Episode 18

The air in the Petrova apartment, once thick with the scent of Anya’s rosewater and the faint metallic tang of her pointe shoes, now hung heavy with a sterile quiet. Dmitri traced the rim of his untouched tea, the porcelain cool beneath his fingertips. Anya was safe, yes, and the grotesque machinations of Anton Volkov were laid bare, his ambition and cruelty exposed. But the relief was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the echoes of Anya’s haunted eyes, the tremor in her voice when she spoke of the weeks of confinement.

Nickola sat opposite him, his usual boisterous energy leached away, replaced by a grim stillness. He’d been the one to physically pull Anya from the dank cellar beneath the opera house, his powerful arms scooping her up as if she were made of spun glass. He’d held her close, murmuring reassurances that felt inadequate against the weight of her trauma. Now, he stared out the window, at the snow-laden branches of the birch trees, his gaze distant.

“She’ll recover, Dmitri,” Nickola said, his voice raspy. It was more a statement of desperate hope than a certainty. “She’s strong. Anya is the strongest person I know.”