Page 41 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

“Fine,” I said, voice tighter than I wanted.“But first—why do you sleep on the couch instead of with Mama?”

His eyes flicked to me, sharp and dark behind the rearview mirror.“That’s none of your business.”

I shrugged, daring the anger to rise.“What I do with my time isn’t your business either.”

My father’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel.The car rumbled forward, then his voice came low and harsh, like a whip cracking in a dark room.

“If you want a good life,” he said, “you’d better behave.Find a wife.Have a kid.When I was your age, I’d already joined the Communist Party.Built a future.Something to be proud of.”

I swallowed the bitter taste of disgust and thought, I want to be nothing like you.

He didn’t stop.“Party membership opens doors.Respect.Stability.None of this drifting around like you’re lost.”

The car heater did nothing to warm me.I stared out the window, the world sliding by in muted grays and browns.The weight of what I wanted—and what was expected—pressed down like the heavy gray sky.

We pulled up in front of our building, and my father killed the engine.“I’ll help get you into the Party,” he said, voice softer but still firm.“We’ve got friends with daughters your age.Good girls.Loyal girls.”

I looked at him then, really looked.The lines on his face, the hard set of his jaw—it was a map of everything I was trying to escape.

And something inside me snapped.

“I want nothing to do with this damned system!”I yelled.

Faces turned.The doorman, an old lady clutching her groceries, a kid playing nearby—all eyes on us.

I didn’t care.

“I don’t want your Party!I don’t want a wife or a family like yours.And I don’t want to live a life that’s someone else’s idea of good!”

My chest heaved, heart pounding, not just with anger but something deeper, something fierce and desperate.

But beneath it all, softer than any scream, was the memory of last night.

Petyr’s arms around me.

The warm weight of his body.

The art we saw—the colors, the freedom in brushstrokes and broken rules.

That impossible night where I felt, for the first time, that I belonged somewhere other than this cold, cracked city.

The night I wanted to live forever.

I threw the door open and climbed out before my father could stop me.He followed, still gripping the car door like it was a weapon.

People on the sidewalk stared, whispering.I didn’t care.The cold was bitter, but my fury burned hotter.

“Do you even hear yourself?”I shouted.“You think your Party and your friends’ daughters are the only future for me?I’m not your son to mold and break!”

My father’s face darkened, lips tightening.“You’ll regret this, boy.Mark my words.”

I spat back, “I regret nothing.Not last night.Not who I am.”

A woman crossing the street glanced our way and quickened her pace.An old man leaned on his cane, watching us with tired eyes.

“I’m sick of pretending,” I said, voice cracking.“Sick of lying to everyone—including myself.”

The crowd felt like a suffocating weight.I wanted to disappear, but my body betrayed me.

---