Page 200 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
I look out at the gray water of the canal and think of my father.
Then Dmitri.
Then Yaromir.
Then the tiny, impossible life inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
This time, I know exactly who I mean.
The taxi drops me two streets away from the address.
I don’t let the driver take me closer. Something about the empty road, the rusted fences, and the canal lying flat and gray beyond the warehouses makes instinct finally speak louder than panic.
“Here,” I say.
The driver looks back at me through the mirror. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs, takes the cash, and drives off before I can change my mind.
For a moment, I stand alone on the pavement with the cold cutting through my coat and the smell of damp metal in the air. The south canal district looks abandoned, but not empty.
Empty places feel peaceful. This one feels watched.
The warehouse from Dmitri’s message sits at the end of a narrow service road. Its windows are mostly broken, some covered with old boards. The brick walls are stained black near the roofline, and weeds have grown through cracks in the concrete. An old sign hangs crooked above a loading bay, the name of the textile company faded beyond recognition.
My hand presses instinctively against my stomach.
I should turn around. I know that. Every sensible part of me knows this is wrong.
But then I think of my father somewhere inside, tied up or hurt or waiting for me to do something useful for once, and I keep walking.
My shoes scrape against gravel. The sound seems too loud.
The loading bay door is half-open.
I step inside, and the air changes immediately. Colder. Stale. Dusty with old fabric and damp wood. Pale light comes through broken windows high above, catching in the floating dust. The warehouse floor stretches wide and mostly empty, except for a few rotting crates, torn plastic sheets, and rusted machinery pushed against the walls.
“Papa?” I call.
My voice echoes back at me. No answer.
My throat tightens.
“Papa?”
A sound comes from the left.
Slow clapping.
I turn on my heels.
He’s dressed too well for this place. Dark coat, clean shoes, hair brushed back as if he’s meeting me at a restaurant instead of in an abandoned warehouse after threatening to cut up my father.
There’s a faint bruise near his jaw from Yaromir’s fist.
