By evening, the basement smelled of her perfume. Anya sat in front of the mirror, slowly brushing her hair with the brush he’d brought. She’d put on lipstick—not bright, but it changed her face noticeably.
Viktor opened the door quietly, came down a few steps, and watched her. He’d brought dinner, but he didn’t hurry to set it down.
“You haven’t let go of that brush for ten minutes. I timed you,” his voice snapped, taut as a drawn wire.
She turned and gave him a soft smile.
“You came… I’m sorry. I just… I forgot what it feels like to be beautiful. You gave me the chance to feel like a woman again. I wanted to greet you today… looking nice.”
He stepped into the room and set the tray on the table with a deliberate crash.
“Looking nice? For who? There’s no one here but me. But you’re not looking at me, Anya. You’re looking at her.”
He jabbed a finger at the mirror.
Anya stood and moved closer, trying to close the distance. She placed a hand on his elbow.
“But that’s me. The one you chose. I want you to enjoy looking at me. I thought that was the best way to thank you for your kindness.”
He knocked her hand away, his face twisting into a sneer.
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“Kindness? You’re a vapid, vain little thing, like all of them. Give you a piece of glass and you forget who feeds you. You preen in front of your own reflection while I risk everything for us. You look like a cheap doll in a shop window. A blue dress, painted lips… you think that makes you special? It makes you predictable.”
She looked genuinely stunned. Tears welled in her eyes—this time almost real, hurt by his unfairness.
“Viktor… why are you doing this? What did I do ‘wrong’?”
“You’re wasting my time on your vanity!”
Her voice trembled. She backed toward the mirror, as if looking for protection.
“I just wanted to be worthy of your attention! You said I’m your ‘value.’ I’m trying to be worthy of that. I didn’t touch the laptop, I didn’t try to run, I didn’t do anything to go against you… I just wanted you to smile when you walked in. Why are you calling me ‘cheap’? Wasn’t it you who brought this dress? Wasn’t it you who wanted me to wear it?”
He stayed silent. His heavy breathing slowly eased. He saw her confusion and understood he might have gone too far.
“I…”
“If it disgusts you to look at me—just say so,” she went on, her voice breaking. “I can smash this mirror. I can take off this dress and sit in rags in the corner, if that makes you feel better… if you think…”
He took a step back. His confidence was draining away. He felt like a tyrant who’d hurt a child.
“No. Don’t break anything.”
She turned to the wall, covering her face with her hands.
“I’m just trying… I’m trying so hard, and it feels like I do everything wrong.”
He hesitated by the stairs, shifting from foot to foot. His face held a mix of guilt and irritation—at himself.
“Eat your dinner. It’ll get cold. I… I need to check something upstairs. Sorry. I lost my temper. Just… just don’t forget who’s real here, and who’s only an image in glass.”
He went up quickly, and the sound of the lock this time didn’t feel ceremonial—it felt hurried, nervous.
Anya lowered her hands slowly. The tears dried at once. She turned to the mirror and looked closely at the screw at the bottom of the frame.
She’d just gotten confirmation: she could make him feel guilty by playing on his own idealism.