Page 99 of Porcelain Vows

Steam rises from the teacup clasped between her hands, dissolving in the warm light. Outside, rain lashes against darkened windows, the steady drumming amplifying the silence inside. The normalcy of the scene— woman with tea, evening rain— is a fucking joke after the insanity we’ve just lived through.

Sofia is stabilized in the Left Wing guest suite. Malhotra’s team has treated a minor head wound where the bullet grazed her, pumped her full of sedatives, and promised to return in the morning. For now, at least, no one is actively dying. My fucking father got that out of the way hours ago.

Stella doesn’t look up when I enter, though her shoulders tense slightly. The kitchen smells of chamomile and honey, with lingering traces of the dinner no one finished— Polina’s bottle drying on the rack, a half-eaten sandwich Bobik abandoned when Maria took him to bed. A picture of domesticity that I can hardly believe has become my world.

“The doctor says she’ll recover,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice sounds rough, strained. “Physically, at least.”

Stella nods, still staring into her tea. “Thank you for bringing her here instead of the hospital.”

I move to the opposite side of the island, palms pressed against the cool marble. The distance between us feels calculated— a space filled with unspoken questions and implications neither of us has fully processed.

“Stella,” I say finally, cutting to the chase. “What did you mean in the forest? About needing to explain things.”

She looks up then, her gaze steady and clear despite the red rims of her eyes. Whatever emotional storm raged earlier has settled into something harder, more certain.

“Aleksei, Sofia is my sister. My biological sister.”

The word “sister” hangs in the air like gunpowder. Sofia— the woman who threatened my family, who tried to put a bullet in her own brain— is Stella’s blood? I stand frozen, mind scrambling to reconcile this information with everything I thought I knew.

Chto za khuynya?

“That’s impossible,” I say finally, though the conviction in her eyes suggests otherwise.

“It’s not.” She takes a sip of tea, the spoon clinking against ceramic as she sets it down. “My parents gave up their firstborn child— sold her, essentially— to the Novikov family. They were struggling financially, could barely feed themselves, let alone a baby. So, they made an impossible choice. They gave her up, hoping she’d have a chance for a better life.”

“Adoption,” I repeat, shaking my head as I try to absorb this clusterfuck of information.

“Sofia is my big sister. Originally named Boyana.” She says this with a hint of wonder, as if still processing it herself.

I grip the counter harder, knuckles whitening as I anchor myself against the vertigo of this revelation. “And you’ve known this how long?”

“I learned about it before the confrontation with Gianni,” she admits. “Then I forgot during my memory loss, aside from some flashes. But seeing Sofia in the forest, hearing Polina cry— it triggered everything. All the memories came flooding back at once.”

“Sofia. Your sister.Blyad.” I run a hand through my hair, unable to formulate a more coherent response. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm.

“I know it’s difficult to believe.” Her voice remains steady, matter-of-fact. “I’ve had a bit longer with the information, though not much.”

“How can you be certain?” The question comes from the pragmatic part of my brain still functioning.

“First, my uncle Igor mentioned it. When I was still a child. It was Christmas and he was drunk. He let it slip how Boyana, my parents’ firstborn, was given up for adoption. My parents were horrified, got him out of there. Never spoke of it again.” She sets down her cup with a definitive click. “And since then, I’ve been talking to ‘Boyana’ my whole life— my imaginary friend who wasn’t imaginary after all.”

“Your imaginary friend?” I frown. Maybe she hasn’t fully recovered from that concussion.

Stella looks slightly embarrassed, a flush creeping up her neck. “Since childhood, I’ve had conversations in my head with someone I called Boyana. I thought I’d made her up. Turns out, I was connecting with a sister I didn’t consciously remember.”

“And you’ve confirmed this? Beyond recovered memories and drunken uncle stories?” My tone sharpens with skepticism.

Stella nods. “Hannah… my friend’s been helping me. Discreetly,” she says. “Birth records, adoption papers. It’s all there. Sofia Novikova was born Boyana Larkina and later adopted and brought to the U.S.”

“Hannah?” I frown at her, the name unfamiliar.

Stella shifts uncomfortably, fingers tightening around her cup. “She was my roommate. And my best friend. She umm… works in the Secret Service.”

My mouth drops open. I snap it shut. “Shewhat?!”

“I know, I know.” She pulls a face, nose scrunching. “It probably sounds crazy.”

“Crazy wouldn’t cover half of it, Stella.” I wave an arm, gesturing around the room. “You brought a Secret Service agent into this? My world?”

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