Page 44 of The Silent Princess

“I know, and it will not happen. The Vodianov clan will vanish from the earth, their people exiled from the region, their businesses sold to us, and Cole… Cole will be mine to decide. You know he will never stop until one of us…” Somewhere deep inside me, I know that it will be him or me, and that at some point, one of us will have to die for the other to live. Whether that makes me like my father or not, some things in life are not ours to choose.

“I know, Tristan.”

“All in good time. All in good time. For now, let’s wait for Matt, Brenton, and Saoirse, and then we will find out how to target him at the heart.” I spread out the sheets covered with maps and architectural drawings of his warehouses, his schedule, his men, and the photographs that come along with them, until there is not an inch of the desk visible. His heart, not a person, nor his family, but the heart of his engine, of his organization.

Aiming at his heart.

Just like he is aiming at mine.

The only question is who will be the fastest to reach the target.

Chapter Twelve

Ella

“Did you enjoy it?” Mara sips a cocktail, both of us sitting in the lounge area of a four-star hotel. I have never been here, nor ever imagined being here one day. I’m wearing a new outfit she just bought me and forced me to wear immediately, my clothes folded in the paper bag I carried outside. A short white dress made of cotton and a layer of thick lace that I would never dare to wear. Thankfully, the cut is modest, covering my arms and closing at my collarbone. New sandals with a short heel and even a purse, like Valeria and Emily’s, small enough to fit on my shoulder and carry a set of keys.

I am wearing their costume, and the fit is not quite right. To wear somebody else’s vision is to be disguised, inside and out, and I run a hand over my nape as I feel a man’s gaze pass over us and linger on my legs. Why did I agree to wear such a short dress? I frown, remembering Mara asked me a question, and now that I think about it, no, I did not enjoy our shopping spree, given that, from the look of it, she tried to morph me into a miniature version of herself.

I finished my chores at home, meaning organizing the girls’ shoe closet and scraping dirt from their soles with the back of a knife, and then she drove us to a single shop where the saleswomen sniffed me like I had crawled out of a dumpster. Mara chose two dresses without asking my opinion, this pair of sandals, then monologued nonstop about the importance of looking like a million dollars, to which I wish I could have said that for one to look like a million dollars, one must own at least enough to buy a clean shirt. I did not have time to look at anything or tell her that this dress was making me uncomfortable. We were already out, with let me carry your bag, Mrs. Brooks this and always a joy to see you, Mrs. Brooks that. Oh, and by the way, walking in heels is not as easy as she makes it seem. I stumbled twice, and all I won was a sneer.

At the corner of the shop was this hotel, and she insisted on us getting a drink after such a fun girls’ outing. I thought this was about working on our relationship. I thought she would apologize for hitting me. I thought, I hoped…

“Ella,” Mara snaps, crossing and uncrossing her endless legs. “So, was it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?” I pause. What is she… Everything I have ever dreamed of? Does she mean wearing a hundred-dollar dress while my dad waits in our house with no hope of recovery. Deflecting, trying to appease the anger bubbling inside me, I sign, “Why did you ask me to come here?”

She huffs. “Aren’t you happy I bought you this outfit? Brought you to such an elegant and refined place? Don’t be ungrateful, Ella.”

“I…” I start signing, then mouth, “Thank you.”

“You know, when I was young like you,” her gaze drifts behind me, “I had much less. In a way, you remind me a lot of myself.” I listen, feigning interest in my chamomile tea with shaky fingers, my nails short, my hands dry from cleaning without gloves. The scar on my palm is still there, a faint dark red barely visible anymore. “But I worked hard, I’m talking really hard, Ella, to build Ethereal Design, to…” To marry my father, use his wealth, and grow her business from it–yes, that I understand. My family had money, a lot of it, but my parents did not agree to live a lavish lifestyle and considered wealth to be a fridge full of food and more time to spend together. It was never about cars, mansions, or clothes. It took me years to understand how rich my parents were, because back then, I did not even know, and I am glad I never did, or I would have turned out like Valeria and Emily, ordering people around without any appreciation for somebody else’s work.

“Why didn’t you buy an electric stairlift for Dad?” I bluntly sign.

“A what?” I detach each letter, spelling the word. “Oh, I… What use would that be?” She frowns, waving in the air. “Your dad is happy downstairs.”

“But he cannot move by himself or go upstairs. There’s ways for him to move around by himself. I saw articles about it.”

“Well, tell me, Ella. I cannot wait to hear about it.” She says it in a lazy tone, and I wonder if she is being truthful or mocking me.

“You could buy him an electric stairlift, and a wheelchair, a special one he could control with just the tips of his fingers. And his nurses, we could hire more qualified people to help with his mobility exercises, stay on top of his medication, and give us daily reports instead of leaving without telling anyone what’s going on. And if Dad had a lighter, electric wheelchair, I could take him around the neighborhood myself. Right now, I have to carry him downstairs, and sometimes he’s too heavy for me. And, and if his bed could be lowered, then…”

“If, if, if…” She waves, shaking her head and sighing. “If I had a million bars of gold, I would solve world hunger. See, Ella? If only.” She checks herself in a small mirror, then tucks the mirror into her designer camel bag. “I am already giving enough to charities, trust me. I’m doing my part, a rather large one.” Her last sentence rises in volume, as if she wants people around us to hear about her good nature.

“But you could. All those dresses and cars and…” She tsks me, holding her finger in the air, signing instead of talking out loud, which is the most unusual behavior coming from her. I focus, knowing I will have to fill in the blanks of her limited ASL skills.

“Nothing to do. Your father is sick. Always will be. Doctors say no improvements. None. Do not get hopes up. No equipment could change anything. You have to accept.” She signs with dubious syntax. Shutting her eyes hard, as if the moment has taken all her strength, she snaps her tongue, her tone low and tired.

“It is what it is.”

“But,” I say silently, her words definitive, holding no hope or even slight glimmers of happiness for my dad. No matter what the doctor says, there are always ways to make his days better. Always. I refuse to accept that, but Mara seems bored with me, and I am not sure pressing her now would lead to a favorable outcome. Finishing my chamomile, I ignore the golden lights above the bar, the velvet sofas behind us, the burgundy curtains, the soft jazz music, and the people dressed so elegantly they could have stepped out of a magazine. I ignore all of it as I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the wall of expensive liquor.

There is always something that can be done, my parents would tell me when I fell from my bike. Fall, but get back on. Wipe your palms on your knees and carry on.

I refuse her pessimistic vision. I refuse her words as tales of truth. My father is the only person who has always wanted good things to happen to me and who has tried, even in pain, to make me smile. I will find a way to make his last days happier, because that is what good people are supposed to do. Good things, when no one is watching.

“It’s getting late. Let’s go,” she snaps, standing slowly, elegantly sliding her bag onto her shoulder. If first ladies had training, Mara could be their teacher.

“Actually, I need to go to the library. I’ll take the bus later,” I sign hesitantly. Will she let me? Why does lying feel like hiding behind a thin blade of grass?