The moment Viktor crossed the threshold, Anya didn’t give him a chance to slip back into the shelter of his study. She met him in the entryway—bright, glowing—and, ignoring his stiffness, literally pulled him by the hand into the kitchen.
“I ordered pizza, Viktor!” she chirped, seating him at the table. “Can you imagine? I was craving something greasy and real so badly. I even reheated it—it’s like it just came out of the oven.”
Viktor perched on the edge of his chair, staring at the steaming slice with melted cheese as if it were a plate of poison. He mechanically took a slice, chewed without tasting it, and then lifted his heavy, exhausted gaze to her.
“Anya… I’ve been thinking a lot,” his voice was quiet and papery. “We… we need to live separately. For a while.”
Inside Anya, everything went cold. Switches in her head clicked frantically, running through the options.
What absurdity is this? A kidnapper lets the victim go? Nonsense. Or… or is this a test?
…Perfect. If I agree and start packing my things—you’ll accuse me of never loving you, of being a traitor who’s only ever dreamed of escape. If I refuse—I’ll be disobeying a direct order. You’re putting me in a situation where any direct answer is a loss. So I need a third way.
She slowly set her slice of pizza down on her plate and looked at him with undisguised sadness that held not a drop of anger—only boundless submission.
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“I will carry out any instruction you give me, Viktor,” she said quietly. “If you tell me to leave—I’ll leave. But where? Into the world you’ve been saving me from for so long? I have no home but this one.”
She paused, watching him tense at every word, his fingers tightening on the tablecloth.
“Let’s do it differently. If it’s hard for you to see me because of what… happened,” Viktor visibly flinched; his face twisted with pain as if from a lash, “then let’s make it a rule not to cross paths. For a week or two. We’ll live in the same house, but on different schedules. You come out at certain hours, I come out at others. We simply won’t run into each other.”
After a short silence, letting him digest the thought, she went on more softly:
“I’m not angry with you, Viktor. Things happen. I just want both of us to follow your Rules of Coziness. Let this time apart be our shared punishment for letting things go this far. We’ll share the blame. That will be fair.”
Viktor looked at her, and a fanatical, religious gleam began to kindle in his eyes. She hadn’t just forgiven him—she had taken some of his sin upon herself. In his warped perception, in that moment she became more than a woman—a saint, a merciful deity granting redemption to a sinner.
“And one more request…” She lowered her eyes shyly, picking at the edge of her napkin. “Buy me a new nightgown. To replace the one… that was ruined. I want everything to be beautiful again.”
It was the final chord. A request for a gift meant she was ready to leave the past behind and accept his “care” again.
“Yes…” he breathed, and his face smoothed, losing the martyr’s mask. “Yes. Two weeks. You’re right, Anya. We’ll atone for it together. I’ll do everything. I’ll buy what you need. Excellent…”
He looked at her with rapture and relief. Now he wouldn’t avoid her anymore. Two weeks of silence would be, for him, a time to prepare for the return of his ideal, all-forgiving value.
Eat your pizza, Viktor. Eat and rejoice. You just bought yourself an indulgence for the price of a lace rag. And I bought myself a period of absolute freedom. And when it ends, I’ll know more about your dead daughter than you do.