Sasha's POV:
The wrought-iron gates rise tall and imposing, their intricate scrollwork catching the last of the evening light as they swing open with a hydraulic hiss.
The car rolls forward onto the stone-paved driveway. Victor presses a switch, and the gates close behind us with a deep metallic thud.
The long stretch leading to the main building is flanked on either side by towering oaks and sweeping willows, their branches arching overhead to form a living canopy. The faint rustle of leaves drifts through the stillness, mingling with the steady rumble of tires over stone.
As the drive curves ahead, it opens into a wide circle where a white marble fountain stands proudly at the center. Water cascades in tiered streams, the surface catching streaks of gold from the fading sun.
I lean toward the rolled-down window, hit with a strange mixture of nostalgia and disbelief. Rich people, seriously.
The car slows to a stop at the foot of the sweeping steps that lead up to the mansion.
That's right, a freaking mansion-complete with a name.
"Dom Volkov - the den of the wolves."
It commands the center of the grounds, rising three stories tall, built of pale stone and dark timber that give it both elegance and weight. Wide staircases sweep upward to heavy double oak doors, their dark polish glowing beneath wrought-iron lanterns. On either side, curved ramps flow seamlessly into the design, as if the house itself had thought of everything.
Papa helps me out while Victor unfolds my wheelchair from the trunk. The air is sharp with the faint scent of pine drifting from Taynyy Forest, carried on a cool breeze. The fountain's constant trickle of water is steady and calming.
In the distance, shadows move with quiet precision-armed men patrolling the perimeter, subtle yet impossible to miss.
Papa pushes me up the ramp while Mama walks close, holding my hand. She looks every bit the lioness-poised to tear apart anyone foolish enough to approach me.
The great doors open, and the grand hall swallows us in. Vaulted ceilings arch high above, polished stone gleams beneath, and the walls, paneled in warm dark wood, carry a weight of quiet grandeur.
Antosha Morozov, our old butler-more grandfather than servant-stands waiting, flanked by two neat rows of maids.
They bow in unison, voices rising together:
"Welcome home, Miss Alexandra."
The words strike me like a pang in my chest, another reminder of how far this life stands from my previous one.
"I'm back, Toshadedushka," I say warmly.
He takes my hands gently, his weathered eyes softening. "It's good to have the light of Dom Volkov back, little one," he murmurs in Russian.
-----
Father pushes me into my room as mother walks behind us. The room is dressed in gentle tones of light pink and baby blue, white edging every corner. Above me, the ceiling still glows faintly with the stickers I once stuck on with my brother-five and ten years old then, giggling as we argued about the constellations we were making.
The sight sends a pang through me. I miss him for what feels like the 8,203rd time today.
During the months I've spent in the hospital, my room has undergone a quiet transformation. The soft, girlish space now hides a makeshift infirmary: a first-aid cabinet discreetly tucked into the corner, a small monitor blinking with alien numbers I don't recognize, and trays of sterile supplies lined up with unnerving precision. Somehow, all of it blends into the aesthetic, so it still looks like my room-just one with secrets humming beneath the surface.
Papa lifts me carefully onto the bed and leans down, crouching so his face is level with mine.
"I have a welcome home gift for you, Solnyshko."
From his pocket, he draws out a dainty golden necklace. A small locket gleams in the soft lamplight. He fastens it gently around my neck, his big hands surprisingly careful. My fingers itch, and I fidget with it immediately, the cool surface warming against my skin. My initials-A.D.V.-are etched into the metal.
"You have to promise me you'll never, ever take it off, little one. No matter what."
Internally, I raise a brow. Never take it off, huh? Classic. Daddy dearest definitely put a tracker in here. Useful, though. I smirk inwardly and hug him in thanks. Both Mama and Papa kiss my forehead before leaving, their silhouettes soft against the glow of the hallway as they leave the door skewed open behind them.
The room falls quiet, save for the faint ticking of the ornate clock on the wall and the distant hush of the mains working outside. I slide a hand under the mattress to the exact spot I always hide things and pull out my personal journal. Its worn cover, overcrowded with jeweled stickers arranged in an impressive manner for a kid, is warm against my palms. Flipping it open, I find the last entry, dated June 15th:
-----
Dear diary,
Today Tanya came to visit me. We played house together and she showed me her new Charm doll-the cutest little pink unicorn. Limited edition too! I'm so jealous. I've been begging Niko to take me to get one for ages! I can't trust Papa with this, he has awful taste in toys. And Mama already says I have too many dolls I don't play with. It's so not fair! I love them all equally and always say good night to each of them daily before bed.
I swear I'm going to convince my brother tonight! U '꓃ ' U
Also, theíos Tony calls Mama and Papa this afternoon with sparkly news! Theía Daphne gave birth to my little cousin today! Her name is Olivia Cora Vitale. I'm going to be a big sister!!! (ꈍᴗꈍ)
That's all for today! Mama and Papa are going on a date tonight, so I'm going to watch Mama get ready. She's really pretty. I hope I become as pretty as her when I grow up! I'll marry someone like Papa and we'll go on dates too!
P.S. I think Tanya has a crush on my brother. She always blushes whenever he's around. Niko ignores her though. I hope she marries him and becomes my sister. She can be mean sometimes, but she always helps me with my math homework. Also, I learnt what P.S. means today! Tosha dedushka taught me when I got caught watching him write a letter to his wife. He's the best. (*´ω｀*)
-----
It is oddly healing to read those words-the voice of a child who has lived the kind of safe, golden childhood I could never have imagined as Yella. But a few details stand out sharply.
For one: Tanya. Tatiana Ivanova-the future heiress to the most powerful media empire in Russia. She is also meant to be Nikolai's fiancée. Portrayed as a villainess in the story, she would go on to die just to protect her love's lover. A senseless death for convenience. My hands curl into fists, rage burning through me. That isn't going to happen this time.
And then there is little Livvy. Olivia Cora Vitale-my cousin. The future heroine of the second book, daughter of Antonio Vitale, Italian capo, and my mother's twin sister Daphne. My maternal grandfather's handiwork, of course. Selling his daughters off for his own greed. I hope I get the chance to meet him in this lifetime. I have a few choice words I'd love to deliver personally.
Most events seem to be aligning with the book-except for one small, inconvenient truth: I am still alive. Fate's neat little script has already been broken. So why stop there?
A slow grin spreads across my face as an idea sparks.
Why should heroines ever need rescuing? Why should their stories bend to the weight of the men written to own them? I'd rather collect them myself, arm them with the skills to stand toe to toe with their so-called male leads. Let those knights in shining armor try courting them as equals-if they even dare. And in the meanwhile, if I can clear up some of the trash in the side, the kind that preys on women, children and the elderly, it wouldn't exactly hurt anyone, would it?
The thought makes me laugh out loud, sharp and giddy. From the hallway, a pair of maids peek in, their eyes wide. To them, their little princess must look like she's been possessed by a devil.
Well. They aren't exactly wrong.
I bend over to my desk, pulling out pens and markers, and begin charting the events I remember. First the certain milestones, neatly inked in black. Then the hazier details, scribbled in another color. Each note is written in the code language I perfected in my past life-the same I use to pass along classified intelligence in the field. No one will ever decipher it.
I binge hate-read this series right before my final mission, and my journalist instincts have pieced together a fairly accurate timeline. I jot until my hand cramps, then lock the journal with a soft click and slide it back into its hiding place.
Finally, I sink back into the bed, the canopy folding around me like a shield. The glow-in-the-dark stars above flicker faintly in the dim. For the first time in a long time, my heart feels strangely light.