"Dad, please. This is a huge opportunity for my modeling career—I've already paid the fees!"
Cara's voice echoed through the living room, sharp with frustration.
Across the table, Conor barely looked up, flipping through his paperwork. As the chief editor of the country's biggest news channel, he was constantly neck-deep in files and deadlines.
"I've already said no," he replied, tone clipped as he corrected a draft with red ink.
Cara groaned, throwing her arms up.
"Why?! You agreed yesterday. Why are you changing your mind now?"
This time, Conor paused. His eyes softened for a beat as he met his daughter's fiery gaze.
"Because I didn't know you meant Russia," he said calmly. "That's not just around the corner, Cara."
"I'm not a baby!" she snapped, and before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the water glass from the side table and flung it across the room. It shattered against the floor with a piercing crack.
Aira, startled, immediately stood and caught Cara's arm.
"Sweetheart, calm down," she whispered, trying to soothe her.
Conor's expression become strict slightly, but he kept his voice controlled.
"You throw things again, and I'll make sure you don't leave the city for anything."
At the dining table, Niamph quietly continued her dinner, pretending not to react. But the tension in the air was impossible to ignore. Beside her, Jenny rolled her eyes and leaned closer.
"Same drama, different day," she muttered under her breath.
Niamph glanced at her, and Jenny gave a casual shrug, as if to say, Not our circus, not our monkeys.
She took another bite, eyes drifting toward the broken glass on the floor.
Cara burst into tears and ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. Aira's eyes followed her daughter, clouded with worry and frustration—until they landed on Niamph, still calmly finishing her dinner at the table.
Something in her snapped.
Without warning, Aira stormed over and slammed Niamph's plate off the table. The porcelain shattered against the floor, the food scattering.
"You ugly buffalo! My daughter is crying her heart out, and you're sitting here eating like nothing's happened? Are you enjoying her pain?" she yelled, voice venomous.
Niamph flinched, her chair scraping back as she stood, shocked.
"No, Mom—I... I wasn't—"
But Aira didn't let her finish. She grabbed Niamph's arms and dug her nails into the soft flesh, her grip cruel.
"Fat pig!" she hissed. "If I ever see you like this again, you'll go without food for ten days. You hear me?"
Niamph winced, her eyes filling with tears. Jenny, frozen in shock, finally sprang to action, rushing to pull Aira's hands away.
"Ma'am, please—leave her! It's not her fault!"
But Aira turned on her, eyes blazing.
"You stay out of this! You're just a maid! Don't forget your place."
"Enough."
The room fell into silence as Conor's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Aira, let go of her."
Aira froze, her fingers finally uncoiling from Niamph's bruising arms. But her eyes still burned with hostility.
Conor didn't look at her. His gaze shifted to Niamph.
"Niamph, go to your room."
She didn't speak—just turned and ran, her breath shaky, tears threatening to spill as she disappeared down the hallway.
Jenny bent to pick up the broken pieces of the plate, her lips pressed tight. Conor looked at Aira, but said nothing.
Niamph stumbled into her room and shut the door behind her with trembling hands. She turned the lock—click—a small sound of safety.
Her legs gave out the moment she reached the bed.
She collapsed onto it, face buried in the pillow, and let the floodgates break. The sobs that poured out were raw, muffled by the cushion, but still loud enough to echo in the silence of her room. Her shoulders trembled, her fingers clenched the sheets like she was trying to hold herself together.
Her face turned blotchy, streaked with tears. Her nose reddened, her breath hitching with every cry that broke from her throat.
"Why me?" she whimpered, her voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of her pain. "I never hurt anyone… I never asked for anything…"
She reached beneath her pillow with trembling fingers and pulled out the old photo frame. The edges were worn from how often she held it, like a child gripping the last piece of comfort they had.
It was a photo of her mother—smiling, glowing, loving.
Niamph held it to her chest and curled into herself, rocking slightly.
She whispered, voice thick with grief and betrayal, "Why did you leave me, Mom? Did you hate me that much? Couldn't you have stayed—just for me?"
Her fingers tightened around the frame as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Dad isn't the same anymore. He doesn't love me. He doesn't protect me. He just watches while they… while they hurt me…"
Her voice cracked, the words dissolving into silent sobs. She pressed the photo harder to her chest, as if trying to fuse her mother's memory into her heart.
All she wanted tonight… was someone to say they loved her. Just once.
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A soft knock echoed through the quiet room.
Niamph stirred, blinking against the dark. Her fingers fumbled for the phone beside her pillow. 1:00 a.m. The hour pressed heavy on her eyelids, but the persistent tapping at the door forced her upright.
Still groggy, she padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open.
Cara pushed past her without a word, shutting it quietly behind her.
Niamph frowned, confusion deepening when she noticed Cara's outfit—an oversized hoodie and loose pants instead of her usual silk nightwear. She looked like she was ready to disappear.
"Cara? Why are you dressed like that?"
Instead of answering, Cara yanked open Niamph's closet and started pulling out clothes, stuffing them into a small duffel bag.
"What are you doing?" Niamph asked, alarm rising in her throat.
"We're going to Russia. Now change. Fast."
Niamph blinked. "What? But… Dad said no. You can't—"
Cara spun around and rolled her eyes. "Oh, sweet little lamb. Do you really think I care what he said? I've made up my mind. And I need company. You're coming with me."
Niamph stepped back, her instincts screaming. "No. I'm not going. Dad will get worried—"
Cara's expression darkened.
"Are you denying me?" she said quietly, a dangerous lilt in her voice.
"Yes," Niamph said, firmer now. "I won't go with you."
Cara smirked.
"Oh, Niamph," she said mockingly, "do you want me to remind you of the things I know?"
Niamph's breath hitched.
Cara circled her like a predator. "Should I tell everyone how you sneak out of this mansion every month? Or maybe I should talk about your little performances? The way you dance—" she leaned in, her voice like venom, "—like a slut in front of strangers… for money."
Niamph went cold.
How did she know?
Cara stopped in front of her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear like a lover. "You think no one knows? I followed you once, watched your little show. You were quite the… entertainer."
"Please…" Niamph whispered.
Cara chuckled, the sound low and twisted. "Don't worry. I won't say a word. As long as you listen to me. Now get changed."
Niamph stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. Then silently, she turned and walked toward the bathroom.
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Inside the grand Bratva chamber, the air was thick with unspoken threats and old power.At one end, Mikhail Cozlov leaned lazily in his chair, idly spinning a heavy crystal paperweight in one hand. His expression was stoic, but his silence roared louder than words.
Across from him sat an MLA of the Duma, dressed in an expensive navy suit, wearing a smile that stretched a little too wide. The kind of smile that concealed desperation.
Leonid stood stoically beside Mikhail, arms crossed, unreadable behind his cold gaze.
The MLA cleared his throat politely. "Mr. Cozlov, I believe you'd consider my request. Your support in my campaign… could shape Russia's future. And with a man of your… influence, the presidency is within reach."
Mikhail's hand stilled.
The paperweight dropped into his palm with a soft thud as he slowly tightened his fingers around it. His gaze—sharp like a snake, —lifted and locked onto the man across the table.
"In my world," he said, voice low and deliberate, "even a single penny costs something."
The MLA's smile faltered for a beat, but he quickly recovered, nodding like a servant trying to appease his king.
Mikhail rose from his chair, movements fluid but predatory.
The MLA began to stand as well, out of courtesy—or perhaps fear.
A simple flick of Mikhail's fingers froze him in place.
"Sit," Mikhail said coldly.
The man obeyed instantly, his pride shriveling beneath Mikhail's stare.
Mikhail stepped closer, now towering over the polished table, his voice a slow dagger.
"What will I get in return… for this 'little funding' you're so eager for?"
The word funding dripped with contempt.
Leonid's lips twitched, barely containing a smirk.
The MLA adjusted his tie, the silk fabric slipping beneath his sweaty fingers. He straightened his spine and forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Whatever you say, Mr. Cozlov," he said, trying to sound professional.
Mikhail's smirk deepened, a slow curl of amusement painting his lips. He arched a brow, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction.
"Well," he drawled, "if you have no objection… then I want the north side under my control. No legal entity—no police, no government official, no whisper of law—is to interfere in my business there."
The words hung in the air like a loaded gun.
The MLA's smile collapsed.
He had expected money, weapons, maybe subtle intimidation. But this? The north was still one of the few regions the Bratva hadn't sunk its teeth into. Handing it over would mean surrendering a significant part of the country's autonomy.
His throat bobbed in a hard swallow.
He glanced toward his minion standing behind him, a silent plea passing between them.
Mikhail stepped forward, the heels of his polished shoes clicking softly on the marble floor. He leaned in just enough to invade the MLA's space.
"You want power?" he whispered, voice like ice slicing flesh. "Then pay the price. I don't do charity."
The MLA nodded stiffly, his voice barely a breath.
"Done."
Mikhail straightened, satisfied.
Leonid handed the MLA a crystal glass of vodka, the unspoken sign of an agreement sealed.
The MLA took it with his slightly trembling hands.
"To your victory," Mikhail said, lifting his own glass as a toss.
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Niamph stepped out of the airplane, the unfamiliar chill of the Russian wind brushing against her skin. She flinched slightly, instinctively wrapping her arms around herself as if to shield from the sudden cold.
The airport lights were bright, but everything still felt foreign. Distant announcements in Russian echoed above, none of which she could understand.
Behind her, Cara's sharp voice snapped through the air.
"Are you doing a competition with a tortoise or what? Walk fast."
Niamph sighed quietly and picked up her pace, dragging her feet as her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor.
As they entered the terminal, Cara glanced around and then pointed with a flick of her chin.
"You go stand in that queue," she said, gesturing to the long line at immigration. "It's too damn long, and I'm not wasting my time there. I'll get the luggage."
Before Niamph could respond, Cara turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, her ponytail swaying with each confident step.
Niamph turned to face the line—long, slow-moving, filled with strangers.
After what felt like an eternity, Niamph finally stepped out of the verification zone. Her eyes scanned the crowded terminal, expecting to see Cara leaning against a wall, arms crossed, probably scrolling through her phone with that usual annoyed expression.
But there was no sign of her.
A soft buzz from her phone made her glance down. A message from Cara blinked on the screen:
"I have already left for the hotel, I've sent you the address. Take a lift."
Niamph's heart sank.
What...?
She stared at the message, reading it twice as if the words would change. Left her? In a foreign country? Alone?
Her chest tightened as panic crept in. She opened her contact list and dialed Cara's number.
Switched off.
Her breath hitched. She looked down at her hand luggage—just her handbag.
Cara had taken everything else. The suitcase. Her wallet. Even the charger. And now she was expected to somehow find her way to a hotel she didn't even know how to pronounce—in Russian.
She opened the maps app. The address pinged. 30 minutes by car. Over an hour on foot.
Her throat tightened. She turned in slow circles, watching people hurry past with their own lives, their own destinations.
She took a deep breath and bit her lip to stop it from trembling.
There was no choice.
She tightened the straps of her backpack, tucked the phone back inside her coat pocket, and started walking.
_________________________________________
Niamph huffed, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on her shoulders. She glanced at the address glowing on her phone screen—still 30 minutes more. Her legs were already aching, and the thin soles of her shoes did little to cushion the strain of walking on unfamiliar streets.
She unscrewed her water bottle and took a small sip, the cool liquid barely easing her parched throat.
Just then, a sudden thud behind her made her turn. A wallet lay on the pavement—not just any wallet, but one thick with cash, the notes visibly peeking out. She scanned the area and spotted a woman in her sixties walking ahead, elegant in her posture but unaware of what she'd dropped.
Without thinking, Niamph picked up the wallet and jogged lightly toward her.
"Ma'am!" she called out, her voice a bit breathless.
The woman turned with a mild frown.
"You dropped this," Niamph said, offering the wallet.
The lady arched a brow before a soft expression took over her face. "Ohh… bol'shoye spasibo."
Niamph blinked in confusion, not understanding the Russian.
The woman caught it quickly and smiled. "Uhh… thank you so much, young lady."
Niamph gave a polite nod. "It's fine, ma'am."
The woman studied her for a moment. "You're not from here, no?"
Niamph adjusted the strap of her backpack and smiled. "No. I just landed today."
A crease of concern appeared on the lady's forehead. "All alone?"
Niamph's smile faltered briefly, but she masked it quickly. "My sister was with me… but she had to leave early due to an urgent matter."
The lady watched her carefully, her sharp eyes missing nothing—even the flicker of sadness behind the girl's forced smile.
"Young girls shouldn't roam Moscow alone," she said, voice laced with a firm kindness. "It's not safe. Especially at this hour."
Niamph tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to look confident. "I'll be fine, ma'am. The hotel isn't that far. I'll manage."
But her red nose, tired eyes, and worn-out shoes told a different story.
She gave a thoughtful hum. "You remind me of someone I once knew," she murmured, more to herself than to Niamph. The woman's voice softened. "Do you have someone picking you up?"
"No," Niamph admitted honestly. "I'll manage."
The woman didn't respond right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought before she said, "Come. My car is nearby. I will drop you."
"Oh, no. I can't bother you—"
"It's not trouble. You returned my wallet, da? And kindness should be returned, especially in this cold world." She gently placed a hand on Niamph's shoulder. "You're safe with me, dear."
There was something in her voice—firm, dignified,Niamph hesitated only a second before nodding.
"Okay."
The woman smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Tatiana. And you?"
"Niamph."
Tatiana smiled deeper, almost nostalgically. "A beautiful name. Come, Niamph. Let's get you somewhere warm."
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The car stopped in front of the hotel. Niamph stepped out, clutching her backpack tightly.
"Thank you so much, ma'am," she said, bending slightly in gratitude.
Tatiana smiled warmly and placed a gentle hand on Niamph's forehead, like a blessing.
"It's fine, devushka," she said softly.
Niamph smiled faintly, watching the car disappear into the misty road ahead. She let out a quiet sigh and walked into the grand hotel lobby, the glass doors parting automatically.
The receptionist looked up and greeted her with a polite smile. "Good evening, ma'am. How may I help you?"
Niamph smiled back, trying to steady her nerves.
"Uh… I'm here to check in."
"Name, please?"
Niamph hesitated. "Nia… uh—Cara Moore."
She assumed Cara had made the booking under her own name.
The receptionist typed quickly and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. But it's reserved for only one guest."
Niamph's breath hitched slightly. "Only one?"
The words stung. Cara had known she was coming, so why only one room? Why book for just herself?
The receptionist noticed the flicker of hurt on Niamph's face and softened her tone. "We have one deluxe room left, ma'am. Would you like to book it?"
Niamph swallowed the knot of anxiety in her throat. "Yes… please."
She tried calling Cara again—still no answer. The call cut after a few rings, and the screen flashed Call Failed.
She sighed, gripping her phone tighter, panic creeping into her chest. Her money, ID, everything was in her luggage—and Cara had taken it.
Just then, her eyes drifted toward the glass wall of the lobby—and widened.
There, in the corner, near a potted plant and half-hidden by a marble column, sat her luggage. Abandoned. As if someone had tossed it there like trash.
Niamph rushed over and crouched down beside it, checking the tags, unzipping to make sure everything was still inside.
It was hers.
Her wallet. Her ID. Her few neatly folded clothes.
She sat back on her heels, relief mixing with the ache of hurt and disbelief.how can she do this?
But before she could think more, the receptionist called softly, "Ma'am, your key card."
Niamph stood up, brushing her skirt, and walked back over, taking the key with a nod of thanks.
Room 407.
As the elevator doors slid shut behind her.Niamph leaned against the glass door of the elevator, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. At least, for now, she had a roof over her head.