Page 62 of The King's Pawn
Our family home rises at the end of the long drive.
The wrought-iron gates loom, tall and intricate, curling into elaborate patterns that once filled me with a sense of pride. They were designed by my mother, pieces of her that reflected her mark on this place long after she’d left this earth.
Now they feel like prison bars.
The guards at the gate step forward as the car slows. They recognize Lev first, then me. I see the flicker of confusion cross their faces, followed by surprise as they exchange looks. For a split second, I think they might stop us. That they’ll raise their weapons or call someone to come down and chase us away.
To my surprise, though, they don’t. They open up the gates and let us through.
Lev doesn’t hesitate to drive us through. He parks the car right at the front doors, shifting it into park without killing the engine. I open the door and step out into the cold, the snowy gravel crunching under my boots sounding far too loud in the silence.
“Two hours,” he reminds me.
I nod, shutting the door with a softclick.
Returning to my family home is… disorienting.
The front doors swing open with the same quiet efficiency they always have, polished wood gliding on silent hinges as if nothing in the world has changed. The foyer greets me just as it always did. High ceilings, wood floors gleaming beneath soft recessed lighting, the faint echo of my footsteps bouncing off walls lined with framed photographs and curated art.
This is the space where I grew up. The place where I used to kick off my shoes without a second thought, laughing as I raced up the stairs two at a time with my backpack slung over one shoulder and my head full of nothing more complicated than homework deadlines and weekend plans. Where my mother’s voice used to drift from the sitting room, reminding me not to run or be late for dinner.
The smells are the same too, the faint hint of citrus cleaner and expensive perfume that clings to the air, no matter the season. It’s all so familiar, it almost hurts. Muscle memory takes over as my body moves through the space, expecting warmth and safety. Expecting…home.
Staff appear as they always do, materializing quietly from the corners of the house. Someone reaches for my coat the moment the doors close behind me. Another offers to take my bag. Their smiles are polite, practiced and unchanged.
But everything is wrong.
I feel like a ghost moving through my own life.
The walls seem closer somehow, pressing in instead of sheltering me from the outside world. Every familiar object feels like a prop on a stage set, carefully arranged to sell a story that no longer exists. I can see the seams now, the cracks I was too young and trusting to notice before.
This house doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. It feels like it belongs tohim.
My father’s presence lingers in every corner, heavier than it ever did when I lived here. His power saturates the space now, tainting it. I can’t look at the furniture without wondering what deals were signed over it. I can’t smell the coffee without thinking about the phone calls he took in the mornings, his voice low and urgent, promising things he had no right to give away.
Everything is the same and yet nothing is, all in the same breath.
I am not the same girl who left this house weeks ago. Now I know what he’s capable of. I know what this place really is—a beautiful shell built to hide behind. A museum of lies polished to perfection. Walking back into it feels like stepping into a memory that’s been poisoned, the sweetness replaced with something sour and unforgivable.
I stand there for a moment too long and realize with chilling clarity that this was never home.
It was just the first cage I’d be forced into.
I find him in his office.
He’s always in his office pretending to work, pretending to hold the crumbling pieces of his empire together with nothing but sheer will and carefully chosen optics, playing king in a kingdom that’s been dying from the inside for years. The door is half closed when I reach it, and even before I step inside, the smell hits me.
Liquor.
It clings to the room like a second skin, layered beneath the scents of leather and expensive cologne. He’s on a call when Iwalk in, eyes glued to his laptop. I don’t bother eavesdropping what is being said as I slam the door shut behind me.
The sound echoes like a gunshot.
He jolts in his chair, head snapping up so fast he nearly knocks his glass over. For a split second, his face is stripped bare. Shock, fear, and something dangerously close to guilt flickers across his features before he schools them back into composure.
“Alina?” he says, ending his phone call abruptly before rising from his seat. “What are you… how did you…?”
I don’t wait for him to finish. I step forward and set the pictures I’d taken from that accursed file down on his desk right in front of him.
