Page 53 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

The little girl considers that, her gaze sweeping over me in a shockingly thorough way for such a young child. “No. You don’t look like a Jessica.”

I would find her response funny if everything inside me didn’t feel like it was unraveling. “What do I look like, then?”

She shrugs. “Are you friends with Nadia?”

Nadia… Hmmm. Is that Kirill’s girlfriend? Surely, he has one. No man that good-looking would stay celibate for five years.

“No.” I clear my throat. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“I’m Violet,” she chirps, back in the intimidation game.

Violet.

The color purple splashes across in my mind without warning. It feels deep, rich, and vivid. My stomach dips, and I feel like I’m falling.

“That’s a pretty name,” I manage, careful not to scare her with my unsteady, shaky steps.

“I know,” she says easily and spins. “My mother named me that because it’s her favorite color.”

That’s…my favorite color. The world tilts in a violent shift. The room stretches and narrows as my ears start ringing.

“Your mother?” I repeat, my fingers tightening around the book again to ground me.

She nods. “Uh huh.”

I force myself to breathe, to stay upright, to hold on to something solid as everything inside me begins to fracture again.

“Who… Who is your mother?” I ask the fragile question that might possibly have an answer I’m not sure I’m prepared for.

Violet doesn’t hesitate. “Her name is Sandrine.”

My vision blurs at the edges as the room folds in on itself. Pain in my chest suffocates me. I grip the ladder, the book slipping from my grasp. It lands on the floor, a random page opening.

The impossible, undeniable truth crashes into everything I thought I believed.

Sandrine.

Kirill called me Sandrine.

And the little girl’s mother is Sandrine as well.

No.

This can’t be happening.

But it is. It has to be. Because nothing else makes sense anymore.

Her hair. His. Her eyes. God, those eyes are… Mine. Kirill said I’m his wife. Did we have a child? Did I have a child?

“How… How old are you, sweetie?” I ask, bracing for her to say three or four. Maybe she’s just super advanced.

I know where I was three years ago, even four years ago. Not in a hospital giving birth!

This question about her age makes her smile, as I noticed it does with all children.

“I’m five,” she says, shooting her hands in the air and spinning again.

Five. I lost my memory five years ago.