Page 44 of Silken Chains
Stepping into the hallway, I exhale deeply, a mix of worry and frustration for my father weighing on me.
Don’t be a pussy, Victor.
Vulnerability doesn’t have a place in our home.
It takes me back to when Mama died. Ksenia and I… we weren’t allowed to cry, not even as we watched her life slip away in that sudden, brutal car crash. It was swift, they said, as if that lessened the agony.
Papa stood there, his face an impenetrable mask, expecting us to be as unyielding. Tears were for the weak, and Morozovs were never weak. Even as a kid, I knew better than to let my guard down. That moment… it changed us, hardened us. In the Morozov household, grief, fear, pain—they were to be locked away, out of sight.
Now, facing the reality of my father’s frailty, those old, unyielding rules still hold.
No cracks in the armor, not now, not ever.
I smash the “call” button, and he’s there like a shot.
“Misha, there’s something I need done,” I tell him. “Gather a team; someone needs a little… persuasion.”
Chapter 16
Laura
NOW, WHAT the hell am I supposed to do?
I’m royally screwed.
I stand up and pace around my apartment like a caged animal, the walls closing in on me. Every nook and cranny feels tainted with memories of David.
My mind is a whirlwind, thoughts colliding and spiraling out of control.
I want to scream, to release this pent-up anger.
The thought of strangling David, watching the shock in his eyes, is both terrifying and satisfying. I hate that he’s reduced me to this—to violent fantasies and bitter resentment.
“Rot in hell!”
My feet carry me to a corner that I’ve ignored for too long, a space filled with his belongings that I never dared to touch.
Screw you!
Frustrated, I start rummaging through his stuff, things I’ve avoided touching since he left.
I open drawers, flip through papers, searching for… something. Anything that could give me a clue to the question: Why me?
I dig deeper until my hands find a folder tucked away, hidden under a pile of his old sweatshirts. My fingers tremble as I pull it out. The folder is thick, bulging with papers, and as I flip it open, my heart drops.
Jesus.
They’re letters, unopened, addressed to me, from the insurance company. My breath catches in my throat as I tear through them, one after the other. Notices of missed payments, warnings, final reminders.
Like a hammer blow to my gut. David had been hiding these from me all along.
The bastard planned it all—to screw me over, swipe my savings, let the shop’s insurance slide into oblivion.
Laur, you’ve been duped big time. But why?
My hands clench into fists, the paper crinkling under my grip. I want to scream, to let out this storm brewing inside me.
I tear through the damn letters, my hands shaking with a fury I can barely contain. “Fuck this!” I yell into the silence of my cramped apartment.
