too polite for this house.
I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed fixed on the bloodstain that had already begun to set into the floorboards. No amount of scrubbing would ever clean that away.
The door creaked open anyway. Light footsteps approached, slow, cautious.
“Mrs. Romanov?”
The voice was unfamiliar. I turned slightly, just enough to see her. Mid-thirties, tall and slim, with cropped dark hair and sharp eyes that scanned the room like a soldier entering enemy terrain.She didn’t flinch at the mess, or the tension hanging in the air like smoke.
“I’m Zoya,” she said quietly. “Mr. Romanov sent me.”
Of course he did. I didn’t reply.
She moved closer, her gaze lingering on my face. “May I help you into bed?”
I wanted to scream at her to leave. But my body felt heavy, like I’d sunk into the floor. My fingers ached from gripping the arms of the wheelchair too tightly.
“Fine,” I muttered.
She moved with brisk efficiency, one hand supporting my back, the other adjusting the brakes on the chair. She was strong, professional but not unkind.
Once I was settled beneath the blankets, she knelt beside the bed and pulled out a first aid kit. “I need to clean that bruise on your jaw.”
My hand instinctively touched my cheek. “I fell.”
