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Gavriil adds, “I’ve seen her in old government archives and press clippings.”
“There were rumors,” Irina continues, voice lowering. “That they lost their daughter and grandchildren in a fire. Years ago. In Russia. But no one ever confirmed it publicly. It was just... whispers. A tragedy that never made the papers in detail.”
My heart skips a beat. “My father told me that when I was three, we lost everything in a fire. He said that’s why we have no photos from before I was three. Nothing survived.”
The silence that follows hangs thick in the air.
“That can’t be a coincidence,” Irina whispers, touching the corner of the photograph.
Gavriil picks up the birth certificate and scans the Cyrillic text. “It’s not the full document. If it were, we’d see the parents’ names.”
“You could try to get the full version,” Irina says slowly. “But you’d have to go to Russia for that.”
Gavriil nods, setting the document back on the table. “And if you do, we can help. You know I have a lot of contacts there.”
I nod, heat spreading through my chest. “I want to go. I’ve always wanted to. But only after the surrogacy. That’s my priority.”
My heart beats faster. I’ve always felt a pull to Russia.
Irina wraps her arms around me again. “You are everything to us, Tara.”
“And you to me,” I whisper.
I offer to stay and help, but Irina waves me off. “No. It’s still your night off. Go. Rest. Dream of hot strangers who don’t stand you up.”
I laugh and give them one last wave before I step outside. The sun is still high, and the city hums around me. I walk a few blocks to the small park across from the club and settle on a bench under the trees. I pull the puzzle box from my bag and run my fingers over the grain of the wood. My thoughts tangle. Damien. Lidiya Zorin. Secrets. Surrogacy. Everything.
I open the box. The photo still pulls at something deep inside me. A connection I can’t explain.
“Why did my father have this?” I mutter to myself.
A shadow falls over me. My heart stutters.
“Mind if I sit here?”
The voice is deep. Russian. Familiar.
I look up and blink. “You…”
It’s the man from the club. The one who got “lost” looking for the bathroom. Dressed casually now, but still commanding in presence. His eyes are sharp, blue as glacial ice.
“Oh. No, of course,” I say, sliding to the edge of the bench.
“Now I know where I’ve seen you before.” He sits, angles himself slightly toward me. “You helped me find the restroom the other night,” he says, smiling. It softens his severe features, making him look almost ruggedly charming.
“That’s right.”
He leans slightly, nodding to the photo in my lap. “She’s beautiful. Mother?”
My pulse kicks. “No. I’m not sure who she is. I found it in my father’s things.”
His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Ah. I see.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” I add quickly, realizing what conclusion he must be jumping to. “The photo’s old. From the 60s. My father would’ve been a child.”
He studies me. Then glances at the photo again. “Grandmother, maybe?” His gaze flicks from the picture to me. “There is a resemblance.”
I stare at the woman in the photo again. And this time… I see it. Not just in me. In Sabrina, too.