He continued. “Dad’s not here right now—he had a meeting. But he’ll be back tonight. You should thank him properly when you see him.”
“I will,” I whispered.
My legs finally gave out.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the silk sheets cool beneath my fingers.
I couldn’t stop staring at my son—memorizing him all over again. The curve of his mouth. The way his nose wrinkled slightly when he smiled. Searching desperately for any flicker of recognition.
There was none.
Seraphina tilted her head, studying me like a chessboard she already controlled.
And in that moment, I understood with chilling clarity:
They hadn’t just erased me from Vanya’s life.
They had replaced me.
Seraphina glanced down at her watch with deliberate casualness, as if nothing in this room had just been detonated.
“Vanya,” she said lightly, turning toward him with a soft smile, “your French tutor should be arriving any minute now. You’d better go check if Monsieur Laurent is here.”
Vanya shifted his weight, clearly reluctant. “Will you come with me?” he asked. “He gets really strict when I mispronounce things.”
Seraphina laughed quietly and reached out, ruffling his hair in a gesture so intimate it made my stomach clench. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be right behind you.”
That was all the reassurance he needed.
He shot me one last look—shy, polite, distant—and offered a small smile that felt like a blade sliding between my ribs. Then he turned and padded down the hallway, the soft sound of his footsteps fading far too quickly.
The door remained ajar.
For a few heartbeats, neither of us moved.
Then Seraphina closed it.
The click of the latch echoed through the room like a gunshot.
She crossed the space slowly, deliberately, heels silent against the polished floor. Instead of standing directly in front of me, she drifted to the side and leaned against an antique writing desk, folding her arms beneath her breasts, settling into a pose that was half casual, half calculated display.
“Surprised?” she asked.
Her voice was smooth. Satisfied.
I lifted my chin, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Explain.”
She smiled wider, clearly enjoying that I hadn’t begged or broken yet. “You’re not crazy, Penelope. Just... inconveniently alive.”
The words were delivered almost fondly.
“Twelve months ago,” she continued, tilting her head as if reminiscing, “when we were both tied to chairs in that charming little warehouse, Dmitri was presented with a choice.”
My fingers curled into the mattress.
“Save one woman,” she said, tapping her manicured nail against the desk, “and condemn the other.”
She paused, savoring it.