Leaving

※※※ Lissa

I woke to the soft light filling the room and the warm weight of an arm draped across my waist. We were tangled together on the makeshift bed of pillows and blankets, a mess of limbs and discarded sweatshirts.

My head was pillowed on Klaus’s bicep, my face tucked against the curve of his neck. For a long, blissful moment, I just lay there, listening to the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing.

I shifted slightly, just enough to look up at his sleeping face. In sleep, the usual sharpness of his features softened.

The calculating glint in his grey eyes was hidden; the confident smirk relaxed into a neutral line. He looked younger. Peaceful. The thought was a small, scathing one: He’s leaving me again on Monday. Some family hunting trip in Russia—an “all men’s thing,” he’d called it, which in his world could mean anything from actual bear hunting to settling a bloody succession dispute.

I saw one of his eyes slit open, a glimmer of silver in the dim light. I started to look away, but a sleepy smile touched his lips.

“I already saw you,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep. He’d been making these soft, deep, rumbling noises in his sleep, a vibration I’d felt through his chest, and the sound of it had been tickling some deep, forgotten part of my soul. “Morning, babe. Sleep well?” he asked.

“Yes.” I gave him a small peck on his bicep; he grunted and then asked, “What are the plans for today?”

I stretched, the movement pressing me back against him. “Tonight, we are going dancing,” I declared, turning my head to give him a quick peck on the lips. “But the day is ours.”

He hummed, considering. “Did you want to go to the race tonight?”

The question was casual, but it carried the weight of the alley, the blood, the silence. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice firm. “I think I’m happy to do anything else. We can go for a drive after, though. Maybe have our own race?” I smiled up at him, a challenge in my eyes.

He chuckled, the sound a pleasant rumble. “I’d like that.” He then buried his face in the crook of my neck for a moment, inhaling deeply before pulling back. “Let’s go have a nice breakfast in an hour.”

He gave me a small soft peck and untangled himself, standing up in his sweatpants and t-shirt, his hair adorably mussed.

“I’ll make coffee. You want some?” I asked, pushing myself up.

“No, I’ll have some juice. Not a warm beverage guy in the morning,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll go rinse my face and brush my teeth. Then I need to go get dressed so I can look good next to you.”

“You go. There are new toothbrushes in the drawer in my bathroom,” I said, smiling as he padded off toward my bedroom.

He came back a few minutes later, looking more alert, his face damp. He leaned down, kissed my hand with a surprising old-world formality that made me laugh, and then headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour. Dress fancy. I’m in the mood to spoil you.”

An hour later, I was ready. I’d showered, the hot water washing away the last vestiges of sleep and the intimate scent of him on my skin. I’d chosen a crisp, expensive white silk blouse, a sleek, knee-length black leather skirt, sheer black stockings, and a pair of sharp, black stiletto heels. Over it, I threw a tailored, black wool blazer. I had to look good next to the prince. I finished it with simple but fine jewelry—diamond studs, a delicate platinum necklace, and my mother’s watch. Light, flawless makeup, and I’d blown out my new black bob, curling the ends under into soft, chic waves.

I looked in the mirror. Severe. Polished. A woman who had her shit together. The girl from the pillow fort was carefully packed away.

As I stepped out of my building, the cool air hitting my face, I saw it: a sleek, black sedan with tinted windows parked down the block. It hadn’t been there last night. Union, maybe. Or my father’s people. A reminder, a tether to the other, more complicated world. I felt a flicker of irritation but shoved it down. I didn’t care much. Not today. Today, I was having fun. I needed as much time with Klaus before he vanished into the Russian winter.

He pulled up right on time in his matte-grey BMW, leaning over to push the passenger door open for me. “You look incredible,” he said, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep.

“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I said, taking in his dark-wash jeans, a charcoal cashmere sweater, and a tailored black wool coat.

He took me to Gavroche, a famously exclusive French brasserie that did an obscenely lavish weekend brunch. It was all dark wood, brass fixtures, white tablecloths, and the quiet murmur of wealth. We were seated at a prime corner table with a view of the bustling, fashionable street. We ordered glasses of crisp champagne to start, then feasted on eggs Benedict with caviar, truffle-infused French toast, and a tower of pastries that seemed to defy gravity.

The conversation was easy again, lighter than last night, full of plans for our drive, for dancing, for the next time he’d be in town. He talked about a villa his family owned in Sardinia, suggesting we go in the spring. I let myself imagine it—sun, sea, and this simple, undemanding version of us. The bubble was intact, shimmering and perfect.

Then, halfway through my second cup of coffee (he’d switched to an espresso, finally), his phone buzzed on the table. Not a normal ring, but a specific, insistent vibration. His face, which had been relaxed and open, shut down instantly. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“Excuse me, koroleva,” he said, his voice already different—flatter and harder. He stood and walked toward the back of the restaurant, near the restrooms, where it was quieter.

I watched him. I saw his posture straighten and Ponimayu’s free hand clench at his side. The conversation was short, clipped, and in rapid Russian. I caught only one word, repeated with icy emphasis: “Ponimayu.” I understand.

He returned to the table, but he was already gone. The man who had been laughing over truffle toast was replaced by the heir to the Novak syndicate. He didn’t sit down.

“Lissa,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, but his eyes held a genuine regret that made my stomach drop. “I have to go. Back to Russia. Immediately.”

“What? Now? But you don’t leave until Monday...”

“Plans have changed. Something... urgent has come up. Family.” The word ‘family’ carried the weight of a thousand unspoken crises—betrayals, deaths, and wars.

“How long?” The question was out before I could stop it, sounding pathetically small.

“I don’t know. A week. Maybe two. I will make it up to you, I promise. As soon as I am back.” He leaned down, cupping my face, and kissed me. It wasn’t the soft, exploring kiss from last night. It was firm, final, and a punctuation mark. “I am sorry. Truly.”

He threw a stack of large bills on the table—far more than the check—nodded once, and then he was striding out of the restaurant, already back on his phone, issuing orders in a low, commanding tone.

Just like that, the bubble popped. The shimmering fantasy of the day, the week, and the future in Sardinia evaporated. The champagne tasted sour. The luxurious room felt cold and overly bright.

I sat there for a long time, staring at his empty chair and at the half-eaten, now-pointless pastries. The black sedan outside felt like a more honest representation of my life than this cage.

Back at the penthouse, the silence was deafening. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of last night; it was a vast, hollow emptiness. I took off the blazer, the heels, and the jewelry, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. I stood in the middle of the living room, in my stocking feet, and looked around at the immaculate, impersonal space. The pillows from our nest were still on the floor. A single, empty beer bottle stood sentinel on the coffee table.

This was the first time I noticed, truly felt, that I was utterly alone.

Enzo had withdrawn into a fortress of silence. And Klaus... Klaus had just vanished into the ether of his obligations, leaving behind a kiss and a pile of cash.

The need to do something, anything, to outrun the yawning loneliness was a physical pressure in my chest. I changed into jeans, boots, and a black hoodie, pulling the hood up. I didn’t think. I just moved.

I drove. Not aimlessly, but with a terrible, gravitational pull. I found myself on the familiar, dusty road leading to the old airstrip. The site of tonight’s races.

I parked far away from the main cluster of vehicles and spectators, on a small rise that gave me a panoramic view of the strip. The floodlights were on, painting the scene in a harsh, white glare. The roar of engines and the shriek of tires were distant, muted thumps through my closed windows.

I killed the engine and just watched.

I saw the bikes line up, tiny from this distance. I saw the flash of the starter’s light, the lurch forward, and the blur of speed down the strip. I saw the winner’s celebration, a small cluster of people jumping around. I couldn’t make out any faces. I didn’t need to.

I wasn’t here for the race. I was here for the ghost of a feeling. The ghost of a man who might be here, somewhere in that crowd, or more likely, watching from his own distant remove, just as he’d said he would. I was here because this place was a nexus of all the tangled threads of my life—risk, adrenaline, performance, violence, and him.

Sitting alone in the dark, watching the distant, meaningless spectacle, I felt more isolated than I ever had in the Union’s most brutal training exercises. At least there, I’d had a purpose. A target. A way to win.

Here, in the silence of my car, with the echo of a Russian goodbye in my ears and the memory of a knife in my hand, I had absolutely no idea what winning even looked like anymore.

※※※

Lissa is now completely alone. Things between her and Enzo are strange. Klaus left her alone; she does not want to go to her father or mother, as she is scared they will fuss too much. She has no more friends left; no one has reached out since she got back... It’s sad.

🖤🖤🖤