Page 23

The garden smells like rain and roses and something older, heavier—wet earth clinging to the air, thick and musky.

Late afternoon sunlight filters through the tangled hedges, making everything look gold and green, bright but heavy, like the whole world is holding its breath.

Stone paths weave crookedly between gnarled trees and wild, overgrown flowers, the manicured precision of the estate giving way here to something raw and restless.

I walk slowly, barefoot again, the soles of my feet cold against the damp stone. The dress I threw on clings to my legs with every humid gust of wind. Strands of hair stick to my neck and temple, and I don’t bother fixing them.

My mind’s too much of a mess to care.

Thoughts of Andrei gnaw at me from every direction, tangled and mean and impossible to outrun. I keep thinking of the way he looked at me last night—after the gun, after I stepped into his fury like a fool who didn’t know better. The way his eyes had stripped me bare without a single word.

I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his hands either.

The weight of his body over mine. The way I broke for him—and how he knew it.

The worst part—the part that knots tightest in my chest—is that I don’t know who I hate more for it. Him.

Or myself.

I kick at a loose stone on the path, watching it skitter and bounce down the trail before disappearing into a thicket of rosebushes. The act feels childish. Pointless.

Just like everything else.

Everything inside me feels tight, trapped, wrong—like a song played in the wrong key, over and over, until it warps itself into something unbearable.

I’m so caught up in my own head I nearly slam into someone.

“Ah—!” I jerk back a step.

It’s Yelena, the head housekeeper.

She steadies the tray in her hands, smiling gently, a few droplets of tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the cups. She’s older than most of the staff here, with kind brown eyes and a calmness that never seems to waver.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“No harm done,” she says, voice warm and familiar in a way almost nothing else in this place is. She’s one of the few who doesn’t treat me like a prisoner—or a trophy.

She was sterner with me at first, like that day I saw my wedding dress for the first time. She’s softened somewhat, now.

She shifts the tray to one hand and brushes a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Storm’s made a mess of the garden,” she says. “The roses are blooming later this year. A gift, maybe.”

I glance at the heavy red blooms sagging on their stems. Some petals are already starting to blacken around the edges.

“Maybe,” I say.

We fall into easy, meaningless small talk. The weather. The stubborn hedges. The way the rains have been good for the lavender this season. I let her words wash over me for a few minutes, soaking in the rare simplicity.

Then the mood shifts.

It’s subtle—a hitch in my breath, a weight in my chest that presses harder with every heartbeat.

I hesitate.

Then, before I can lose my nerve, I blurt it out. “I want to know the truth,” I say.

Yelena pauses, her brows lifting slightly.

“The real reason Andrei keeps me here,” I continue, voice lower now, tighter. “What happened with my father.”

The tray wobbles slightly in her hands before she steadies it. Her mouth presses into a thin line.

“Alina…,” she says softly, carefully, like she’s speaking to a cornered animal. “That’s not something for me to say.”

“You know,” I press. “You know, don’t you?”

A gust of wind rattles the branches overhead. The roses shudder like they’re listening too.

Yelena looks at me for a long moment. Not unkindly, but with a sadness that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

“I know enough,” she says finally. “Enough to say some things aren’t as simple as they seem.”

I shake my head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you right now.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in her eyes stops me.

Not fear. Pity.

The tray shifts again in her arms, and she murmurs, “I have to get this inside,” like an apology.

Then she moves past me, back toward the mansion, her footsteps soft against the stone.

I stand there for a long time, the garden pressing in close around me, the scent of roses and rain too sweet, too heavy.

I just stare after her, the unspoken truth hanging between us like another storm cloud about to break.

Yelena’s steps falter. She stops just short of the stone steps leading up to the mansion, the silver tray trembling slightly in her grip.

For a moment, she stands frozen, glancing around the garden, scanning the shadowed hedges and dark windows above us. Checking for watchers. Listening for footsteps. Only when she’s certain we’re alone does she speak—low, hurried, each word tasting like something dragged painfully from her throat.

“Your father,” she says, “wasn’t just a businessman, Alina.”

My breath catches. I had figured as much, knowing he had a man killed.

“He worked… quiet jobs,” she continues, eyes fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder. “For men who needed things handled without attention. Quiet things. Final things.”

The world seems to tilt slightly under my feet.

“What are you saying?” I whisper, though I already know. Part of me must have always known.

Yelena’s voice drops even lower. “He was a hitman, Alina. A contract killer.”

The words hit me harder than any slap.

“No,” I rasp, taking a step back.

Yelena presses on, her face stricken but unyielding.

“Ten years ago, he took a job from a rival faction. Dangerous men who wanted to make a statement.” She swallows, the tray tilting again before she pulls it tighter to her chest. “The target was Maxim Sharov.”

My blood turns to ice.

Maxim. Andrei’s younger brother. The one whose death still darkens the corridors of this house like a ghost.

“He was lured onto a boat,” Yelena says, voice tight with the effort of saying it out loud. “Under the pretense of a deal. Your father shot him. Point-blank to the head. Then they dumped the body into the sea.”

I shake my head, my whole body starting to tremble. “You’re lying.”

“There were no witnesses,” Yelena continues, unmoved by my denial. “No evidence. Only whispers. Rumors.” She draws in a shuddering breath. “Andrei spent years digging, suspecting, searching. There was never anything solid to tie it together.”

My heart slams against my ribs, desperate to outrun the words.

“Until recently,” Yelena says. “Old security footage surfaced. From the docks. It captured just enough. Your father. Maxim. The betrayal.”

She looks at me then, full in the face, and I see that she’s not angry. She’s grieving. Grieving for me?

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely a whisper. “You deserve to know.”

I stumble back, the garden blurring around me. The roses, the rain, the twisting stone paths—all of it becomes a smear of color as denial floods my chest.

“No,” I breathe.

Not him.

Not the man who tucked me in at night. Who built my swing set. Who taught me to ride a bike.

Not my father.

Yet—

The pieces start clicking into place, fast and merciless.

The sudden explosion of wealth. The new house in the better neighborhood. The business that flourished overnight, when before we were always just scraping by.

I press a trembling hand to my mouth, the truth blooming ugly and undeniable inside me.

Had it all been blood money?

My hands won’t stop trembling.

I stare down at them like they belong to someone else, the tremor so sharp it rattles through my bones. My mouth is dry, my tongue stuck useless to the roof of it. Every breath scrapes raw down my throat. I feel like I’m going to be sick, the nausea riding high in my chest, clawing its way up.

Yelena’s face blurs in front of me. Her words, too heavy to bear, are still hanging in the thick garden air. I can’t focus on her. I can’t hear anything anymore except the vicious pounding of my own heart.

“I need—” I choke, not even knowing what I’m asking for. “I need air.”

I stumble back from her before she can say anything else, before her pity can gut me even deeper than her truth already has. My feet move without direction, carrying me blindly through the garden’s twisted paths, through the suffocating perfume of overripe roses.

Every memory of my father reels through my mind, jagged and disjointed.

His laugh, low and warm. The way he’d ruffle my hair and tell me no boy would ever be good enough for me.

The promises he made when the world felt too big—promises that sound like lies now, thin and hollow and poisoned.

I defended him. I fought for him.

I risked everything—my body, my soul—believing that he was worth saving, that the world was wrong about him, that Andrei was the monster in this story.

What if the real monster had been smiling down at me all along? What if it was the man who kissed my forehead good night?

The man who taught me to ride a bike, holding the seat until I was steady?

The man whose hands had also pulled a trigger, point-blank, ending a life without hesitation?

The shame cuts first, sharp and clean, flaying open the part of me that still wanted to believe in innocence.

The grief follows next, heavier, uglier. It fills my chest until it’s impossible to breathe.

Then the anger. White-hot. It sears through my ribs, through my spine, until I can’t stand anymore. My legs buckle, and I crumple onto a cold stone bench half hidden by a tangle of ivy, clutching the edge like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to let them fall. I clench my jaw, digging my nails into the palms of my hands until the sting distracts me from the collapse happening inside.

I need answers, and I need them now. I need to hear it from him—from my father’s own mouth.

I need to ask him if he killed Maxim Sharov, if he built our life on someone else’s blood.

If he destroyed me before I even knew I needed saving.