I don’t want to think of Konstantin anymore.
I try to keep busy—cleaning the room, flipping through a book I can’t focus on, pacing the balcony. But by late afternoon, I can’t take the suffocating walls anymore. I need air. Space. Anything but the echo of my own thoughts.
I head outside, wandering the garden. My fingers trail along the edge of the stone path as I make my way to the far end of the estate, desperate for something to anchor me in reality.
That’s when I see it.
Half buried in the soil beside the hedge.
A folded piece of paper.
Stained. Damp.
My name written across the front.
My entire body freezes. My pulse slams so hard it makes me dizzy. I glance around instinctively, heart in my throat—but no guard is near me. No footsteps. No raised voices. No sign that anyone has noticed.
With trembling fingers, I unfold the paper.
Three lines.
WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.
STOP SEARCHING FOR YOUR FATHER.
NEXT TIME WE LEAVE MORE THAN A MESSAGE.
The handwriting is jagged. Rushed. Angry. Real.
Fear hits first—sharp and blinding.
Then comes the anger.
Hot. Violent. Explosive.
I crush the paper in my fist, my vision blurring, my breath shaking. I didn’t choose this place. I didn’t choose this marriage. But this—this is personal. Someone knows I never stopped looking for my father. Someone wants me silent. Someone wants me scared enough to disappear.
Someone wants me buried.
And Konstantin knew.
He knew danger was coming. He knew people were watching. He knew more about my father’s disappearance than he’s admitted.
The realization settles into my chest like a living thing.
I’m not just trapped.
I’m being hunted.
I storm back into the house, heart hammering. Konstantin is in the study, one hand braced on the desk, speaking to someone on the phone in clipped, precise Russian. His voice is calm—but I know calm like that is lethal.
I fling the crushed note onto the desk.
He looks down. One glance. His expression shifts instantly—rage, ice, fear, all sharpening into something sharp enough to cut. He drops the phone immediately.
Without a word, he rises. The chair scrapes back, and he closes the distance between us in two long strides. One hand cups my face, firm, scanning me as if looking for damage. His thumb brushes over my jaw.
“Where,” he says, low, deadly, vibrating with fury, “did you find this?”