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We walk side by side up the stone path. At the door, Jessica reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
"Whatever happens in there," she says, "we're in this together, okay?"
I nod, suddenly overcome with emotion. "I couldn't have done any of this without you, Jess."
She pulls me into a tight hug and I cling to her, drawing strength from my little sister who somehow always knew how to be brave when I didn't.
"I love you," she murmurs against my shoulder.
"I love you too."
We're still embracing when the door swings open. My mother stands there, one hand flying to her mouth.
"Girls," she gasps.
I pull away from Jessica, straightening my shoulders as I face the woman who stood by and watched while my father broke me down piece by piece.
"Hi, Mom," Jessica says.
Mom reaches out with trembling hands, pulling first Jessica and then me into an embrace. Her arms around me feel foreign—when was the last time she hugged me? Before Ivan, before David, before college even?
"We've been so worried," she says, her voice thick. "Your father's been beside himself."
I doubt that very much, but I say nothing as she ushers us inside.
When she turns to close the door I notice her eyes—red-rimmed and glassy with unshed tears. She's been crying, or trying not to. It's such an unfamiliar sight that I'm momentarily stunned. In all my years of being punished, criticized, and pushed to my breaking point, I never once saw my mother cry over it.
"Are you both alright?" she asks, her gaze darting between us. "When we saw the news about that Russian businessman being killed and then we couldn't reach either of you..."
So they know about Ivan’s demise. I wonder how much else they know.
"We're fine," Jessica assures her.
Mom's eyes linger on my face, taking in the faint bruise still visible on my cheekbone from Ivan's men. Her hand hovers near my face but doesn't quite touch me.
"Your father is in his study," she says quietly. "He'll want to see you both."
I bet he will.
I follow my mother and Jessica down the hallway towards my father's study. The walls are lined with photographs of me at various competitions and performances—a gallery of achievements rather than childhood memories.
My hand finds Jessica's again as we reach the heavy oak door. Mom knocks twice, then opens it without waiting for a response.
"Alexander, the girls are here," she announces, her voice suddenly smaller.
My father sits behind his massive desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, not bothering to look up from whatever document commands his attention. He doesn't stand. Doesn't rush to embrace his daughters who were missing. Doesn't show any sign that he was worried at all.
"Come in," he says, still not looking up.
Jessica and I step into the study. Mom hovers in the doorway for a moment before slipping away, closing the door behind her.
The silence stretches as my father continues reading, making us wait. It's a power move I recognize from childhood—establishing who controls the room.
Finally he removes his glasses and looks at us. His eyes are shrewd, scheming.
"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chairs across from his desk.
We sit. I feel like I'm twelve again, waiting to be reprimanded for a missed note in practice.