Page 67 of Hooked On Victor
“Still no idea who leaked them?”
He snorted, settling against the post, arms crossed.
“Not a clue. Some say it was a descendant of the Tsar trying to stir up sympathy. Others think it was the KGB playing chess in the dark.”
She raised an eyebrow, expression as dry as salt.
“And what doyouthink?”
He went quiet, turning to look at the sea.
Waves struck the cliffs below in slow, heavy impacts, sending up bursts of white spray. The water glowed turquoise in the shallows, steel-gray farther out, all of it restless and uncontained.
He watched it for a long moment before he spoke.
“I think…” He exhaled. His shoulders dropped. “I think it doesn’t matter anymore.”
She watched him carefully.
Not with worry.
With understanding.
She smiled then. Softly.
She set the mug down on the rail.
“You really mean that.”
He met her gaze, and something in his eyes settled.
“I do.”
Inside the cottage, the rooms were low-ceilinged and filled with light that changed hour by hour.
Books covered every surface.
Stacks of first editions rescued from dusty shops in Paris.
Russian poetry marked with Rose’s careful notes in the margins.
Victor’s old sketchbook, the one with her face drawn in pencil and smudged by his thumb.
A ledger lay open on the dining table, scrawled in Rose’s precise, firm handwriting.
Founding Documents of the Silenced Voices Trust.
The new foundation.
Quietly registered in her name.
Dedicated to preserving forgotten histories—not to rethroning them.
Uncovering.
Documenting.
Remembering without repeating.
