And she sold me out.
She’s been sitting across from me in therapy sessions, pretending to help me recover my memory while secretly evaluating my mental state for Viktor.
Every personal confession I made to her, every moment of vulnerability I shared about my confusion and fear, has been documented and reported back to our handler.
The betrayal cuts deeper than Dmitri’s. I expected it from him; he’s a criminal. But Anya? She was supposed to care about me, not my operational value.
Instead, she’s been playing therapist while I’ve been drowning in confusion about my identity.
And Pavel. Pavel Romanov. The name that seemed familiar when I met him.
Agent Romanov. My partner in deep cover operations. The man I’ve worked with on various assignments for three years.
They’re all here. My handler, my partner, and my psychological evaluator. All operating under false identities while I’ve been living as Dmitri’s wife.
But none of them extracted me. None of them revealed my identity or attempted a rescue operation.
They’ve been watching me, testing me, and evaluating me like a lab rat in an experiment I don’t understand.
The bathroom door slams behind me, and I barely make it to the toilet before losing what little breakfast I ate this morning.
The physical reaction to remembering my real identity leaves me shaking and empty, but at least the nausea gives me an excuse for the sounds Dmitri might have heard.
When I emerge from the bathroom, he’s standing in the hallway, looking concerned.
“You look terrible. Maybe we should call Dr. Sokolova.”
“No.” The response comes out too fast, too violent. “I mean, I’m just tired from the trip. Some rest will help.”
“Are you sure? You seem…”
“I seem what?”
“I don’t know. Different.”
The accuracy of his observation terrifies me.
He’s been watching me closely enough to recognize the signs of memory recovery, which means he knows this moment would eventually come.
“I’m the same person I was yesterday.”
He narrows his eyes at my phrasing and asks, “Are you?”
Shit. He knows. Somehow, he knows that I’m remembering things I’m not supposed to remember.
“What kind of question is that?”
“The kind a husband asks when his wife starts looking at him like she’s trying to figure out whether to trust him.”
“Should I trust you?”
“That’s up to you.”
The non-answer confirms everything I’ve been piecing together. Everything between us is built on lies and half-truths, and I’m starting to see how deep it goes.
“I need some time alone,” I tell him.
“Of course. I have business to attend to anyway.”
