I would listen.
I would gather proof—recordings, documents, witnesses. Anything. Everything. Something that could unravel the forged diary, expose the memory wipe, tear holes in the lies Seraphina had wrapped so tightly around this house.
And when the moment came—when the leash loosened even a fraction—I would take my son and vanish.
Not back to Dmitri.
But to Greece. To safety. To anonymity. To whatever quiet, fragile life we could rebuild far away from men and families who thought human beings were pieces on a board.
I stood slowly, testing my legs. They still trembled, pain flaring along my ribs, but they held.
Seraphina thought she’d won.
She hadn’t.
She’d only given me time to plan.
And I had nothing left to lose.
I couldn’t stay in that room another second.
The walls pressed in on me, heavy with Seraphina’s threats, her presence lingering like smoke in my lungs. I slipped out quietly, easing the door shut behind me, bare feet silent against the cool marble corridor.
The villa stretched endlessly in both directions—arched hallways, recessed lighting, expensive art mounted with clinicalprecision. I moved slowly, careful, following memory more than instinct until I reached the balcony that overlooked the grand living room below.
I paused there, fingers curling around the wrought-iron railing.
The space beneath me was breathtaking.
Exactly as I remembered it.
And completely wrong.
Double-height ceilings soared overhead, crowned by an elaborate crystal chandelier that caught the late-afternoon sun and shattered it into rainbows across cream-colored walls. The effect should have been warm. Inviting.
Instead, it felt cold.
The furniture was all new. Low, modern sofas upholstered in pale gray velvet. A massive marble coffee table veined with gold. Abstract sculptures scattered throughout the room—jagged, aggressive shapes that looked less like art and more like weapons frozen mid-strike.
Seraphina’s fingerprints were everywhere.
Sharp angles. Expensive minimalism. The kind of elegance that didn’t invite you to sit down—it dared you to disturb it. Control disguised as taste.
It hadn’t been like this when I lived here.
Back then, despite the tension, despite Dmitri’s temper and the unspoken power struggles, the house had felt lived-in. There were books left open on side tables. Vanya’s toys tucked into corners. Signs of life.
Now it looked staged.
Like a showroom.
Like a house waiting to be admired, not inhabited.
I leaned harder into the railing, staring down at the empty expanse.
Was Seraphina married to Dmitri now?
Had the forged diary convinced him they’d been lovers all along? That she’d always been the woman at his side? That Vanya had always called her “Aunt” out of affection rather than necessity?