I hate this house. I hate the peeling wallpaper my father keeps promising to replace. I hate the dining room with its oversized chandelier trying too hard to look expensive. I hate the silence that always hangs in these rooms, thick with things no one says aloud.
But it’s the only place I don’t have to smile every second.
“Anya.” My father’s voice comes from the dining room.
Of course he’s still awake.
I walk in to find Sergei sitting at the table with a drink in one hand and paperwork spread around him. He’s loosened his tie, gray creeping heavily through his dark hair now. He looks older every month lately.
“You’re late,” he says.
“It’s barely ten.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Sit. Eat something.”
There’s untouched soup on the table already growing cold. I sit mostly to avoid another argument.
Sergei watches me for a moment. Then his eyes drop to my hand. To the ring.
His entire face softens.
I almost roll my eyes.
“You have no idea how proud you’ve made me,” he says.
There it is.
Notyou look beautiful.
Nothow was your day.
I pick up the spoon slowly. “You say that every day.”
“Because it’s true.” He leans back in his chair. “The Volkovs are powerful people. Powerful enough to change everything for us.”
Us. Alwaysuswhen he wants something.
I stir the soup around without eating it. “You mean for you.”
His expression tightens slightly. “You’ll benefit too.”
I laugh quietly. The sound surprises even me.
Sergei frowns. “What’s funny?”
“You talk about this marriage like a business deal.”
“That’s because marriage is a business deal.” His tone thickens. “Especially in our world.”
There it is again. That same bitterness I’ve heard my whole life from men who make ugly choices and call them practical.
I look around the dining room. The expensive furniture bought years before we could afford it. The cracks hidden beneath rugs. The silver polished only when guests come over.
This house is my father. Pretending.
Always pretending.
And suddenly I’m exhausted by all of it.