Page 30 of Vexatious Queen

“Whatever you need to say to me, you can say in front of him,” I said.

The dean glanced at our hands. I swore he smirked a little, but he had already gone back to the tea he was preparing.

“Very well, close the door.”

Nash let go of my hand, and the room felt smaller as he closed us in together. My anxiety poked at my brain and made my heart pound hard in my chest. The silence stretched on as Dean Henry sipped his tea.

“How are you doing,” Dean Henry asked, and I licked my lips.

“Sir, if this is bad news, I would prefer to skip the small talk.”

He nodded and returned to his desk, setting his tea down.

“I’m aware that you have been reconnecting with Edmundo…your father, but have the two of you spoken at all about your grandfather?”

My brows knit together. “Which one?”

“Your mother’s father. Vadin Mikhailov.”

A cold shiver traveled down my spine.

“Enough to know that he treated my parents terribly. I know that he is the reason my mother was forced to marry Christov instead of Eddie, if that is what you mean.”

He nodded and then pointed to a plain brown package, almost as tall as I was, leaning against the wall.

“That came for you,” Dean Henry said, sitting down.

I walked over to what I could only assume was some kind of framed art, based on the dimensions.

“Do I want to open this,” I asked, the internal thought blurting out.

“You certainly don’t have to, but it has been my experience that it’s better to know what is coming than to bury your head in the sand,” Dean Henry said, and I sighed, hating that he was right.

The brown paper tore away easily, revealing a box. I used my nail to cut the tape and then looked at Nash.

“Can you help pull it out?”

Nash grabbed the frame and gently pulled out the painting, while I held the box. He placed the piece on the floor and stepped back. My mouth dropped open as I stared at the brushstrokes. It was a signature I knew anywhere.

My mother had painted a phoenix, the wings a mix of every color as it rose from the flames and transformed into a woman. Tears pricked my eyes as I stared at the image depicting my mother and her fight for freedom.

Rise from the ashes. Always rise again.

“This was attached to the back,” Nash said, handing me a card with the name Lilya scribbled across the front.

Lilya,

It humbles me to write these words after so many silent years. To learn that you are alive—and thriving—has awakened something in me I thought long gone. Joy, yes, but also the ache of time I can never reclaim. You are the echo of all I once loved, and learning of the woman you’ve become fills me with both pride and regret.

Your mother and I allowed pride to speak louder than love, and it cost us the bond our family deserved. For that, I offer you my deepest apology. The years have carved their lessons in my skin, and loss has been my only teacher. I would trade all that remains of my days to rewrite those I wasted in anger.

Please accept this painting—your mother’s art, her soul in color—as my attempt to bridge what is broken. It is a small gesture, but it carries my heart. If you can find a way to forgive me, I would be honored to know you not as a stranger, but as my granddaughter.

S lyubov'yu i veroy v proshcheniye,

Dedushka Vadin

I reread the letter and then handed it to Nash. I didn’t know what to think. Everything I’d learned over the last year had painted Vadin as a ruthless businessman and killer, who put money and power above all else.