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Erik reaches out, his scarred fingers hovering near my cheek without touching it. The restraint in that gesture hurts more than if he'd turned away completely.

“Katarina.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Time to move,” Nikolai calls from outside.

I close my eyes, memorizing the scent of him—sandalwood and something uniquely Erik. When I open them again, I force steel into my spine.

“I won't say goodbye,” I tell him.

His eyes darken. “Then don't.”

The door opens, letting in the cold night air. Someone takes my arm helping me out. Each step away from the SUV feels like walking through quicksand, my body rebelling against the distance growing between us.

I don't look back. I can't. If I see him watching me walk away, I might shatter completely.

Dmitri's grip on my arm is firm but not painful as he guides me into the warehouse. His face is carved from stone, eyes fixed straight ahead, and jaw set with determination. This isn't about me—it's about the woman he loves.

“Walk,” he commands when I hesitate at the threshold.

The warehouse smells of rust and motor oil. Our footsteps echo against concrete floors as we move deeper inside. I keep my chin high, refusing to show fear despite the hammering of my heart.

“She's unharmed,” Dmitri says to someone ahead. “Every agreement has been kept on our end.”

And there he is. My father.

Igor Lebedev stands tall in his tailored suit, his silver hair combed back immaculately. The epitome of power and control. His eyes—the same blue as mine—lock onto me with an expression that almost resembles concern.

“Katarina.” His voice carries across the space between us. “My daughter.”

The word 'daughter' in his mouth turns my stomach. This is the man who tried to sell me to Anton Petrov like livestock. The man who kidnapped an innocent woman to force my return.

“Where is she?” Dmitri demands, his voice tight with barely controlled rage.

My father gestures, and a door opens. A guard escorts a woman forward—Natasha. Even frightened and disheveled, she carries herself with dignity.

She's being held tightly by one of my father's guards, his fingers digging into her arm. Despite her disheveled appearance, I can see she's beautiful, with long, dark hair and striking features. Her lip is split, and there's a darkening bruise on her cheekbone. My stomach turns at the sight. Whatever my father's issues with me, this woman didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire.

But what catches me off guard is her expression. Instead of relief at seeing Dmitri, pure shock crosses her face. Her eyes dart frantically between me and Dmitri, widening with what looks like... betrayal?

I don't know this woman. I've never met her before. But something in her devastated expression makes me feel like I'm witnessing something deeply personal falling apart.

“You... You took her,” Natasha says to Dmitri. “Everything Igor said was true.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. My father shifts slightly, his posture straightening with something that feels uncomfortably like satisfaction.

Dmitri doesn't respond. His face remains expressionless, carved from marble. Only the slight flare of his nostrils betrays any emotion.

“Did you enjoy manipulating me?” Natasha demands. “Was any of it real, or was I just another pawn in your war with Igor?”

As Dmitri steps forward, dragging me with him, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his angular features. I watch as Natasha instinctively backs away.

“Kulkolka,” he says softly. “Things aren't what they seem.”

But Natasha's expression doesn't soften. Her eyes dart between Dmitri and me, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. Whatever my father told her has shattered something between them.

Her gaze fixes on me, studying my posture and my proximity to Dmitri. I stand perfectly still, not wanting to make this worse for either of them. This woman is caught in a war she never asked to join, just as I was.

A firm hand wraps around Natasha's throat from behind. My father's laughter echoes through the room as Dmitri's face transforms. His expression shifts into something cold and dangerous, his stance changing subtly.