Page 65 of Bratva Bride
“We won’t be long,” I tell Rifat quietly. “Can you stay out here? Watch for anyone…unusual.”
He nods, scanning the street with that predator’s intensity. “Text me if anything’s off.”
I squeeze Mila’s hand, give Rifat a grateful glance, and walk her inside, the familiar halls suddenly foreign.
The school feels colder than I remember. The familiar murals and bulletin boards, once bright with crayon suns and crooked alphabets, look dull this morning, all the color pressed flat by worry. Mila walks at my side, clutching my hand, her new backpack bouncing against her legs with every step. Her smile is faint, brave, but I can see the confusion tugging at her.
We check in at the front desk, the receptionist peering over her glasses, too polite to ask why we’ve been gone so long. I can hear children’s laughter echoing faintly from the playground outside, and Mila’s eyes drift toward the sound, lingering a little too long. I squeeze her hand, but she barely squeezes back.
The waiting area outside the principal’s office is empty, just two hard chairs and a battered copy ofCharlotte’s Webon the table. We sit. Mila fidgets, picking at the stitching on her sleeve. I smooth her hair, keeping my voice soft. “We won’t be long, sweetheart. I promise.”
She nods, but her lower lip quivers. “Will I see Sasha and Priya again?” she asks, almost whispering. “Or Miss Lara?”
I force a smile, though inside my chest feels as tight as a locked door. “We’ll find ways to keep in touch. But for now…it’s going to be just us for a while, okay?”
She swallows, glancing down at her shoes, shoulders slumping in quiet acceptance. I want to cry for her, for everything I’m taking away, but there’s no space left for tears, not with the principal’s door closed and the whole world watching.
Every instinct I have is alert, humming with dread. I scan every face that passes, listening for footsteps, waiting for a shadow that doesn’t belong. I’m not just hiding from Konstantin’s enemies anymore. I’m hiding from Konstantin himself. My name—his name—will always raise questions if anyone looks hard enough. The city’s never felt smaller, the net closing tighter every time I move.
But I remind myself that I’ve done this before. I hid Mila for six years—from her father, from his world, from everyone who might use her to hurt me. I can do it again. I have to.
A sharp click as the principal’s door opens. She leans out, kind eyes assessing us both, and gestures us inside. “Ms. Buryakova? Mila? Please come in.”
Inside, the office is warm and cluttered with papers, bright drawings tacked everywhere. It’s supposed to feel safe, but I can’t relax. I sit on the edge of the chair, one arm draped around Mila, heart racing as I prepare my story.
“I’m withdrawing Mila from school,” I say, keeping my voice steady, gentle but final. “We’re moving. It’s for her safety. Family reasons.”
The principal’s brows knit together, concern flickering across her face, but she nods slowly. “Is there anything we can do to help?” she asks, careful, professional, sensing something beneath my calm.
I shake my head. “We’ll be alright. I just needed to make sure you knew she’s safe. She’ll be learning at home from now on.”
Mila leans into me, quiet now, her small hand gripping mine with surprising strength. She doesn’t protest, just lets out a shaky sigh, as if she understands some doors can’t be opened again.
The school feels even smaller now, every corridor shrinking in around me, every door a threat. Mila tugs my sleeve as we exit the principal’s office, her voice small and urgent. “Mama, I need to go to the bathroom.”
I hesitate, the instinct to say no battling with the need to pretend everything’s normal. “Alright, but don’t be long. I’ll wait right outside the door, okay?”
She nods, all seriousness, and darts inside, her little shoes squeaking on the linoleum. I lean against the tiled wall, watching the seconds crawl by, trying not to check my phone, trying not to imagine every nightmare possible. The hall is too quiet, the kind of silence that makes your skin prickle. My breath sounds too loud in my ears.
After a minute, then two, I call gently, “Mila? Are you almost done?”
No answer. I listen, straining for the sound of running water, for her voice, for anything.
Another minute passes. The worry turns cold and sharp in my chest. I step inside, calling her name a little louder this time. “Mila?”
The bathroom is empty. One stall door swings open, the space behind it deserted. I scan each stall, my hands trembling, the sick certainty growing with every empty space I find. “Mila?” My voice echoes back at me, thin and scared.
Then I see it. There’s another door leading out of the bathroom.
It’s slightly ajar, a faint trace of daylight filtering in around the edges. My heart lurches, pounding so hard I feel dizzy.
I push through, not caring about rules or alarms, and find myself in a narrow side hallway, empty except for the fading sound of a door slamming somewhere distant. I call for Mila again, louder this time, panic threading through every syllable. Nothing. The regular classrooms are closed, every student tucked away behind glass windows, oblivious. The world outside is just out of reach, and Mila is nowhere to be seen.
Then I spot it—the emergency exit at the end of the hall, the door propped open with a forgotten mop, the wind teasing the edge of the red fire sign. My heart stutters, nausea twisting through me as the truth slams into place.
She’s gone.
For a second, everything inside me goes still. Then the terror crashes in, wild and suffocating. We’re surrounded by enemies—so many faces I can’t name, so many hands that want to take what’s mine, to punish me for choices I’ve made and debts I can never pay.
