Page 97 of Mission Shift

In the quietest whisper, barely more than a breath, she murmured, “Beautiful. Your mother would be so proud of you—for standing against the Devil. Against all of them.”

My breath hitched.

I met Svetlana’s gaze in the mirror, my pulse hammering in my throat.

She knew.

She knew I hadn’t just betrayed my father—I had betrayed the Kremlin.

And still, she had helped me.

She was risking everything.

I swallowed hard, lowering my voice to the same hushed murmur as I said, “You must be careful. No one can ever find out what you’ve done for me.”

Svetlana’s expression remained calm, but her hands trembled ever so slightly as she squeezed my shoulders.

“I know,” she whispered. “But some things are worth the risk.”

I turned fully toward her then, my chest tightening. “Thank you.”

Two simple words. Not nearly enough for what she had done.

“Stay here. I must change. I’ll be right back,” she said, scurrying out the door.

Stepping to the dresser, I added the finishing touch—my mother’s pearl necklace. For some time, I stood in front of the mirror, gazing at the woman staring back at me.

She didn’t look like a prisoner or abeaten whoreanymore.

The bruises had faded into muted shadows and were barely visible beneath the gown’s delicate fabric and my makeup. The teal fabric clung to my frame, accentuating the sharp angles of my shoulders, the long lines of my legs, and the quiet power in my stance.

I had to admit it; I looked like a runway model. Regal. Controlled. Untouchable.

The cameras were watching—as always—so I let them see what they wanted.

A woman transformed. A woman resigned to her fate.

Inside, I was buzzing, completely ready for the fight ahead.

I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress, feeling the hidden weight of the secrets stitched into the fabric. The passport. The money. The blade nestled within the bodice. I moved to the closest and stealthily strapped the combat knifeto my upper thigh. Now everything I needed to escape, to disappear, to take back my life, was on me.

Svetlana knocked once before stepping back inside, her formal black-and-white servant’s dress crisp and pristine. Her posture was rigid, her expression schooled into one of quiet obedience.

“The car is ready,” she said calmly.

I turned, raising my chin high, donning an unreadable expression.

And then I stepped out of my bedroom.

The hallway stretched before me, mostly unchanged since I’d laid eyes on it years ago. I hadn’t seen this part of my father’s house because I had been carried through it unconscious and locked in that gilded prison while I healed.

The air smelled the same—a mix of my father’s cologne, aged wood, and the faintest hint of cigars. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, their light spilling across walls adorned with gold-framed oil paintings and making the marble floors gleam.

It was a house built on power. On wealth. On blood.

I walked past portraits of my ancestors, their cold eyes following me down the corridor. My heels barely made a sound on the polished floor. I felt like I was walking through a graveyard of memories.

For a second, I was six again, sitting on the floor with my mother as we played with the latest stray puppy she’d brought home. Its tiny body trembled in my hands, all ribs and oversized paws, too weak to do much of anything. My mother had always found the truly helpless ones, the lost and forgotten creatures no one else wanted. She’d said it was our duty to care for them because, if we didn’t, who would?

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