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“No security?”

“No.”

I look down at my hands.

“She wanted one thing that was hers,” he says.

I know it’s difficult for him to recount the incident.

“Then it rained,” he says. “She lost control on a curve. By the time Sergei reached the scene, she was already gone.”

My throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”

He nods once, like he is accepting the words because he knows I mean them, not because they help.

“Was Anya with her?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. “Thank God.”

I breathe out. “Yes.”

“She had wanted to take her. I refused that too.”

I understand what he’s saying a second after he says it. If he had agreed, Anya might have been in that car. If he had not fought with Sofia, maybe Sofia would not have left alone. It’s not just black and white.

I think of what I heard outside his office. Viktor’s bitterness. Nikolai asking whether Sofia loved him. The pause before Viktor answered.

For a second, I wonder whether the fight was only about freedom and safety, or whether something else lay underneath. Viktor. Loneliness. A marriage arranged by everyone except the two people inside it.

I don’t ask. That question would be cruel right now, and I know it.

Instead, I shift closer on the sofa.

“You don’t have to pity me,” he says without looking at me.

“You’re the last person I’ll pity,” I say.

That gets the smallest response from him. Barely a breath, but I count it.

I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and for a while we say nothing. It is easier than I expected. I don’t have to fill the quiet. He doesn’t seem to expect me to.

After a minute, I reach for his hand.

He looks down when my fingers touch his. I almost pull back. Then his hand turns under mine, and he lets me hold it. His palm is warm. Larger than mine. There are faint scars over two knuckles, old enough that I only notice them because I am looking too closely.

“When Anya was born, I thought having enough money and enough men would mean I could keep her safe,” he says. “Now someone has tried to hurt her, and I can’t even tell her when she can go back to school.”

“I know you’re trying.”

“I need to do more than try.”

I move closer, keeping his hand between both of mine. “I understand why you were angry about the party. I should have listened.”

He looks at me. “You wanted her to be happy.”

“I did. But I should have helped you find a way to make that happen.”

For a moment, he studies our hands.