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The music ended, and I turned to see two middle-aged men rising from their seats, giving a slight bow before quietly leaving the room.
Glancing at him again, my surprise deepened as I noticed a sizable envelope gripped in his left hand.
“Tvoye otsutstviye zastavilo moye serdtse drognut’, no tvoye prekrasnoye litso vozvrashchayet yego k zhizni. Your absence killed my heart, but the sight of your beautiful face just brought it back to life,” he said with a shaky voice.
I tilted my head to the side, confusion evident on my face as I tried to make sense of his words.
The intensity in his eyes, however, left me feeling a bit unsettled. It made me hesitate, second-guessing myself, and I ended up not having the guts to ask him to translate what he had just said.
“What are you doing here, Mikhaïl?”
Didn’t he have more important things to do on a random Friday afternoon?
I thought he would be on his way to Moscow, up in the sky, by now.
“I am here for you, Sofiya. Always for you.”
For me.
The very same thing he said to me last night.
“How did you pull all of this off?” I motioned to the room, where thousands of petals were arranged beautifully, and soft lights cast a gentle dance on the walls. “Angelo is not going to be happy.”
He chuckled softly, his eyes intimately tracing my face. “You don’t need to worry about him.”
I furrowed my brows in concern. “But I do. He’s my boss.”
His smile grew slightly wider. “I know that.”
“Volk,” I began tentatively.
“Volk, again?”
I swallowed. “That’s your name.”
“Is it, now?”
“Yes,” I said, sensing the atmosphere becoming more charged. “I thought you would have made it to Moscow by now.”
“I can’t return to Moscow.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t go back without you.”
His words seemed to hang in the air, electric and charged.
My heart raced, a mix of surprise, happiness, and a touch of anxiety flooding over me.
It was as if a storm of emotions had been unleashed, swirling through my veins and leaving me both exhilarated and uncertain about what else he might say.
“Yes, you can,” I breathed.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to.”
“I—” I began, but he gently cut me off.
“I’m not good with words,” he confessed, his voice vulnerable. “But I need you to understand how much you mean to me, Sofiya.”
