Chapter 3
560 Words
Olga POV
The moment the plane lands, I feel it.
The weight.
Moscow doesn’t welcome you—it measures you. The air is colder than Greece, sharper, like it expects you to prove you belong before it gives you space to breathe.
I pull my coat tighter around me as I step off the plane, my bag slung over my shoulder, heart beating faster than I want to admit. This isn’t just a new city.
It’s a new line I’m crossing.
Angelica is waiting just past security.
The second I see her, something in my chest loosens. She looks radiant—softer than before, but stronger too. Her son is in her arms, bundled up, blinking at the world like he’s mildly offended by it.
“Olga,” she breathes, and then she’s hugging me carefully, one arm, warm and familiar.
“You smell like snow,” I say, smiling.
“You’ll get used to it,” she replies. “Come—before Alexander decides the airport is unsafe.”
As if summoned by his name, I feel him before I see him.
Alexander Petrov stands a few steps back, tall, still, watching everything with that calm, predatory awareness that makes people straighten unconsciously. He doesn’t smile—but when Angelica looks at him, something softens in his eyes.
That tells me more than his reputation ever could.
“Olga,” he says, extending a hand. “Welcome to Russia.”
His grip is firm, respectful. No pressure. No test.
“Thank you,” I reply evenly. “For the opportunity.”
“For the choice,” he corrects. “You’re free to leave anytime.”
I nod. I believe him.
That surprises me.
The drive through the city feels unreal—wide streets, imposing buildings, history layered into every corner. Angelica talks, filling the space easily, pointing things out, translating when needed.
I notice Alexander listens more than he speaks.
That also surprises me.
Medical school orientation happens faster than I expect. The campus is massive, efficient, intimidating in the way only serious institutions are. The curriculum is intense, the expectations higher than anything I’ve faced before.
I love it immediately.
“You won’t be bored here,” the coordinator tells me dryly.
“I’d be disappointed if I was,” I answer.
That night, Angelica walks me through the mansion to meet the family doctor.
Dr. Mikhailov.
He’s older, sharp-eyed, hands steady but tired. He looks me over like a diagnosis waiting to be made.
“So,” he says. “You’re the one they sent me.”
“I came,” I correct politely. “No one sent me.”
His mouth twitches. “Good. Sit.”
We talk medicine. Cases. Ethics. Limits.
He pushes. I push back.
By the end of the conversation, he nods once.
“You start tomorrow,” he says. “You’ll see things you can’t unsee.”
“I already have,” I reply.
That seems to satisfy him.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the estate settling around me.
Russia feels big.
Heavy.
Full of things unsaid.
I haven’t met everyone yet.
I haven’t seen the man who took a bullet for Alexander today.
But I will.
And something tells me—
When I do, nothing will stay untouched for long.
- Writer
