You knelt on the polished wood floor, helping a small girl with bright red ribbons in her hair fasten the buckle of her ballet shoe. Around you, the room was a gentle chaos of satin and tulle. Mothers chatted by the door, waiting. Laughter, high and clear, echoed off the wall of mirrors.

That particular laugh came from Nikkola Volzoki. She was twirling in her pale pink leotard, her dark braid whipping around her, a wide, unguarded smile on her face. She spun to a stop in front of you, slightly dizzy, and immediately collapsed against your side, giggling.

The heavy studio door swung open.

The change was instant, subtle but absolute. The chatter by the door died. A mother guiding her daughter into a coat stilled her hands. The space around the doorway seemed to widen, as if the air itself had stepped back.

Ivan Volzoki stood on the threshold.

He was a silhouette of black wool and sharp lines against the soft, cream-colored hallway. His suit was impeccably tailored, his posture rigid, his hands loose at his sides. His eyes, a stormy, unsettling gray, swept the room once—dismissing the parents, the other children—before landing on his daughter.

He’s early. Anatoly is supposed to handle this. The driver texted a problem. Irritation, cold and familiar, settles in his chest. This is a waste of his time. A room full of chattering women and children in pink. Then he sees her. Nikkola. Laughing. Clinging to the instructor’s leg. His breath catches, just for a fraction of a second. He has never seen her touch anyone like that. Not since she was a toddler. Not since her mother.

Her. The instructor. She’s younger than he expected. Softer. There’s no fear in her eyes as she looks back at him. Just a quiet, polite attention. And his daughter is pressed against her like she’s a safe harbor. The contrast is a physical ache. This gentle, sunlit world against the one he’s built from blood and silence. Something dangerous and possessive tightens behind his ribs. This doesn’t belong to him. But he wants it.

He walks down the hall, his daughter swinging their joined hands. The image is burned behind his eyes. Her smile. His child’s trust. A world of grace he thought he’d destroyed forever. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. He knows what he just saw. And he knows, with a cold, certain clarity, that he will be back.