Then she leans back.
I do not know whether that means she believes me or simply pities the lie.
Either way, I’m grateful.
Nikolai’s head slides fully onto my shoulder at last. He does not wake. Sofia murmurs something about cake and queens into my lap. I sit between my children and stare out at the passing streets, while my mind keeps circling the same impossible problem from different directions.
Roman does not know that I know.
Or maybe now he suspects.
He definitely knows something is wrong. He definitely knows I ran for a reason. And if he starts pulling on that thread, if hestarts asking the right questions in the right order, everything will come apart.
I should feel triumphant that I have one thing he does not.
Instead, all I can think of is the way he looked at me when he stepped back from the kiss. Angry, yes. Hurt more than he wanted me to see. And under all of it, still wanting me enough that I could feel it in the way he held himself apart from me.
I turn my face toward the window before Mama can read anything else in mine.
The glass is cold against my temple.
Outside, the city is slick with winter and silence.
Inside the car, my children sleep against me, my mother says nothing, and I do what I have done for four years now.
I try not to think about Roman’s mouth. And I fail completely.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the children are fully asleep.
Sofia is sprawled across my lap in a way that will make her furious later when I tell her she drooled on my dress. Nikolai has folded into my shoulder, all solemn little-boy dignity gone in sleep, his cheek warm against my arm. Mama reaches for Sofia the moment the car stops, and I let her take the girl while I gather Nikolai into my own arms.
He’s already getting too big for this.
I still lift him anyway.
The night air is colder than I expect. It slips under my coat and through the fine fabric of the dress, sharp enough to wake everythought I had been trying not to have during the drive home. Roman’s face. Roman’s voice. Roman stepping back from me in that corridor and leaving me burning.
I tighten my hold on Nikolai and start toward the house.
The front steps glow in the amber light from the sconces. One of the men opens the door before we reach it. Another takes Mama’s wrap from her shoulders. Everything is smooth, practiced, quiet.
Too quiet, maybe.
Halfway up the steps, I feel it.
The unmistakable prickle at the back of my neck. The old instinct that says someone is watching. Not glancing. Not noticing. Watching.
I stop.
Mama turns slightly from the doorway. “Katerina?”
I shift Nikolai higher against my shoulder and look back.
The drive is empty. The gate stands closed. The line of hedges is black against the winter dark. Beyond them, only the road, the bare trees, the weak spill of moonlight across the gravel. One of Papa’s men stands near the side path smoking, another near the garage, both exactly where they should be.
Nothing moves.
“Katerina?” Mama says again, softer this time.
