Chapter 4 A Face in the Dark

The Volkov penthouse didn't sleep.

It hummed-softly, perpetually-like the city beneath it was breathing through the walls. Outside Anya's bedroom window, Manhattan glittered in restless patterns: headlights crawling down Fifth Avenue, aircraft blinking red over the skyline, neon reflections fractured across glass towers.

She lay on her side, eyes wide open, blanket bunched around her hips, long past the point of pretending she'd fall asleep.

Zoe had gone down without protest, curled under her dinosaur blanket, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. A little island of calm. But Anya's mind hadn't shut off. Not once.

Not since dinner.

Not since Dimitri.

The way he looked at her-no, through her-wasn't just cold. It was controlled. And something about that control made her want to dig her nails in and crack it open.

She turned onto her back.

Her eyes drifted to the ceiling. And then to the faint glint of the city lights moving across the smooth walls.

And slowly, unwillingly, she let her mind slip.

Back five years.

Back to the night that started everything.

The ballroom had smelled like roses and money.

Not flowers-roses, specifically. The imported kind. Laced through gold-trimmed centerpieces, spilling from marble urns, coiling around champagne fountains.

Anya had stood just inside the entrance, wearing a floor-length gown borrowed from a co-worker's cousin. It was navy silk, cut lower than she was used to, with thin gold straps that refused to sit still. Her mask was simple: black satin edged with lace. She'd curled her hair to try and fit in. Her heels already ached.

Everyone in the room shimmered. The women wore diamonds like skin. The men-every one of them tall, clean-jawed, dangerous-wore masks that looked like power in velvet form.

And she had never felt more alone in her life.

She'd only come because one of her student's parents had insisted, said it would be "good exposure," and "for a good cause."

A charity masquerade hosted by Volkov Industries.

The champagne was free. The judgment was not.

She remembered scanning the crowd, trying to find a way to disappear gracefully-maybe fake an emergency, spill something, feign sudden food poisoning-when her eyes met his.

Across the room, near a wall of black marble, a man stood with a drink in his hand and his gaze locked straight on her.

He wore a black velvet mask, simple and severe. It covered just enough to make him mysterious, but not so much that she couldn't see the curve of his jaw, the high cut of his cheekbone, the cool confidence in his stance.

And he was watching her.

Not glancing. Not assessing. Watching.

Anya remembered swallowing hard.

Her skin had prickled, even then.

She looked away first. But the burn of his gaze stayed.

In the present, Anya rolled onto her side again, burying her face into the cool pillow.

She didn't want to remember what came next. The way he crossed the floor like the party existed solely to give him space to move. The way his voice slid over her name like he already owned it.

She didn't want to remember how easy it had been to want him.

To need him.

Because back then, it hadn't felt dangerous.

It had felt like a dream.

The flute of champagne trembled slightly between Anya's fingers. She tried to take a sip but couldn't stop her eyes from flicking toward him again.

The man in the black velvet mask was no longer standing by the wall.

He was moving.

Toward her.

She felt it before she saw it. The ripple of his presence through the crowd. The way heads tilted subtly to track him. Even masked, he had gravity. Women noticed him. Men gave him space. He moved like someone used to being in command.

And when he stopped in front of her, it was without hesitation.

"First time?" he asked.

His voice was deep and smooth, with the faintest edge of something foreign in the vowels. Not an accent-more like a ghost of one. Old money polished down over time.

She blinked up at him. "Is it that obvious?"

He looked her over-not leering, not crude. Just cataloging. Slowly. Thoroughly.

"You're not watching the room the way the others do," he said. "You're watching for exits."

She flushed. "Maybe I just like to be near a door."

"I doubt that." He offered his hand. "Dance with me."

She hesitated. "I don't even know your name."

"That's the point."

He didn't smile. He didn't need to. His eyes did something far more dangerous. They promised.

Anya's breath hitched.

She took his hand.

The ballroom seemed to quiet as they stepped onto the floor.

He didn't ask what kind of dance she liked. He didn't lead with stiff formality. He moved like water-slow, fluid, confident-and she followed like her body had been waiting to remember this exact rhythm.

"You're good at this," she murmured.

"So are you."

"Liar. I've been stepping on your shoes since the first turn."

"They're custom. I can afford the insult."

She laughed-real, surprised. And his eyes warmed. Just slightly.

Up close, he smelled like something rich and clean-cedarwood and spice and the faintest trace of smoke. She caught herself leaning in, then stopped.

"You're not from here," she said.

"No."

"Do you always talk in riddles?"

"I only have one night. Why waste it on small talk?"

The song slowed. His fingers flexed against hers.

One night.

She should've stepped away. Said thank you. Walked back to the wall, sipped her champagne, and left before midnight.

Instead, she said: "Then what would you waste it on?"

His hand slid to the small of her back. "You tell me."

The last notes of the string quartet dissolved into applause, but neither of them moved.

He hadn't stopped watching her-not for a second.

Not with hunger. Not with entitlement.

With intensity. Curiosity. Like she was the most unexpected thing that had ever happened to him.

Anya stood in the quiet between songs, still in his arms, still breathless. Her lips parted with words she hadn't chosen yet.

Then he said, "Come with me."

And she did.

No questions. No name. No pretense.

He led her up a sweeping marble staircase, through the hush of empty hallways, to a private suite lit by nothing but a fireplace and city light through tall windows. The door shut behind them like a secret locking itself in.

She should've been afraid.

Instead, she felt seen.

He touched her like he didn't know what she was made of-but wanted to learn. Slowly. Reverently.

One hand slid up her bare arm, then her neck, fingertips brushing her jaw as if to ask permission before every inch.

Her dress slid from her shoulders like it had been waiting to fall for him.

He kissed her like it wasn't the first time. Like he'd dreamed it before, again and again. His mouth moved over hers with a heat that built and broke and rebuilt. Her back arched to him. Her breath tangled with his name that she didn't yet know.

When they fell into the bed, she didn't think about tomorrow.

She thought about how no one had ever made her feel like this-like she was a match being struck, flame first, consequence later.

No questions. No promises.

Just skin.

Just need.

Just that look in his eyes when he whispered, "Don't disappear."

But by dawn, she was gone.

She'd dressed in silence, heart slamming against her ribs, fingers trembling as she zipped up the dress that no longer felt like it fit.

He lay in the bed behind her, one arm outstretched where she had been.

She didn't wake him.

She couldn't.

Because if he opened his eyes and looked at her like that again-like she mattered-she wasn't sure she'd leave.

So she did.

Into the cold morning. Into a cab. Into the rest of her life.

And she never saw him again.

Until now.

The Volkov penthouse was dark except for one wing.

From the street below, the illuminated sliver of glass near the top floor would have looked like any other office-clean lines, cold angles, a man in a suit leaning over a desk far too late at night.

Inside, Dimitri sat in the center of his study, a whiskey untouched beside him, a sleek black folder of estate records spread out across the glass desktop.

He hadn't moved in hours.

The will had been reviewed. The trusts arranged. The board calmed. The media played.

But it wasn't the business side of the estate that kept him awake.

It was her.

Anya Petrova.

She wasn't what he expected.

Not the typical "surprise sibling" scandal bait. No ambition in her eyes. No hunger. No desire to play games. She carried herself like someone who was always bracing for the next blow and smiling through it anyway.

That bothered him.

Because he knew what it meant to live like that.

And because something about her kept pressing at a part of his memory that refused to resettle.

Now, as he pulled another envelope from the bottom of the file stack, he paused.

It was old. Heavy. Unmarked except for Nikolai's handwriting on the back: "Masquerade – 5 years."

He opened it.

Inside were photographs-printouts, not digital. Black-tie attendees. Masks and champagne. The swirl of gowns and glitter under chandeliers.

Nikolai had always documented everything. Especially events where reputations could be threatened.

Dimitri flipped through the stack with mild disinterest until one photo made his hand freeze mid-turn.

A crowd shot. Wide angle. Blurred at the edges.

But at the far side of the image-half-shadowed near the staircase-stood a woman in a navy-blue silk gown, thin gold straps sliding off her shoulders.

Hair curled.

Face half-hidden behind a simple black mask.

But something in the shape of her mouth. The curve of her jaw.

It hit him like a fist.

He stared.

No.

No, it couldn't be.

He leaned in, breath shallow, studying the image as if it might rearrange itself and disprove his suspicion. But the longer he looked, the less room doubt had to hide.

The dress.

The hair.

The eyes.

He'd memorized those lips once, blindly.

He dropped the rest of the photos, the whiskey untouched beside his hand.

The woman in the picture-five years ago-was her.

Anya.

And if that night hadn't been a coincidence-

If the timing lined up-

If Zoe was four now-

Then the girl sleeping in the next wing...

Might be more than just her daughter.

Dimitri didn't move.

The study, silent but for the hum of the city beyond the glass walls, seemed to tighten around him as he stared at the photo.

It was her.

It was.

The tilt of her head, the tension in her shoulders. Even blurry, her posture was unmistakable.

Anya Petrova.

The woman who haunted his memory like perfume on forgotten sheets.

The woman who left before dawn and took the air with her.

He thought he'd imagined her-hazy fragments, distorted by alcohol and time and the kind of night you don't talk about later. A night out of character, born from grief, rebellion, lust. Whatever it was, he'd buried it.

Until now.

He set the photo down carefully.

Then picked it up again.

His fingers trembled slightly.

He didn't tremble.

Not ever.

But the timeline was too neat. The numbers too sharp.

Five years ago.

One night.

A woman with no name. No goodbye.

A child, now four, living under his roof.

Zoe.

Her curls. Her eyes.

His eyes.

Dimitri rose from his chair slowly, the air around him heavy with something unsaid.

He moved to the bar and poured the whiskey he hadn't touched earlier.

Downed it in one swallow.

Then stood in the dark for a long time, jaw clenched, one hand gripping the edge of the counter.

He could confront her now. Wake her. Demand the truth.

But no-Anya wasn't a woman you cornered in the dark. She'd disappear again.

This time, he needed her to stay. Long enough for answers. Long enough for certainty.

Long enough for... what?

Responsibility?

Panic flared behind his ribs like a flare under glass.

If Zoe was his daughter-

Then the world he'd built-one of steel, control, legacy-was about to be torn open by a secret with dimples and a purple backpack.

He looked back at the photo one last time.

And for the first time in years, Dimitri Volkov didn't know what the hell to do next.