bChapter /bb170 /b

    Elena’s POV:

    “Was it… made for me?” I finally managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

    He tilted his head, a faint, sad smile on his lips, and nodded. “And your mother. She was a fan of stuff like this. She never had such stuff in her childhood and wanted you to enjoy yours to the fullest.” He finished, and all of a sudden, at his words, I felt a lump in my throat, a sudden, sharp pang of loss for a woman I had never known.

    The ache was so profound it made my eyes sting. She was gone, a ghost from a life that could have been, and yet here I was, standing in a room decorated for her and for me.

    “I see,” I finally said, the words feeling utterly insufficient. I looked around the room again, my eyes catching on two closed doors connected to the lounge. They were a simple, polished wood, but they stood out amongst the pink of the room.

    Before I could ask, Sergei seemed to read my thoughts. “You can go look around,” he said, his voice a little strained. He let out a soft cough and rxed back into the plush sofa, a weary slump of his shoulders. I frowned, a little worried but I nodded and got up.

    Anyways, I hadn’te all the way here just to sit and stare. I could have done that in the hospital. If I was here either way, why not look around? Maybe I’d find something interesting.

    I moved to the first door on the right, my hand hesitant on the polished wood. I pushed it open slowly, as soon as I did, the lights opened automatically, and a gasp escaped my lips

    It was a painting room. The room itself was enormous, bigger than even the living room. But the sheer size was nothingpared to the sight before me. Every single wall was covered with paintings. They were propped on easels, leaning against the walls, and stacked in neat piles. They were in different styles, colors, and designs, from ck–and–white charcoal sketches to vibrant, impressionistdscapes. But the strangest, most beautiful thing of all was that they all depicted one person. It was as though an artist had gone mad with love, capturing every nuance, every angle, every fleeting emotion of a single subject.

    1 felt a profound, chilling sense of a man having lost that person and having nothing to remember her by but his own memories, an echo of a life that was. My mouth felt dry as I looked at the woman painted on all these canvases. Her face was familiar in a way that felt like a dream. She was in a crowd, on a mountaintop, sitting by the sea. She wasughing, crying, and lost in thought. Every painting was a love letter, a desperate attempt to capture and hold onto a memory that was fading.

    “Is that… my birth mother?” I asked. Even though my voice was soft, I knew he heard it behind me.

    “Yes, that’s Anaya,” he said, his voice rough. “She never liked taking pictures. So all I could do was paint her.”

    I walked into the room, my feet moving as if in a trance, my eyes fixed on one particr picture, she was smiling, her eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made her look so joyous. A single, wless white rose was tucked behind her ear, a simple contrast to her stunningly beautiful white dress. The dress billowed around her as though she was caught in a gentle breeze in a garden filled with flowers. The painter was trying to portray that the person in the picture was more beautiful than any flower around her, and in that moment, I believed it.

    And she was. She really was. Her hair was long, almost longer than my own, a cascade of dark, slightly wavy locks. The same dimples that bI /bbhad /bbwere /bbin /bher cheeks. It was like I was looking at a younger version of me, a mirror into a past that was so close and yet so far.

    Anaya Malik had died at an age younger than I was now. Hadn’t she? She’d turned to drugs and forfeited her own life. bI /bcouldn’t bhelp /bbclenching /bmy fists then. What would have happened if she hadn’t? What if I bhadn’t /bended bup /bbat /bban /borphanage and instead lived bmy /bblife /bbwith /bthese btwo/b? bIn /bbsuch /bbluxury /bwith 1 mother like bher /band a father like Sergei. I scoffed then, a small, bbitter /bsound that was meant for no one but bmyself /bbwould /bbhave /bbbeen /bba /bbspoiled /bbrat a princess in a fortress, living a life of privilege and ease,

    bAfter /bblooking /bbaround /bfor a few more minutes I turned baround/b, bgiving /bbthe /bbwoman /bin bthe /bbpting /bbone /bst, long blook /bbbefore /bI left band /bclose bbehind /bme. bThe /bbheavy /bbwood /bclicked shutb, /bbseparating /bme from ba /bblife /bbthat /bbwas /bbnever /bbmeant /bbto /bbbe /bbmine/bb. /bAs nice as bimagining /bif bsound /bthe worst ifs were, I bwould /bstill bchoose /bbmy /bbcurrent /blife. bI /bbwould /bbchoose /bbmy /bmother, bBeatrix/bb, /bband /bbmy /bbfather/bb, /bGeorge bNut /bberaus these two. They watery – but bbecause /bbthat /bwas bjust /bbhow /bbit /bwas supposed to be. They raise I’me, they loved me and they mad bnow/bb. /bbIt /bwas useless bspending /bbtime /bbthinking /bof what its anymore, or regretting choices bthat /bI could nevar Kai, made

    C, CU HUY

    When I re–entered the lounge, Sergei was still on the sofa. I moved to take my seat. The time for musing was overb. /bIt was time for answers.

    b60/bb% /b

    +38

    “If Anaya was that precious to you… then why did you marry Svena?” I asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. I saw his body stiffen. 1 quickly added, “I’m not ming you. I’m just curious. If you don’t mind telling me.”

    He smiled, a dry, humorless expression. “Don’t speak so politely… I much rather enjoyed your fiery personality.” he said, and I rolled my eyes, a ge that came so naturally now that it was almost second nature. It made him cough again, a low, hacking sound.

    “Marrying Svena wasn’t my own choice. After Anaya passed, I myself got into drinking and was most of the time intoxicated. My life was a fog. One night at an event, I hadn’t realized but I had be so intoxicated to the point of passing out.” Heughed, the sound hollow and devoid of any real mirth. “Ten monthster, Svena and her father showed up at my door with a baby in hand and told me to take responsibility for my actions.” Even as he said those words, my heart felt like it was being crushed.

    “You’re saying she… raped you?” I asked, my voice growing softer, the word a horrible, ugly thing that felt wrong on my tongue. He looked away, his eyes fixed on some distant point, his silence a confirmation that I was right.

    “Let’s not talk about the details. Anyways… since her father and I were at that point equals and in the same industry with a lot of the same clients, I had no choice but to ept signing the marital documents. Without any bridal procession or a church wedding like Anaya’s, she entered my home and has drifted in and out of here for decades now.” He finished, and I felt like I had swallowed sand.

    “You… didn’t you get a DNA test done? What if…” I trailed off, remembering Lazar’s eyes and how much he looked like Sergei.

    “I did get a DNA test done,” he said, his voice t. He had confirmed it. Lazar was his son, a product of a night of violence. The full truth was now in front

    of me.

    The next few minutes passed in a heavy, contemtive silence. Just as I was about to say something, the elevator door pulled open with a quiet chime, and a waitress walked in. She was pushing a golden trolleyden with an array of sweets and two pots. The air filled with the scent of fresh baked goods and a hint of jasmine.

    She asked for tea or coffee, and I just answered without thinking. How could I possibly think about food after what I’d just heard? My stomach was a tight knot of anxiety and sympathy.

    Once the waitress had left, the silence returned, but this time it was different.

    “Is that why… you hate Lazar?” I asked, the question feeling heavy but important.

    Sergei looked up, and his brows quirked, a small, genuine note of surprise on his face. “Why would I me him for something his mother did?” he said.

    Was it not normal, though? If someone raped me and forced me to birth a child, as bad as it felt to say it, I don’t think loving that child would be possible for me. Not if his face constantly reminded me of my rapist. The thought was a horrifying truth that I couldn’t deny.

    “Well, to be fair I didn’t hate him, nor did I like him. I didn’t feel anything in particr towards him,” Sergei said, his eyes a little distant now. “I never said. no to supporting him financially. But his… tendencies weren’t like mine. As he slowly grew up, I realized that he and his mother were built from the same mold. He wasn’t ithe /iitype /ito do anything on his own. He was always a parasite, using others to get what he wanted.” He said, looking lost in thoughtb, /bba /bfar–away look in his eyes.

    “Like he’s doing now?” I questioned, my voice sharp with understanding. He’d basically taken Dmitri’s ce and was now running bthe /bVetrov bempire/bbi, /i/btaking care of Andrey, who was paralyzed, like his own father. He was using a family tragedy to rise to power, to take over what he couldn’t bearn /bon bhis /b

    own.

    “Precisely. And he’s done much more like that before, too. I just don’t see him as my own son. As bbad /bbas /bit sounds, I bcan’t change /bbanything /bbabout /bbthe /bbfact /bbthat /bbhe /bjust… disgusts me.” He said, and my eyes widened, looking bat /bthe ipure/ib, /bunadulterated venom in his eyes.