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KATARINA

The blue glow of multiple monitors bathes my office in an ethereal light as I scan through lines of code. My cybersecurity startup's latest project demands attention. Still, my mind drifts to the text from my father sitting unanswered on my phone.

A knock at my door breaks my concentration. “Ms. Lebedev, your three o'clock is here.”

“Thanks, Sarah. Send them in.” I minimize the code and straighten my blazer, pushing thoughts of my father aside.

Two men in crisp suits enter, their polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. The older one extends his hand. “Ms. Lebedev, I'm David Chen from VentureTech.”

I shake his hand, noting his firm grip. “Please, have a seat.”

“Your proposal for blockchain-based security solutions is impressive.” He opens his laptop. “Though some of our investors expressed concerns about... certain family connections.”

My jaw tightens. Of course they did. “My company operates independently, Mr. Chen. The Lebedev name might open doors, but I've walked through them on my own merit.”

“Your father's reputation?—”

“Has nothing to do with my work.” I pull up our latest security framework on the conference room screen. “This is what should interest your investors. We've developed a quantum-resistant encryption protocol that's years ahead of the competition.”

David leans forward, his earlier hesitation forgotten as I walk him through the technical specifications. This is my world—ones and zeros, clean code, transparent transactions. No blood money, no favors owed, no bodies buried in concrete.

My phone buzzes again. Father's number. I silence it without looking.

“Your commitment to legitimate business is admirable,” David says, closing his laptop. “But you understand our need for due diligence.”

“Absolutely.” I stand, smoothing my skirt. “And you'll find that everything about LebedevTech is above board. I've made sure of it.”

After they leave, I finally read Father's message: “Family dinner. Tonight. Non-negotiable.”

I delete it and turn back to my code. He can't force me to be what he wants anymore. I've built something real here, something clean. And I'm not letting anyone drag me back into that darkness.

I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my office window, watching Boston's skyline fade into dusk. The city lights remind me of the strings of code I've been staring at—each one a point of light in a vast network. However, unlike my clean algorithms, the web of connections in this city is tangled with my father's influence.

My Louboutins click against the marble as I head to the elevator. The security guard nods, and I catch his quick glance at the gun holster under his jacket. Father's men, always watching. Protection, he calls it. A cage, I know it to be.

The drive home in my Tesla feels too short. My penthouse offers a different view of the same city—higher, more removed. Like I try to be. The invitation to tonight's charity gala sits on my kitchen counter, embossed letters catching the light. “Supporting Victims of Organized Crime.” The irony doesn't escape me.

I step into my walk-in closet, fingers trailing over designer dresses. Each one was purchased with my own money that I worked hard to make, anything I had from my father has been returned. The black Valentino I select costs enough to feed a family for months.

In my bathroom, I start my makeup routine, the familiar motions automatic. “You can't save everyone,” Father always says when I mention my charitable work. “The world runs on power, not kindness.” But I've seen the aftermath of his power—in police reports I shouldn't have access to, in newspaper articles about missing persons, and in the hollow eyes of wives who've lost husbands to gang warfare.

The diamond necklace I fasten around my throat feels heavy. A birthday gift from my mother, probably bought with Father’s blood money. However, it is one thing I have that she gave to me before she died, and I could never bring myself to return it. Mother's death left my father with only me, and some days, I think that's the only thing keeping him human.

I smooth my dress, checking my reflection. The woman staring back looks polished, successful, and legitimate. Everything I've worked to become, but Father's shadow still darkens the edges.

I slide into my Tesla's leather seat, its familiar scent washing over me. Boston's streets gleam with recent rain, traffic lights painting wet asphalt in shifting colors. My fingers tap the steering wheel at each red light, Father's dinner demand still gnawing at my thoughts.

The charity gala venue appears ahead—all glass and modern architecture, valets in red jackets rushing to open car doors. I hand over my keys and straighten my shoulders before walking inside.

The ballroom buzzes with Boston's elite. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across champagne flutes and designer gowns. I drift between clusters of people, nodding at familiar faces, accepting air kisses from society wives. My smile feels plastered on. This is not my scene at all, but if I want to be successful, then this kind of networking is expected.

“Did you hear about the new development project?” A real estate mogul's wife clutches my arm.

I make appropriate listening noises while scanning for the nearest escape route. These conversations drain me—all surface chatter hiding darker dealings underneath. Give me a quiet night with my laptop any day.

I smile politely at the chattering woman. “Excuse me, I need to say hello to someone.” The lie slips off my tongue with practiced ease as I extract myself from her grip.