None of that happened.
They know him as Sokolov.
Maybe rich. Maybe dangerous. Maybe self-made. Maybe something half-guessed and left unspoken.
But not as a Morozov.
I shift slightly in the seat, and the movement sends a fresh memory through me so fast I almost close my eyes.
His mouth. His hand at my waist. The way he stepped back, then looked at me like he still wanted to drag me into something neither of us would survive cleanly.
I push the thought away.
It comes right back.
I look down at Sofia instead. Her lashes are stuck together with the last scraps of sleep. Her little hand is still curled in the fabric at my waist as if she fell asleep trying to hold on to me. Nikolai has gone quiet beside me in that way he does when he’s tired but refusing to admit it. His head bumps my shoulder every time the car turns.
Children first, I tell myself.
Mama speaks before I realize she has been watching me for several minutes.
“What was that with Roman?”
I lift my head too quickly. “What?”
She does not look convinced. “Don’t do that. I may be old, but I’m not blind.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”
For one second, I almost laugh. If only it were that simple.
The car turns. A line of city lights slips past the window. I keep my hand in Sofia’s hair and make my voice as ordinary as I can.
“It was nothing.”
Mama’s expression changes in that quiet maternal way that says she knows exactly when I’m lying and may let me have it if she decides the truth would be more dangerous tonight.
“Katerina.”
I meet her eyes and hold them.
Roman taught me that once, though he would hate the source being credited.
“He surprised me,” I say. “That’s all.”
Mama studies my face. “Did he?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing more?”
I think of the corridor. Of my back against the marble table. Of his mouth. Of the way my body answered him as if four years had passed through everyone except my skin.
I force the memory down so hard it almost hurts. “No,” I say.
Mama watches me one beat longer.
