The antique grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight as Anna stepped into the bedroom. She felt numb. Her white heels echoed against the marble floor of Ivan Sergeyevich’s grand villa. The lace on her dress brushed against the heavy wooden door as she entered, trembling slightly.
Ivan stood near the fireplace, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. He turned when he heard her. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face, making his features seem even more sculpted, distant—unreachable.
He gestured toward the armchair.
— Please, sit. You must be tired.
Anna obeyed. Her hands, resting on her lap, were clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.
He studied her for a moment, then walked toward a cabinet and retrieved a thin, leather-bound notebook. With slow, deliberate steps, he returned and placed it gently in her lap.
— I need to ask you something, Anna. But first, open that.
Her fingers trembled as she untied the thin ribbon and flipped the book open.
It wasn’t a diary. It was… a collection. Photos, documents, a map. Letters. A young girl with dark hair and sad eyes stared up from a photograph. A hospital form. A sealed envelope.
Ivan spoke softly, with surprising gentleness.
— Her name was Katya. She was my daughter.
Anna looked up, startled.
— She died when she was seventeen. I failed her. I buried myself in work, in power, in pride. By the time I noticed she was slipping away from me… she was already gone.
His voice cracked, but only slightly.
— I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to find someone to make things right. Not to replace her, no. But someone who could help me carry out her final wish.
Anna’s breath caught.
— What was her wish?
He sat down across from her, finally allowing the full weight of emotion to settle in his eyes.
— She wanted to start a foundation. A scholarship fund. For young women who were like her—talented, forgotten, underestimated. Girls who had no voice in their families, no freedom to choose their future.
He leaned forward, and the icy gray of his eyes softened.
— That’s what I wanted to ask of you, Anna. Will you help me build it? Will you help me honor her memory?
Anna stared at him, paralyzed. She had expected a demand. A consummation. A cruel bargain in the shadows of luxury.
But this… this was something else entirely.
And for the first time since the ring slid onto her finger, Anna’s tears came freely—not out of despair, but out of a fragile, blooming hope.
She looked down at the notebook again, then up at the man who was supposed to be her prison.
— I will, she whispered. I will help you.
And in that quiet promise, something shifted.
She was no longer just a poor student in a rich man’s house.
She had a purpose. And a choice.