Page 85 of Porcelain Vows

I crouch beside Diana, taking one of Mother’s shaking hands in mine. “The manor is large. Two separate wings. He’s confined to a guest room in the Left Wing, too weak to move much. You’ll stay in the Right Wing with me. He won’t come near you unless you allow it.”

Her eyes dart between us, wild with something I haven’t seen since childhood— the fear that preceded Father’s drunken rages, the fear that taught us to hide under beds and in closets.

“A lifetime,” she whispers. “A lifetime in Vostok because of him, because I threatened to expose…” She glances at Diana, something dark crossing her features before she falls silent.

I don’t press her to continue, but file away this partial revelation, adding it to the growing list of questions about why she was imprisoned. What the fuck did she threaten to expose? What secret was worth locking her away for what could have been a lifetime?

Makes my blood boil, just thinking about it.

“Mama,” I say firmly, regaining her attention. “Listen to me. You’re safe now. I promise you. No one will hurt you here— not Father, not anyone. Do you understand?”

She focuses on my face with visible effort. “You’re so like him,” she murmurs, touching my cheek. “The same face. But different eyes. Your eyes were always kind, even as a little boy.”

The comparison to my father stings, but I push past it. “The manor is secure. Guards at every entrance. You’ll have your own suite of rooms. Your own bathroom. Your own privacy. Father is dying— he has weeks, perhaps days. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Her breathing gradually steadies, though her hands continue to tremble. “I never thought I’d hear his name again without bars between us.”

“You don’t have to see him,” I repeat Diana’s words. “That’s your choice. Everything now is your choice.”

Diana takes Mama’s other hand. “Would you like to stay in the Right Wing with Aleksei? Or in my apartment in the Left Wing? It’s far from… from Father’s room.”

Mama looks between us, her expression clearing slightly as she processes the options.

“With you,” she says to Diana. “If that’s all right. I’ve missed so many years…”

“Of course it’s all right,” Diana says, voice breaking. “I’ve prepared the guest room next to mine. It gets the morning sun.”

I help my mother to her feet, supporting her with an arm around her waist. She’s steadier now, though the news about Father has clearly shaken her deeply. We guide her toward the entrance, moving slowly to accommodate her hesitant steps.

“You should rest,” I tell her. “Tomorrow, you can meet the rest of the family.”

She glances up sharply. “Rest of the family?”

“My son, Bobik,” I explain. “And my daughter, Polina. I told you about her.”

Wonder replaces fear in her expression. “Bobik? I havetwograndchildren?”

“Da, Mamushka,” Diana says, smiling through fresh tears. “You’ll love them. And they’ll adore you, you’ll see.”

As we enter the foyer, Mama pauses again, taking in the soaring ceiling, the marble floors, the tasteful display of wealth and power. So different from the cold walls of Vostok.

“All this,” she murmurs, “and still he found us.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with decades of hurt. I see the shadow of Vostok cross her face again— that haunted look I remember from childhood when Father would come home drunk. My jaw tightens. Even my wealth, my strength, my carefully constructed empire couldn’t shield her from him. The realization burns like acid in my gut.

“He can’t hurt you,Mamush,” I say again, the promise solid as stone. “Never again. I won’t allow it.” My voice drops lower, a dangerous edge sharpening each word. The thought ofthat motherfucker laying a hand on her makes my blood run cold with fury. I’ve spent years building my power, my world, precisely so no one I care about would ever be vulnerable again.

Diana’s eyes meet mine, and I see the shadow of our childhood reflected there— the sheer terror we both lived through, though she was spared the worst of it. My jaw tightens. No one touches what’s mine, especially not the man who taught me what true hatred feels like.

My mother turns to me, studying my face with the intensity I remember from childhood— the look that always made me feel she could see straight through to my soul.

“Moy Lyosha,” she says softly. “Always the protector. Even as a little boy.”

We continue toward the Left Wing, toward Diana’s apartment, toward the beginning of whatever comes next. Mother walks between us, one hand in Diana’s, the other gripping my arm for support. Each step seems to strengthen her, as if the physical distance from Russia— from Vostok, from the past— allows her to reclaim pieces of herself.

I watch her profile, noting the determination firming her jaw despite the fear still visible in her eyes.

The same determination I saw in the Vostok kitchen when she decided to leave with me.

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