August 9th, 2025
Inside a mansion located in a rich neighbourhood in Moscow, Russia - 9:34 PM
The Moscow night was bitterly cold, but inside the Vasiliev mansion - one of the most luxurious homes in the elite Rublyovka district - the warmth of family radiated through laughter, banter, and the flicker of an old romance movie playing on a massive screen in the grand living room.
The chandeliers above glowed like stars, reflecting off the polished marble floors and gilded décor.
The six members of the Vasiliev family lounged together on an oversized velvet sectional couch, wrapped in a mix of cashmere blankets and the closeness only a happy family could exude.
In the center sat the parents. Astrid Vasilieva, with her platinum-blonde hair cascading like strands of moonlight, pale skin as soft as porcelain, and eyes the color of emerald ice, still looked more like a princess than a mother of grown children. Though her beauty was ethereal, her presence carried something deeper - an ache, a shadow behind her smile.
Beside her, her husband Mikhail Vasiliev - a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man in his late forties - projected both strength and warmth. His strong jaw, graying beard, and piercing blue eyes made him look like a general from an old war painting, but when he looked at Astrid, his gaze softened.
On Astrid's left sat her daughters. The eldest, Tasha Vasilieva, a tall, muscular redhead with fiery hair and sharp cheekbones, leaned back with her arms crossed, smirking at the screen. She was bold, outspoken, and had the stubborn streak of someone who could wrestle life into submission.
Beside her was her younger sister, Rose Vasilieva, slimmer, delicate-featured, with long dark hair that framed her pale face. While Anastasia always teased and provoked, Rose preferred silence - scrolling endlessly through her phone, barely paying attention to the movie.
On Mikhail's right sat their two sons. Dmitri Vasiliev, the eldest boy, was tall and thin, with golden-blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes that sparkled with sarcasm. He had inherited Astrid's elegance but wielded it with humor, always ready with a sharp joke.
Next to him was Nico Vasiliev, the youngest of the four siblings, quieter than Dmitri, his head bent over his phone, lost in whatever digital world distracted him. His dark hair fell lazily over his forehead, and his stoic face betrayed little emotion.
"Didn't we already watch this, like… fifteen times?" Tasha muttered in Russian, rolling her eyes at the screen.
Dmitri burst into laughter, tossing a popcorn kernel into the air and catching it in his mouth. "Yes! Thank you! I thought I was the only one dying inside. Mama and Papa treat this movie like it's the Bible."
Rose didn't look up from her phone, her voice monotone. "It is their Bible. Romance and tragedy. That's their church."
"Shut it, all of you," Mikhail growled, not taking his eyes off the movie. "Your mama loves these films. You will watch it, and you will like it."
Astrid, leaning gently against Mikhail's arm, smiled faintly. "They're not so bad. These old movies have… heart." Her voice was soft, melodic, but heavy, as if weighted with memory.
On screen, the grainy film showed a woman in labor. The doctor's voice carried the muffled tone of an old Soviet recording: "Push, madam. One more push." The screams of labor filled the room.
Tasha groaned loudly, pressing a pillow over her face. "Oh, god, this part again? I could recite the lines by memory at this point."
Dmitri clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh, what a tragedy. Will the baby survive? Will the mother survive? The suspense is killing me - just like it did the last fourteen times."
Nico finally muttered, his eyes never leaving his phone. "You two should take your stand-up routine to the metro. Maybe someone will pay you to shut up."
"Lil bro speaks!" Dmitri shouted in mock amazement, pretending to faint backward into the couch. Tasha snorted.
"Silence." Mikhail's voice cut like a whip, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward, betraying his amusement.
Astrid, however, wasn't laughing. Her eyes were glued to the screen.
As the black-and-white doctor finally held up a crying newborn, her expression shifted - softened - and a flicker of something deep, painful, and nostalgic crossed her face.
"It's a boy, madam," the doctor in the movie said.
"What would you name him?" The doctor smiled warmly.
The mother on screen, sweating and exhausted, smiled through her tears. "Yan," she whispered, her voice trembling. "His name will be Yan."
Astrid gasped quietly. Her hand rose to her lips, trembling. A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.
The family went silent. Even Tasha and Dmitri, usually relentless with their jokes, turned to their mother. Mikhail's arm tightened around Astrid protectively.
"Mama?" Rose finally asked, her voice small.
Astrid shook her head, brushing the tear away quickly, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just… this movie always reminds me…" Her voice cracked slightly. She stopped, took a slow breath, and steadied herself.
The movie continued. On screen, the mother held her newborn son close, rocking him gently.
"I'm going to love you more than anything in this world," the film mother whispered to her baby.
Astrid's shoulders trembled. The line pierced her like a blade. Mikhail rubbed her back gently, murmuring, "Astrid…" But she couldn't answer.
Tasha leaned forward, her sharp, fiery face now softened with concern. "Mama… why does this movie make you cry every time? You never tell us."
Astrid smiled faintly, her green eyes shimmering with tears. "Because some movies… are not just movies." She turned back to the screen, her gaze fixed on the mother cradling the child. "Sometimes, they remind us of pieces of ourselves we lost."
The room was silent except for the muffled cries of the movie baby.
Dmitri broke the silence gently, his sarcasm gone. "Mama… is there something you're not telling us?"
Astrid's lips parted as if to answer, but she hesitated. Her hands tightened in her lap.
For a moment, she looked like she might finally confess everything - the truth about the son she had once held, the son she had once loved more than the world, and the son she had given away.
But instead, she only whispered, almost too softly for anyone to hear: "I'm sorry my...'Yan'…"
'Yan'
Back in Manhattan - 2:45PM (9:45PM in Moscow)
Back in Manhattan, traffic was heavy, horns occasionally blasting in frustration, but Ruth didn't mind. Her hands rested lightly on the leather steering wheel of her sleek, black rental - a car that purred with quiet sophistication. Inside, the air smelled faintly of perfume, a floral note that mingled with the faint leather scent of the interior.
She was smiling.
Not a forced smile, not a polite social grin, but a true, luminous curve of lips that came from deep within her chest. Her dark eyes glittered as she cut through the traffic, the city lights flashing across her face like waves of emotion.
Ever since Ian had left Tokyo, Ruth felt something inside her had been pulled taut, like a violin string ready to snap. It ached, it yearned, it refused to let her rest.
She hadn't realized how much her obsession and possessiveness for him grew every second - how much of herself, her decisions, her desires - were now tied to Ian Everhart.
Always tied to Ian Everhart.
Every breath she took. Every move she made. Every road she drove down. All of it, in her mind, was for him.
A laugh slipped from her lips, soft and melodic, carried by the hum of the car's engine. She shook her head lightly as if scolding herself. "You're acting like a teenager, Ruth," she whispered in a self-mocking tone. "But you can't help it, can you?"
Her voice, rich and velvety, lingered in the air, swallowed by the muted jazz playing from the car's speakers. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm, her thoughts drifting again toward Ian - the man who had pulled her into a storm of obsession, craziness, and undying love.
But Ruth wasn't alone.
Several cars back, moving with equal steadiness through the shifting lanes of Manhattan traffic, another rental followed. A dark gray sedan, inconspicuous, swallowed by the swarm of vehicles. Behind its wheel sat Leo.
His sharp eyes never wavered, locked firmly on the distance ahead where Ruth's car cut gracefully through the traffic. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, veins flexing faintly.
The corners of his jaw clenched, unclenched, clenched again, as if keeping his thoughts contained behind his stoic mask.
He hadn't spoken a word since he began tailing her. His car was silent except for the steady rumble of the engine and the occasional hum of tires against the cracked Manhattan asphalt.
He knew better than to get too close, but not too far either. He moved like a shadow, weaving when she weaved, slowing when she slowed, accelerating when she pressed her foot against the gas.
When Ruth finally reached the airport turnoff, Leo's lips curled into the faintest smile.
"I knew it," he muttered to himself. His voice was low, a mixture of satisfaction and tension.
The airport loomed ahead, a colossal structure of glass and steel bathed in bright fluorescent light. The traffic grew more chaotic as travelers rushed in and out, taxis lined the curbs, and shuttles beeped impatiently at pedestrians.
Ruth pulled her sleek car into the rental return lot. She eased into a space with elegant precision, shut off the engine, and stepped out.
Heads turned.
She had that effect. Ruth wasn't merely beautiful - she was arresting. Graceful yet commanding, every movement of hers was deliberate, almost cinematic.
A long black coat framed her figure, her dark hair cascading in perfect waves, her heels clicking softly on the pavement as she walked. A few men nearby, businessmen just arriving from flights, let their eyes linger far too long. Ruth didn't acknowledge them. She had no need.
Thirty seconds later, Leo's gray sedan slid into the lot. He cut the engine and stepped out with quiet efficiency. Unlike Ruth, he didn't draw stares - not because he lacked presence, but because he carried himself like a man trained to avoid notice. Dark clothing, plain jacket, steady stride. He blended.
But his eyes - his eyes betrayed him. They never left Ruth.
For a moment, Leo paused. He scanned the crowd until, finally, he spotted her figure moving toward the airport's entrance. He didn't rush. He adjusted his jacket, locked the car, and followed at a measured pace, never closing the distance too much, but never letting her slip away.
Inside, the airport was alive with motion. Announcements crackled over loudspeakers in English and other languages. Rolling suitcases clicked against tiled floors. A line of weary passengers shuffled at security. The scent of coffee and fried food hung thick in the air.
Ruth walked with the grace of someone who had all the time in the world. She didn't hurry. She didn't glance behind her. Instead, she veered into a coffee shop tucked near the ticket counters.
The soft glow of warm lights spilled from the shop's windows, blending with the buzz of travelers seeking their last caffeine fix before departure.
Leo remained outside, leaning casually near a row of seats, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed only on her. He watched as she ordered a drink, exchanged polite words with the barista, and waited patiently.
When her coffee was finally handed over, she took a slow sip, closed her eyes briefly as if savoring not just the drink but the moment itself.
Then she stepped back into the main hall.
She still smiled. But now, there was a faint sharpness to it, a glimmer of something more than excitement.
Her eyes, dark and shining, flicked briefly across the hall - not directly toward Leo, but in a way that made it clear she already knew. She felt him.
Like a predator aware of its hunter. Or prey aware of its shadow.
The ticket counter was crowded, a small line of passengers waiting. Ruth stepped gracefully into place.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, adjusted the strap of her handbag, and stood calmly as though the world existed only to serve her next move.
Leo slipped into the line a few places behind.
He didn't speak. He didn't move much. But his gaze - quiet, unwavering, fixed - remained on Ruth.
The clerk at the counter greeted her warmly. "Good evening, ma'am. Where to?"
"South Carolina," Ruth answered without hesitation. Her voice was soft yet confident, like silk sliding over steel.
The clerk clicked through the system. "You're in luck. There's a flight boarding soon, direct. Would you like one ticket?"
"One," Ruth said with the faintest smile.
Her hand moved gracefully as she passed her card. Within minutes, the ticket was printed and slid across the counter. She took it, thanked the clerk, and stepped away.
As she turned, her lips curled into a smirk.
It wasn't for the clerk. It wasn't for the passengers waiting in line. It wasn't even for herself.
It was for Leo.
Though she never turned fully to look at him, her smirk was deliberate, her satisfaction clear. She walked calmly toward the gates, her heels echoing against the polished floor.
Behind her, Leo stepped up to the counter.
"That woman - where was her destination?" His voice was clipped, direct.
The clerk blinked, a little surprised. "South Carolina."
"Same flight. One ticket."
"Yes, sir."
He pulled out his wallet. The transaction was swift. The clerk slid him the ticket, and he tucked it away with sharp precision.
As he turned to follow, his eyes briefly caught sight of Ruth disappearing into the crowd ahead.
But Ruth's smirk remained in his mind, like a blade pressing against his thoughts.
She knew.
She knew all along he was following.
And this - this was exactly according to her plan and liking.