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The worker with the headboard disappears through the side corridor.

Irina removes her gloves slowly. “I came to see Anya.”

“You can go to her.”

“I intend to.”

She doesn’t move.

Her attention returns to Elara, and this time her smile is thin enough to draw blood.

“I hope you’re comfortable here, Miss Elara.”

Elara straightens. “I am.”

“Yes,” Irina says. “I can imagine. But I promise that won’t last for long, no matter what you tell yourself.”

“That’s enough,” I say.

Irina’s eyes flash to mine.

For a second, I remember all the small things I chose to ignore because ignoring them was easier. The extra visits. The way she lingered after dinners. The hand on my sleeve that stayed half a second too long. The invitations I declined without acknowledging what they were.

I knew.

A man in my position learns early when a woman wants something from him. Irina had wanted it quietly, respectably, with enough distance to deny it if I ever forced her to. I never did. I let the understanding sit between us untouched because it was convenient. And because I didn’t want to disrespect Sofia’s family. But that ends today.

Irina looks past me toward the side corridor. “How quickly things change in this house.”

“They changed before today.”

“Did they?”

“Yes.”

Her jaw tightens.

Elara says, “I should check on Anya.”

“No,” I say, without looking at her.

She stops.

Irina notices that too. The obedience in it, or the trust, or whatever word she would hate most.

Her face hardens. “I don’t think Miss Elara needs your permission to leave a hallway,” she says.

“She doesn’t,” I say. “But I’m asking her to stay.”

Elara’s breath catches lightly.

Irina looks at me as if I have struck her.

That’s when Galina appears at the far end of the hall, sees the three of us, and very quietly decides not to exist. She turns around and goes back the way she came.

Elara sees it happen.

Despite everything, her mouth twitches.