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Stella sinks into a chair, the weight of these revelations clearly overwhelming her. “All this time… my father… your son…” She looks up suddenly. “Does Diana know? About my father’s involvement?”

“Yes. She and Vasya know everything.”

“And they never told me.”

“It wasn’t their story to tell.” I move closer, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. “It was mine.”

She doesn’t pull away when I kneel before her chair, though she doesn’t meet my eyes either. “I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Stella. What I did— having your father hurt, which led to his death— I can’t take it back. Wouldn’t take it back, even if I could.”

Her eyes flash to mine, anger reigniting.

“But I need you to understand something,” I continue. “Your father wasn’t the saint you believed him to be. And I’m not just the monster you now think I am. We’re both more complicated than that.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

I wait for her to respond, knowing what’s at stake here.

My family. Fractured, complicated, but mine.

Whatever happens next, I’ll protect them. All of them. Even if Stella never forgives me. Even if she hates me forever.

Some prices are worth paying.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Stella

“This is too much.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It trembles, catches, breaks.

Aleksei’s gaze remains steady, unwavering. “I understand.”

The room tilts. I grip the edge of the chair, my knuckles white against the dark leather. Pieces slot together with sickening clarity— our sudden departure from St. Petersburg, the name change from Larkin to Fermont, my father’s inexplicable refusal to talk about his work.

“That’s why we left Russia,” I whisper. “He was running from you.”

“From justice,” Aleksei corrects, his voice neither accusatory nor defensive. Simply factual. “He damaged my son permanently and faced no consequences. He fled the country within days.”

My chest constricts, lungs refusing to expand properly. The perfect image of my father— dedicated physician, loving husband, protective parent— fractures before my eyes.

“You told me once,” Aleksei continues, “about leaving St. Petersburg suddenly. About your father being afraid. Now you know why.”

I had told him that story, months ago. Before Polina. Before I knew who he really was. Before I knew who my father really was.

“How did you find us?” The question comes automatically, my mind grasping for details to process this overwhelming revelation.

“It took years.” Aleksei leans forward, elbows on his knees. “After I moved here, I kept looking for him. By then, your father had established himself in Los Angeles under your new name. He was careful, but money buys information.”

“And you…” I can’t finish the sentence.

“I waited. Watched. Planned.” His voice remains calm, matter-of-fact. “I wanted him to suffer as my son suffers. To understand what it means to be trapped in a body that won’t obey. Eye for an eye.”

My stomach churns. I press a hand to my mouth, willing away the nausea.

“He wasn’t meant to die, Stella.” Aleksei’s gaze never wavers. “My men were instructed to be precise. To ensure he survived, but never walked again.”

I close my eyes, seeing it play out— my father’s car on that rainy day, the crash that took his life. Mom was right. Not an accident. Never an accident.

“We’d already met when my father died,” I say suddenly as something occurs to me. “You knew me. Did you know I was his daughter?” I fight down nausea.