There’s a single sofa near the far wall, angled toward the glass. A matching stool sits beside it like it’s waiting for someone’s tea cup. If I weren’t a Morozova—if I weren’tme—maybe I’d let myself curl up there with a blanket and pretend I belong in a place like this. Somewhere warm. Somewhere still.
I close my eyes for a moment longer than I should. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night in over six years. That truth only stings in silence, in spaces where no one’s screaming and no hands are dragging me back.
“I texted Chris. She’ll be back soon,” Kayla says gently, walking ahead of me toward the sofa. “She’s grabbing you some better-fitting clothes.”
Her smile is soft, almost apologetic. But her eyes—those give her away. She’s looking at me like she sees something broken. Like she already knows.
I sit on the larger couch in the center of the entrance space, following her lead. She joins me without hesitation, resting her hand lightly on my thigh.
The fabric of the shorts grates against my skin—too tight, unfamiliar, rubbing raw against old scars. The pale light catches the mess of marks across my legs: raised, faded, fresh.
Shame, worn like skin.
The rough fabric presses against the tender spots near my hip, and the familiar ghost pain prickles up my spine. Burning, stinging, itching like it did when it first happened. My muscles tense before I even notice, and my hands instinctively brush over my legs, pushing hers away without thinking.
The echo of my own screams still rattles somewhere inside me, as if they never stopped. Even now, the memory of cold metal pricks my skin the moment my fingers graze my thighs. A chill spreads up my arms.
“Your father gave you those?” Her voice is quiet as her gaze follows my hands. No judgment. Just... ache.
I freeze. My head snaps toward her.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil.
“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” she adds, softer now. “It’s horrible.”
How does she know?
Did they run a background check on me? No way. My father never even acknowledged me. Not legally. Not publicly. I exist only under my mother’s name, the one everyone whispered about, the one they called the “unstable crazy woman.”
Even her hospital bills were dumped under mine. Nothing should tie me to him.
Unless someone really dug.
Unlesshedid.
It hasn’t even been a full day. Could Maleciandro know that much already?
Panic bites the back of my throat. I force a small, trembling smile and nod because I don’t know what else to do.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “But I’m okay. I just... I just need my sister. Please.”
Her eyes stay on me, careful, as if she’s peeling back the layers I’ve worked so hard to hide. A flicker of light glints in her gem-like eyes—something sharp, resolute—but she says nothing more. Not yet. Not about that.
She’s worried.
Not suspicious. Not scared. Just… worried.
She doesn’t know me, she doesn’t owe me anything.
But she’s showing more kindness than people who’ve lived next to me my whole life. This is strange. I'm not used to people looking at me like that. It has always been just me and Diana.
“You mentioned medicine earlier?” she asks suddenly, her voice cutting through my thoughts. The question catches me off guard.
Before I can respond, the quiet door opens behind us.
We both turn.
Maleciandro and Bay step out, their shoulders heavy, their faces shadowed like they’ve just come back from war. Bay exhales the second she sees Kayla. Then her gaze flicks to me—and her expression softens.
