Page 47

Ihad to pry myself out of bed after last night, after she lay with me, her skin soft beneath my hands even hours later. I've been awake since dawn, standing at the window of my study, watching the security patrols cycle through their endless rotations while her scent lingers on my clothes, my sheets, my fucking soul.

Last night changed something. Not just the obvious—the way she came apart in my arms, the way she whispered my name when I buried myself inside her—but something deeper. Something that makes my chest tight when I remember how she looked after, curled against me like she belonged there, like she'd finally found her way home.

She hasn't ever belonged to me. Not the way I've told myself she has, not the way I've convinced everyone else she does. But last night, for those few hours between midnight and dawn, she was mine completely. No games, no manipulation, no carefully orchestrated moves designed to keep her here against her will. Just her choice, raw and honest and devastating in its simplicity.

And tonight, I'm going to destroy that.

The irony tastes bitter as yesterday's coffee. I've spent months maneuvering her into position, setting up the perfect scenario to keep her and Nikolai exactly where I want them. The illusion of hope—designed to give her something to lose so that the fear of losing it would break her just enough to make her stay.

But she's already staying, isn't she? Not because she has to, not because I've trapped her here, but because some part of her wants to. I saw it in her eyes last night, the moment she realized she didn't actually want to leave. The moment she understood that her fear isn't about being trapped here—it's about what staying here means for our son.

Smart woman. Smarter than I gave her credit for.

Nikolai is the real prize, of course. Always has been. My heir, my legacy, the one person in this world who carries my blood without carrying my sins. Yet. But keeping him means keeping her, and keeping her means accepting that she'll never forgive me for the things I've done to make it happen.

Small price to pay. Or so I tell myself.

The day drags on, and the track is silent when we arrive, closed to the public as promised. Only essential staff and a handful of carefully chosen guests—Misha, a few loyal lieutenants, the kind of men who understand the importance of witnessing moments like this. The floodlights cast everything in stark white relief, turning the dirt oval into something that looks more like an arena than a racetrack.

I take my seat in the private viewing box, the same spot I've watched a thousand races from, but tonight feels different. Tonight feels final.

Anya and Nikolai arrive in silence, crossing the concrete walkway with the measured pace of condemned prisoners. She's dressed simply—dark jeans, a black sweater that makes her skin look pale as moonlight, boots that are practical rather thanfashionable. Her hair is pulled back severely, no makeup, no attempt to make herself appealing. She looks like a woman who's already accepted defeat.

Nikolai, by contrast, is practically vibrating with excitement. The Vetrov cap I gave him yesterday is too big for his head, the brim falling down over his eyes every few steps, but he keeps pushing it up and grinning. His small hand is wrapped around hers, and I can see him chattering away even from this distance, though the words are lost in the evening air.

My son. Five years old and already showing signs of the Vetrov charm, the easy confidence that comes from knowing you're important, that people pay attention when you speak. He has my eyes, my stubborn chin, but Anya's smile, her laugh, her capacity for joy even in the darkest circumstances.

He deserves better than this. Better than a father who rigs races and manipulates the people he claims to love. Better than a legacy built on blood and betrayal and the kind of compromises that eat away at your soul one decision at a time.

But better isn't what I'm offering. Better isn't what the Vetrov name provides. What I'm offering is power, protection, the kind of security that comes from being feared rather than loved. It's what my father offered me, what his father offered him, stretching back through generations of men who chose strength over sentiment every single time.

They take their seats across the track, in the general viewing area rather than joining me in the private box. Anya's choice, obviously. Even now, even after last night, she's maintaining distance. Brilliant woman. Smarter than I deserve.

The horses are brought out for the parade, and I watch Nikolai's face light up as they pass. Storm's Fury looks magnificent under the lights, all power and controlled aggression, the kind of animal that was born to win. The filly—Dancing Queen, her papers say, though Anya calls hersomething else—is smaller, more delicate, but there's fire in her eyes that reminds me of her owner.

Under different circumstances, it might actually be an interesting race. The filly has speed, heart, the kind of determination that sometimes overcomes superior breeding and training. Sometimes. But not tonight. Tonight, her jockey has very specific instructions about how this ends, and fifty thousand rubles in his pocket to make sure he follows them.

The starting gates clang open, and they're off.

Storm's Fury pulls ahead early, as expected. He's always been a front-runner, likes to set the pace and dare the others to catch him. The filly settles into third place, patient, waiting for her moment. I find myself watching Anya more than the race, studying her profile as she leans forward slightly, hands clasped in her lap.

She believes. Despite everything, despite the impossibility of the situation, she still believes her horse can win. The faith in her expression is heartbreaking and beautiful and makes me feel like the bastard I've always known myself to be.

Halfway through the race, Dancing Queen makes her move. She swings wide around the final turn, closing ground with every stride, and for a moment—just a moment—I think she might actually do it. Might actually overcome the odds and the bribes and the carefully orchestrated outcome I've arranged.

But then her jockey does what he's paid to do. Nothing dramatic, nothing obvious to the casual observer. Just a slight easing of pressure on the reins, a subtle shift in position that breaks her rhythm. She falters, just for a heartbeat, but it's enough. Storm's Fury crosses the finish line two lengths ahead, victorious once again.

The results post immediately. Official. Final. Irrevocable.

I turn to look at Anya, expecting tears, expecting anger, expecting some kind of reaction that will make me feel justifiedin what I've done. Instead, she simply nods once, like she's confirming something she already knew. Then she bends down, picks up Nikolai, and starts walking toward the car.

She doesn't look at me, doesn't look at anyone, just gathers our son in her arms and walks away with the kind of dignity that makes my throat tight with something I refuse to acknowledge as guilt.

I let her go. What else can I do? Follow her? Gloat? Explain that this was always how it was going to end, that her hope was just another weapon I used against her? The victory feels hollow already, meaningless in the face of her quiet acceptance.

The ride back to the estate stretches endlessly. Anya sits next to me, staring out the window at the darkened countryside, silent as stone. Between us, Nikolai chatters away about the horses, the race, the excitement of staying up past his bedtime to watch grown-up things happen.

"Did you see how fast they ran,Batya? Did you see Dancing Queen almost catch up? She was so brave, wasn't she? Even though she didn't win, she was still brave."