SCARS

CHAPTER ONE ANASTASIA Seventeen days. Anastasia Volkov stared at the calendar hanging above her desk, at the small circle she had drawn around the eighteenth. Her eighteenth birthday, she should have been excited, instead, she felt something heavy settle in her chest. Most girls waited for eighteen as though it were a doorway into a better life. Freedom. New beginnings. A reason to celebrate. For Anastasia, eighteen had never felt like a beginning. It felt like a reminder. Her eyes moved from the calendar to the photograph beside her lamp. Her father. Viktor Volkov stood in the center of the picture, one hand resting on her mother's shoulder and the other holding a much younger Anastasia against his side. Her siblings crowded around them, all smiles and laughter. She remembered that day. barely. But she remembered his laugh. That was the cruel thing about memories, sometimes the smallest ones survived. Not the important conversations, not the exacts words he had said. Just his laugh. The warmth of his hand on her head. The smell of his cologne when he hugged her. The way he used to call her little star whenever she was upset. And then— Nothing. Three years of nothing. Anastasia reached for the photograph and ran her thumb across the glass. "Hi, Papa." She felt ridiculous saying it aloud. She still did it anyway. Outside her bedroom window, the evening sky was turning dark. The Volkov estate was unusually quiet, though she could hear the faint sounds of her siblings downstairs. Maksim was probably arguing with Nikolai again. Sofia was probably laughing at both of them. Her mother was probably pretending not to hear. Normal. Everything was normal. That was what everyone wanted. Normal. Anastasia placed the photograph back on the desk and looked at the calendar again. Seventeen days, her birthday was approaching, and so was the anniversary of the worst day of her life. She hated that the two had become inseparable. When she was younger, birthdays had meant balloons, cake, gifts, and her father's ridiculous attempts at making her laugh. After his death, her birthdays became quieter. Her mother still bought a cake, her siblings still tried. But there was always a strange emptiness at the table. A missing chair. A missing voice. A missing person. And everyone noticed. Nobody talked about it. A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. "Come in." The door opened, and Elena Volkov stepped inside. Her mother looked tired. She always looked a little tired these days. "You've been in here for hours." Anastasia shrugged. "I lost track of time." Elena's eyes moved toward the untouched books on her desk. "You've also apparently lost track of your textbooks." A small smile tugged at Anastasia's lips. "Maybe they're studying themselves." "Then I hope they are doing a better job than you." For a moment, the heaviness disappeared. Anastasia smiled properly. It was small, but her mother noticed. Elena walked over and sat beside her on the bed. "Your birthday is coming." Anastasia's smile faded. "I know." "Your siblings are planning something." "Of course they are." "You could let them." "I'll think about it." Elena studied her daughter's face. "You don't have to pretend with me." Anastasia looked away. "I'm not pretending." "You are." The answer came so softly that Anastasia almost missed it. She swallowed. There were some conversations she didn't want to have with her mother. Not because she didn't trust her. Because she was afraid of what might happen if she finally said everything out loud. "Do you ever miss him?" Anastasia asked. Elena went still. It was such a simple question. But somehow it filled the entire room. "Every day." Anastasia looked at her. Her mother's eyes had already turned glassy. "I thought you might say no." "Why would you think that?" "Because you don't talk about him anymore." Elena looked down at her hands. "Sometimes talking about someone makes their absence feel bigger." Anastasia understood that. Too well. Her gaze returned to the photograph. "I miss his voice." "So do I." "I miss when he used to annoy me." A quiet laugh escaped Elena. "He was very good at that." Anastasia smiled. "He was terrible." "He loved you." "I know." The words came out barely above a whisper. That was the problem. She knew he loved her. She knew he had loved all of them. And she knew he was gone. But there were still nights when some childish part of her expected the front door to open. Expected to hear his footsteps. Expected him to walk into the room and complain that everyone was making too much noise. Then reality would return. And she would remember. Elena stood. "You should come downstairs." "I'll be there." Her mother hesitated. Then she leaned down and kissed Anastasia's forehead. "Don't stay awake too late." When the door closed, Anastasia remained still. She stared at the photograph. "Goodnight, Papa." She turned off the lamp. The room fell into darkness. But sleep refused to come. Anastasia rolled onto her side and stared through the window. The moonlight stretched across the floor. Somewhere downstairs, a door closed. Then another. A few minutes later, she heard footsteps. Slow. Measured. They stopped outside her bedroom. Anastasia frowned. She waited. Nothing. Then came three quiet knocks. Her heart skipped. She sat up. "Mom?" No answer. She climbed out of bed and walked toward the door. Her hand reached for the handle. Before she could open it, the footsteps moved away. Anastasia pulled the door open. The hallway was empty. She looked left. Then right. Nothing. Only darkness and silence. She stepped into the hallway. At the far end, one of the windows was slightly open. Cold air slipped through the curtains. Anastasia frowned. She was certain she had closed it earlier. She walked toward it. Then stopped. Something caught her attention. Downstairs. A man's voice. Low. Unfamiliar. Anastasia froze. She couldn't make out the words. But then she heard one name clearly. Her father's. "Viktor." Her blood ran cold. She stood motionless in the darkness, listening. The voice disappeared. A door slammed somewhere below. And suddenly, Anastasia realized something she had spent three years refusing to consider. The truth behind her father's death.