I slide into the passenger seat as my mind races with everything Marina said. If even half of it is true, my life is a lie. My marriage, my identity, my supposed recovery… all of it is fabricated.
The question is why. What did I see or do or know that made Dmitri decide I needed to become someone else?
And what happens when I remember who I really am?
9
Dmitri
Lock her down, and she only pushes harder.
Every new rule makes Katya more suspicious.
No leaving the penthouse without my permission and with a two-man escort.
No chatting with building staff, who might say the wrong things about my business operations or her sudden appearance in my life.
No access to phones, computers, or communication with the outside world without direct supervision.
I’ve stationed guards in the lobby with clear instructions that Mrs. Kozlov is not to exit the building alone under any circumstances.
The penthouse has become her world, with every entrance and exit monitored, and every interaction controlled.
I frame it all as concern for her delicate condition after the accident, of course. The stress of trying to recover lost memories.The danger of overwhelming her healing brain with too much outside stimulation. The need to protect her from people who might take advantage of her vulnerable state.
What I don’t tell her is that every restriction exists to prevent her from discovering the truth about Alexandra Volkova.
She’s pacing the living room like a caged animal, testing the boundaries of her invisible prison. This morning, I watch her circle the space for the third time in an hour, her movements becoming more agitated with each pass.
“I need fresh air,” she announces as she stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Moscow. “Just a walk around the block. Nothing crazy.”
I don’t look up from my tablet as I answer, “The doctors said you should limit physical exertion while your brain heals. Besides, it’s cold outside. You don’t want to risk getting sick on top of everything else.”
“I’m not made of glass, Dmitri.”
“No, but you’re recovering from severe head trauma.”
She huffs and turns from the window to face me, and I catch something dangerous in her posture. The way she plants her feet shoulder-width apart, how her hands hang loose at her sides, and the slight forward lean of her shoulders. It’s subtle but unmistakable.
A combat stance.
“What if I promise to stay close to the building? Just fifteen minutes.”
“What if you promise to trust me when I say it’s not a good idea right now?”
“What if I don’t want to?”
We both know she’s no longer asking about a walk around the block.
“Then I’d remind you that I’m the one who knows what’s best for your recovery process.”
“According to who?”
“According to Doctor Orlov. According to me. According to everyone who remembers your condition before the accident.”
She flinches but rebounds faster than most people would. Another sign that she’s not the helpless victim I’ve been pretending she is.
Maybe my brother was onto something.
