Page 88 of Porcelain Lies

“Coward,”Boyana whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back, curling into myself as fear wins again.

“You have to tell him,”Boyana says.

“I know, dammit!” I blurt. “Just not now.”

“Then when?”

“A week.” I cup my belly as a thousand scenarios swirl through my head, the dominant one being me facing single motherhood.

“I’ll wait a week.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Aleksei

Diana’s fingers brush my shoulder as she stands behind my desk chair.

The familiar scent of my sister’s perfume — the same one our mother wore — fills my office. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say about Olga’s sudden departure?

“Sashenka,” she whispers, using our mother’s pet name for me. “We’ll figure this out.”

I grunt, shrugging off her touch. The leather of my chair creaks as I lean forward, bracing my elbows on the desk. “Bobik needs stability. Structure.”

“He has that with you.”

“She was…” The words scrape my throat. “She was his stability. His…” The term ‘mother’ sticks in my mouth.

Diana moves to perch on the edge of my desk, her linen skirt rustling. “Have you noticed the changes? How quiet he’s become?”

My jaw clenches. Of course I’ve noticed. The way he picks at his food now. How his enthusiastic science explanations trail off mid-sentence. The dark circles under his eyes matching Olga’s.

“Blyad.” I rub my beard, the familiar gesture grounding me. “He can’t be alone. He can’t grow up without a mother like we did.”

Diana’s sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve said too much. We never discuss our mother’s disappearance. Never acknowledge that raw wound we share.

“You’re notPapa,” she says firmly. “You won’t let Bobik face this alone.”

The comparison to our father hits hard. I push back from the desk, needing space. Movement. The window offers a view of the Los Angeles skyline, but all I see is Bobik’s face reflected in the glass.

“I’m doing what I can.” I rub the back of my neck.

“And it’s a good start,” Diana says. “You’ve worked wonders with his new rooms.”

The construction crew worked nights, keeping Bobik’s presence hidden even from my own staff. I specified each detail — the intricate security systems, the soundproofed walls, every possible type of medical equipment. And things to keep him from feeling so isolated. A library. A science lab. Everything he needs. Everything to keep him safe.

And still, it doesn’t feel like enough.

How could any of it possibly replace his mother? Yesterday we stood at her graveside, his narrow shoulders shaking with his sobs as the casket sank into the earth. Diana and I flanked him, trying to console him. But what can anyone say to a child that will make them understand the loss of the most important person in their world?

Diana and I know that better than anyone.

I heave a sigh, rubbing my temples. The security feeds flicker on my monitors. Three angles of Bobik’s empty room;I check them obsessively since moving him here, an old habit from watching over Diana when we were children.

Those night watches bring back memories I’d rather forget — huddling with Diana in our closet, listening to Papa’s drunken rages. The sound of breaking glass. Mama’s silence the next morning.

I roll my shoulders against the tension. The Left Wing represents everything I couldn’t have then — safety, security, control. No one will ever hurt my son the way our father hurt us. No one will make him feel powerless.

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