Chapter 3 New World, Old Wounds

The black car waited at the curb like a judgment.

It gleamed against the dull gray slush of Midtown, its tinted windows making it impossible to tell if anyone inside was watching her. The driver stood next to it in a charcoal suit and a cap that hadn't moved even an inch in the twenty minutes Anya had spent pacing her apartment. He hadn't knocked. Just waited. Like he knew she'd come out eventually.

Anya stood on the stoop with Zoe's small backpack in one hand and her own duffel slung across her shoulder. Carla had offered to come with her. Twice. But Anya had said no.

Because this had to start with just the two of them.

Because even if it was a trap, she was stepping into it with eyes wide open.

"Is this the fancy house?" Zoe asked, gripping her mitten in Anya's hand.

"It's the one we talked about," Anya said gently. "We're going to stay here for a while."

"Will there be macaroni?"

"I make no promises."

The driver opened the rear door without a word.

Zoe climbed in first, hoisting her backpack up like she was boarding a spaceship. Anya followed, heart hammering. As soon as the door shut behind her, the city's noise vanished. The interior was whisper-quiet, buttery leather and chrome.

The driver pulled away smoothly. Not a glance. Not a sound.

Zoe leaned against her side. "Is this man a robot?"

"Probably."

The city blurred past outside-buildings they didn't belong to, shops they couldn't afford, people in wool coats talking into Bluetooth headsets like their voices mattered more than anyone else's. The world of glass and steel had never felt farther from the one Anya had built around bedtime stories and secondhand books and Saturday night laundry.

When the car turned onto Fifth Avenue and stopped in front of the Volkov building, Anya's mouth went dry.

It rose like a spear of obsidian into the sky. Black glass, mirrored windows, the Volkov logo embedded into the stone wall beside the entrance. Doormen in crisp uniforms stood like chess pieces. A woman in a fur coat exited with a Papillon tucked under her arm, barely sparing a glance for the car as it slid into a private garage.

The door opened.

Zoe looked up at her. "Do we live here now?"

"For now," Anya said, voice softer than she meant it to be.

The driver handed her the bag. Still silent.

They stepped out into a private lobby-sleek, white-tiled, flooded with cold light. There were no welcome signs. No concierge smile. Just security cameras, and a single man in a tailored black suit behind a brushed steel desk.

Anya's boots squeaked on the floor as she approached.

"Name?" the man asked, not looking up from his tablet.

"Anya Petrova."

He tapped something, paused. Then nodded once. "You're cleared for PH-1. Your escort will meet you at the elevator."

"Escort?"

Before she could ask, a tall woman in a navy blazer appeared from a side hallway. Her blond hair was tied in a knot so tight it looked like it might hum with tension.

"Ingrid," she said. "I'm Mr. Volkov's housekeeper. Follow me."

Zoe looked up at Anya with big eyes. Anya squeezed her hand.

The private elevator doors opened without a ding. Ingrid stepped inside, pressed her finger to a biometric pad, and waited as the floors ticked up silently.

Zoe whispered, "It's so quiet."

"Yeah," Anya whispered back. "I don't think this place likes noise."

The elevator opened to a hallway lined in slate and matte black walls. No family photos. No art. Just doors that looked like they had secrets behind them.

Ingrid led them down a corridor and stopped in front of a tall, dark wooden door.

"This is your wing," she said without inflection. "Zoe's room is the first on the left. You'll find the refrigerator is stocked. Mr. Volkov dines promptly at seven. You're expected."

Then she turned and walked away.

Not a glance back.

Anya opened the door.

The apartment inside was cathedral-high and utterly silent. Marble floors. Pale walls. Designer furniture that looked like it had been bought in bulk from a museum showroom.

She stepped inside with Zoe and shut the door softly behind them.

The sound echoed.

"This isn't a house," Anya murmured.

Zoe, wide-eyed, clung to her coat.

"It's a spaceship," she whispered.

Anya crouched down to unzip Zoe's backpack.

"No," she said. "It's just a very fancy cave. And caves can be filled with light. We'll make our own."

But as she stood again and looked around at the cold perfection of the Volkov penthouse...

She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince.

The first thing Anya noticed was that the air smelled too clean. Like filtered air in a high-end clinic. No scent of cooking or flowers or even human life. Just faint antiseptic, like someone had sprayed away everything that made it real.

Their "wing" was bigger than her entire apartment.

There were two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, and a sitting area with modern furniture in shades of bone and frost. No clutter. No texture. No soul.

Zoe tiptoed into her bedroom and stopped at the doorway like she wasn't sure she was allowed in.

Anya followed, unzipping her coat. "Go ahead, baby. It's yours."

The room had a plush white rug, a twin-sized bed with a silver-gray headboard, and a bookshelf filled with hardcovers arranged by color. A small desk sat under the window, and a tablet lay on top-brand new, still in its case.

Zoe wandered over to it slowly, looking like she expected it to disappear.

"Is it mine?" she whispered.

Anya crouched beside her. "Looks like it."

She turned the tablet over in her hands. "It doesn't have stickers."

"We can fix that."

Zoe was quiet a moment. Then: "Where's your room?"

Anya rose and crossed the hall. Her own space looked like a hotel suite designed by a minimalist who feared personality. King-sized bed, pale gray bedding, glossy black nightstands. A wall of windows looked out onto the skyline. It was the kind of view people envied.

She didn't envy it.

She envied the crooked coat hooks in her old apartment, the squeaky floors, the tiny hallway where Zoe's drawings had been taped up like gallery art.

Zoe stood at her side now, silent again.

"I don't like it," she said.

Anya swallowed. "It's just new."

"It's too quiet."

Anya forced a smile. "Then we'll make some noise."

Zoe climbed onto the edge of the bed and bounced once-gingerly. "I liked our old house."

"I did too."

Anya sat beside her, pulling her close. Zoe leaned into her immediately, small arms wrapping around her waist.

Anya looked around again.

It was beautiful. Luxurious.

But it felt like a museum. A museum curated by someone who never expected to be loved.

And that told her everything she needed to know about the man who lived here.

The suitcases looked absurd in the corner of the room-two soft-sided bags sagging onto the floor like tired animals. Anya unzipped the smaller one and began pulling out Zoe's things first. Familiar things. Necessary things.

The purple dinosaur blanket with one corner fraying.

Her favorite pajamas with the peeling rainbow print.

A stack of crayon drawings, rolled and smudged, each signed in crooked letters: ZOE.

She laid them out on the desk one by one, flattening the curls at the corners with her palm. A smiling sun. A house with crooked windows. One with three stick figures: Mommy, Zoe, and someone in a suit with a question mark for a face.

That one, Zoe had drawn after overhearing a doctor ask if her father was in the picture. Anya had said no. But Zoe was always drawing him anyway-someone imagined, someone missing.

She pressed her hand to the page without thinking.

Zoe padded in behind her, dragging a stuffed koala by the ear.

"Can we put up the pictures?"

Anya hesitated. "We should ask first. It's not our place."

Zoe's nose scrunched. "It is if we sleep here."

Anya stared at the wall. Blank. Pale. Empty.

"Yeah," she said. "You're right."

Together they taped up the drawings with tiny pieces of washi tape from Anya's purse. The colors instantly changed the room, just a little-like adding breath to a painting that had never been alive.

Half an hour passed that way. Quiet. Careful.

And still, Anya couldn't shake the feeling.

She turned, glanced at the door.

The walls were too clean. The silence too thick.

She hadn't heard a footstep, hadn't seen another soul since Ingrid left. And yet... there was something about the quiet that didn't feel empty. It felt curated. Observed.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Carla.

She answered quickly. "Hey."

"Tell me you're not being held hostage by minimalist billionaires in a white-walled bunker."

Anya let out a breath. "You're not far off."

"On a scale of one to sterile cult compound, how emotionally repressed is the décor?"

"It's like someone decorated a bank vault with feelings they saw on Pinterest once."

"Yikes." Carla's tone shifted slightly, softer now. "How's Zoe?"

"Trying. Being brave."

"And you?"

Anya stared at the skyline through the window. The city stretched forever in every direction. Cold lights, endless distance.

"I feel like I walked into someone else's story," she said. "And I don't like the part I'm playing."

Carla didn't joke that time. Just said, "Then rewrite it."

Anya closed her eyes. "I'll call you later."

"Anything weird happens, call me. I mean it. Code word is 'guacamole.'"

Anya smiled faintly. "Thanks."

She hung up and set the phone down.

Then turned-because she could've sworn she heard a soft sound behind the door. Like a footstep. A presence.

But when she opened it, the hallway was empty.

Just silence, again.

Watching.

At precisely 6:59, a soft chime echoed through the penthouse, followed by Ingrid's clipped voice over the intercom.

"Dinner is served."

It was a sentence that sounded less like an invitation and more like a summons.

Anya brushed Zoe's hair back behind her ears and gave her a once-over. They hadn't brought anything fancy-Zoe wore a cotton dress with faded stars, and Anya had changed into dark jeans and a blouse that hadn't seen an iron in two years. It would have to do. She wasn't dressing up to dine with judgment.

The dining room was down the main hall, behind glass doors that parted silently when they approached.

Zoe grabbed her hand tighter.

The room was vast and too quiet, the kind of quiet that swallowed footsteps. A chandelier the size of a compact car hung above a polished obsidian table long enough to seat twenty. At its far end, seated alone like a monarch in exile, was Dimitri Volkov.

He didn't rise. He didn't greet them.

He simply looked up.

Anya led Zoe forward with her chin lifted. She wasn't about to let him see how tightly her stomach knotted.

"Miss Petrova," he said smoothly, as if this were a boardroom.

"Mr. Volkov," she returned, matching his coolness.

A place setting had been arranged for her two seats down from his-not beside, not across, but close enough to feel deliberately awkward. Zoe's chair was smaller, a booster seat already strapped on.

A server-silent, dressed in black-poured water and vanished.

Dimitri gestured faintly to the untouched wine beside him. "Would you care for a drink?"

"No, thank you." She pulled Zoe's chair out and helped her up. "We don't drink around her."

He said nothing. But she didn't miss the flicker of something in his gaze.

A dish of saffron risotto was placed before them by another ghostlike server.

Zoe blinked at it. "What is it?"

"Rice," Anya said gently, stabbing a bite with her fork. "Fancy rice."

Zoe leaned in and whispered, "Does it have cheese?"

"Probably."

She took a bite. Frowned. Ate another anyway.

Dimitri sat perfectly upright, napkin on lap, fork in left hand like a knife. He didn't speak unless spoken to. And he never looked directly at Anya.

Zoe tried to fill the silence.

"Our other house had a little table," she said, mouth full. "And sometimes Mommy let me eat on the couch."

Anya smiled. "That was a secret."

Zoe giggled. "Sorry."

Dimitri didn't smile, but his gaze shifted-just briefly-to the child. Like he wasn't sure how to process the sound.

"I like your kitchen," Zoe said to him, oblivious to the tension. "It's big. Do you cook?"

"I do not," he said, a bit too quickly.

"Why not?"

"Because there are people paid to do it for me."

Zoe squinted. "That's silly. Cooking is fun."

Anya saw it again. A flicker. Something cracked along the edge of his composure.

"Maybe someday," he said.

Zoe beamed at him, like he'd just agreed to adopt a puppy.

The meal continued in uneven waves. Zoe chatting. Anya tense. Dimitri answering in clipped syllables, every word measured like a budget line item.

The silence between him and Anya didn't cool.

It simmered.

Boiled just under the surface.

When Zoe dropped her fork and bent to pick it up, Dimitri finally spoke directly to Anya.

"You'll find the rules of this house are simple," he said. "Keep to your wing. Privacy is maintained. If you need anything, you'll ask Ingrid. Not me."

Anya's lips parted.

"Is that how you think family works?" she asked, voice low.

"We're not family," he said without flinching.

And yet-he looked at Zoe. And paused.

"But she is a child," he added.

Anya stared at him.

"Good," she said. "Because I'm not here to win anyone's affection. I'm here to survive the year."

Zoe popped back up with her fork, completely unaware.

"I dropped it!" she announced.

"Ten-second rule," Dimitri murmured without thinking.

Zoe laughed.

And this time, when Anya looked at him...

She swore she saw him almost smile.

The kitchen had been cleaned before Anya even realized the meal was over.

Silent servers moved like shadows, clearing plates, replacing silverware, wiping surfaces that didn't need it. Dimitri gave a small nod, stood without comment, and turned to leave.

He made it halfway to the door before Zoe called after him.

"Wait!"

He stopped. Slowly.

Anya tensed.

Zoe slid off her booster seat and dug into her little side bag, rummaging past a half-melted crayon and a flattened granola bar.

She pulled out a folded piece of paper. Purple construction stock, crumpled at the edges.

"I made this for our new house," she said. "You didn't have any pictures on the walls. That's weird."

Dimitri turned around, brows lifting slightly.

Zoe walked over, all four feet of her confidence on full display, and handed it up to him.

He looked down at the drawing.

Three stick figures stood in front of a black square labeled "HOME". One had long curls. One had a crown. The third had very sharp shoulders and icy blue eyes drawn in clumsy marker. Above them, Zoe had drawn a yellow sun with a big smile and the word "US" in careful, crooked letters.

Dimitri held the paper like it might explode.

Zoe beamed. "You can put it on your fridge if you want. Or your window. Or in your secret evil lair."

His jaw tightened. Not in offense-but in restraint. Like he didn't know what his face was supposed to do next.

Anya watched it all. Carefully. Quietly.

And for the first time, she saw the man under the steel.

Dimitri looked down at the drawing again. His fingers moved awkwardly, folding it carefully, more gently than she expected.

"I'll keep it," he said finally. "Thank you."

Zoe skipped back to Anya's side.

He looked at them both then-really looked. Not like they were a problem. Not like they were invaders.

Just like he didn't know what to make of them.

Like he'd never had a child hand him a picture before.

Like he didn't know if he deserved one.

"Goodnight," he said stiffly, and left.

The door whispered closed behind him.

Anya stood still.

Zoe leaned into her side, sleepy now. "He's not that scary."

Anya blinked. "No?"

"He just forgot how to smile. Maybe he'll remember."

Anya glanced at the doorway. At the folded paper in Dimitri's hand.

"Maybe," she murmured. "But I wouldn't hold my breath."