Page 73 of Vendetta Crown

But my body doesn't believe it.

Every nerve ending fires in panic as my breath comes in short, painful gasps.

"He killed them," I choke out. "He killed them because of me."

The tears won't stop. They blur my vision until the crimson words swim before me. I feel like I'm drowning, the weight of everything I've been carrying suddenly crashing down on me at once.

"Aurora," Ruslan says, his lips pressed against my temple as he tries to pull me back to the present. "You're okay, Aurora."

But part of me is trapped in the past, staring at my family's butchered bodies in Kansas City.

I blink hard, the world slowly coming back into focus. The set. The cameras. The crew frozen in place, watching me with expressions ranging from pity to discomfort.

My face feels hot and wet. I touch my cheek and my fingers come away damp with tears.

"Everyone out," Ruslan orders, his voice carrying that unmistakable command that brooks no argument. The set clears within seconds, leaving just Ruslan and me kneeling on the floor.

"You don't have to do this," he murmurs against my hair. "Not if you don't want to."

But I shake my head, forcing my eyes to look at those painted words that have chased me through seven years of nightmares.

"No," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "I have to do this."

I force myself to look directly at those painted letters. They're just prop paint on a wall. Not real blood. Not my family's blood.

"I've been running from him for seven years. I've been running fromthisfor seven years." My hand points at the wall. "I'm done letting him control my life."

Ruslan cups my face in his hands, his golden eyes searching mine. "Are you sure?"

I nod, something hardening inside me. Something that feels like rage, determination, and the first fragile shoots of hope all tangled together.

"He doesn't have the right to keep me afraid anymore," I say, each word feeling like a small victory. "He's taken enough from me already. My family. My name. Seven years of my life."

I grab Ruslan's arm and pull myself to my feet, staring at those crimson letters one more time.

"But I'll be goddamned if I let him take my future. Or our children's future." I turn back to Ruslan, my voice finding its strength. "Call everyone back in. I'm ready."

Ruslan stares at me for a moment, and then kisses me gently. His lips are warm against mine, and I taste the saltiness of tears I didn't realize were still streaming down my face.

"We'll get through this together," he whispers, then helps me to my feet and guides me to a nearby chair.

My legs feel like water, but his steady hand on my back keeps me grounded as I sink into the seat. I watch him stride toward the door, his entire body radiating that quiet authority as he calls the cast and crew back in.

Everyone files back in slowly, casting nervous glances my way. Hannah gives me a supportive smile as she helps adjust a light, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of strength. I can do this. I need to do this.

The production assistant leads me to the makeup chair, her hand gentle on my elbow as if I might shatter at any moment. Maybe I will. After my breakdown on set, everyone's treating me like I'm made of glass.

"We'll take good care of you," she promises, helping me into the chair.

I sink into the cushioned seat, grateful to be off my shaky legs. In the mirror, my reflection looks haunted—eyes red-rimmed, face pale. The makeup artist approaches, a kind-faced woman with delicate hands.

"Close your eyes, Mrs. Dragunov," she instructs softly. "This might take a while."

I obey, letting darkness envelop me as I feel the first cool touch of a makeup sponge against my skin. The steady rhythm of the application is almost hypnotic. Foundation, powder, more foundation. The brush strokes across my face like gentle fingertips.

"We're going to age you about twenty years," the makeup artist explains. "I've seen the pictures you provided of your mother. She was beautiful."

A lump forms in my throat. "She was."

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