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Chapter Text

Paris, March 1923

Rain lashed against the grand windows of the Cafe de la Paix, blurring the glittering lights of the Parisian night. Inside, a group of young men huddled around a corner table, speaking in hushed tones despite the din of the bustling cafe. Their faces, youthful and yet burdened with the same intensity, were animated by the flickering gaslight.

Grigory Zinoviev swirled the cheap wine in his glass, the acrid tang too similar to the bitter taste of defeat. It had been six years—six long years since Grand Duke Michael had seized power and crushed their only chance of taking over the government. Six years, watching from afar as Russia, under his leadership, defied all expectations and was slowly recovering.

He clenched his jaw, feeling nothing but frustration. Back then, the revolution seemed possible—even inevitable. The Great War had left the country ready for change, and the people were tired of the Tsar's leadership. It had been the perfect storm, and they had failed to seize it.

Now, the news that arrived spoke of economic prosperity and liberal reforms. The very ground beneath their ideology seemed to be shifting. The people's passionate fervour and desperate yearning for change were fading, and now they even looked to the future with cautious optimism.

Zinoviev had envisioned a new Russia, a nation free from the shackles of that ancient monarchy, a modern, progressive state marching boldly into the future. But with each passing year, their cause seemed to gather more dust in the forgotten corners of history.

Their perspectives only seemed to get darker when, just a few days before, they received news that felt like the final nail to the coffin: Lenin, their firebrand leader, had suffered a third stroke and lost his ability to speak. Zinoviev couldn't help but feel sympathetic. Lenin was the only one who truly understood the revolutionary spirit and was fading away. Yet, there was no time for sentimentality. He had to be practical, and Lenin's demise, however painful, was also an opportunity.

Everyone in the party was already discussing who would be his replacement. Trotsky, the brilliant orator and strategist, was the obvious choice. But Stalin, the quiet operator, was manoeuvring in the shadows, ambitious like a coiled viper. Both men craved power and advocated for a return to violent revolution, a brutal purge to reshape Russia in their image.

Zinoviev scoffed inwardly. Brute force might have worked in the past, but the Russia of today craved stability, not bloodshed. Why would the people want to change something that seemed to work well for them? No. He had a different plan, a far more subtle approach. And the idea had come to him by chance.

One of his young comrades, who could hardly hide his pride, had been bragging about his sister, a talented dancer who had just secured a coveted position with the Ballet Russes. With its air of decadence and elitism, the very name sent a shiver of disgust down Zinoviev's spine. The Ballet Russes represented everything he despised, symbolising the aristocracy's frivolous indulgence.

Yet, something ignited in Zinoviev's mind as the young man droned on about the company's lavish productions and the legendary impresario Sergei Diaghilev. He couldn't help but overhear a detail that piqued his interest – Diaghilev's close connections to the imperial family, specifically to Grand Duke Paul, a known patron of the arts.

Zinoviev spotted an unexpected opportunity. The Ballet Russes might symbolise everything he despised, but it could also serve as a door into the Tsar's inner circle. A faint, sardonic smile crossed his face. It was an improbable weapon, but one he could use.

He didn’t know how to exploit the connection but wouldn’t let it go to waste. Some of his comrades were already watching Diaghilev and his dancers, eager to prove their loyalty to the cause. Zinoviev, however, preferred to remain in the background.

The revolution would take a different form here—subtle, strategic, and quiet. While the details were still unclear, his specific goal was to strike at the Winter Palace. From the shadows of a Parisian cafe, Zinoviev planned to become an unseen presence in the Tsar’s extravagant world, pulling strings and laying the groundwork for change.

Chapter Text

Olga, Crown Princess of Romania to Princess Irina Paley

Pelişor Castle, 21 February 1922

Dear Irina,

I'm so sorry for how long it took to answer your previous letter, but, as you may know, life has changed quite a bit since my last letter. I'm sure someone has already informed you by now, but I wanted to pen the news myself. Our little girl arrived in this world in late October last year. We named her Marie, in honour of my formidable mother-in-law (I don't think she would have accepted anything else!), but I quite like the name myself and I tell my side of the family that we named her after my sister Marie, who is one of her proud godmothers.

She's about to celebrate her fourth month, and I can't believe the difference she's made. I never considered myself particularly maternal, but the moment I saw her, my heart melted. So far, she's a dream – a sleepy, cheerful baby. My mother-in-law is convinced her head is unusually large, but since I had the same problem as a baby, I try not to worry too much about it.

Naturally, there was initial disappointment that she wasn't a boy. My mother-in-law never misses an opportunity to remind me that she produced a male heir for Romania just nine months after her arrival. Everyone who visits feels compelled to comment on it as well. However, I'm relieved to have a daughter. While it is possible that a boy can escape Alexei's fate, I'm not willing to risk it. Maria's son is ten months old now, and there's still no sign of the illness, but her letters (and my mother's) reveal that she's in constant anxiety about him.

Carol also doesn't seem to care much for the baby, but, then again, almost no men care about these things anyway. He doesn't have the patience to sit with her, carry her or do anything with her. Any excuse is good for him to spend a few days out of town, which, I must confess, is an arrangement I don't completely dislike since it is preferable not to have him around when he's bored. It's like having an overgrown child around and it gets me on my nerves much more than the baby does.

Thankfully, I've been staying at Pelişor Castle since my confinement, and it's truly a beautiful retreat. I can see the snow-capped Carpathians from my bedroom window, and the castle itself is so cosy (it's more like a Russian dacha than a castle, really) that I can easily walk everywhere with the baby, always staying warm.

My other sister, Tatiana, is going through a situation that is very similar to mine, except that her husband has been very helpful and seems actually to care about the baby. Her little girl, Alexandra, is just two months older than Marie and, of course, she's constantly berated about the fact that this was not a male heir to Serbia, but, like me, she's pleased and relieved it was a girl. We still haven't had a chance to meet each other's babies, although we are living quite close to each other. Her labour was difficult and the doctors are not recommending travelling.

Now... onto the pressing issue you wrote to me about which led me to pick up my pen and paper at once. Cousin Feodor. I think the reasons you have listed in your letter are very reasonable. It was wrong of him to ask such a private question in public, even if that public was comprised of your closest family. As I've known him all my life and understand the level of loneliness he's had to endure because of that dreadful illness of his, I also understand and sympathize with his need to start his own family.

I think you did the right thing by not holding him back. I can see from your letter how deeply you care for him and how much easier it would have been for you to just ask him to wait for you. It shows immense courage and a level of selflessness that not even I'm sure I would be able to master. And, just like you said, maybe fate will intervene and bring Feodor back to you under the right circumstances. I will certainly pray for that because I don't think he would be able to find such a good match as you.

Regarding the list of ladies-in-waiting, I have a favourable impression of them all. However, if I were in your position, I'd choose Countess Maria Vorontsova-Dashkova. She's charming, her family has a long history of court service, and being your age would make for a pleasant companionship, given the time you'll spend together. The only potential drawback is her close friendship with Feodor and his brothers, especially Nikita who might harbour romantic intentions towards her. But she's truly a lovely girl, and I don't believe this should be a significant issue.

That's all for now. Please don't hesitate to reach out if you need to discuss Feodor. I understand how challenging these first few months can be, and my lifelong acquaintance with him might offer some insight into his character or perspective.

All the best,

Olga

P.S. Since you were one of the first to know about the first, you might as well be one of the first to know about the second... It seems I am with child again. I wasn't expecting it to be so soon after Marie and I'm still quite overwhelmed at the news, but, at the same time, I'm happy that she is going to have a sibling so close in age to her. They'll be practically twins. Unlike everyone else, I'm praying that it might be another girl.

P.P.S. How is Vladimir doing? Alexei has been full of praise for him. I guess they're getting along quite well at the Corps des Pages? Could you thank him for taking such good care of him for me?

Chapter Text

April 1922

Vladimir

The weight of the longest, harshest winter since the war seemed to finally lift from Petrograd as spring, with an almost defiant suddenness, burst into the city. The air was now soft and sweet, carrying the heady scent of life awakening. As Vladimir made his way through the imposing corridors of the Winter Palace, his steps echoed in the silent grandeur. He was on his way to another French lesson with the Grand Duke Michael's children, Tata and George. His eyes, however, were drawn to the palace gardens, which showed a splash of green and colour against the building's imposing facade and he longed to be outside.

When he reached the Grand Duke's private apartments, he decided to seize the opportunity. "Perhaps, Your Highnesses," he suggested, "we could continue our lesson in the garden? It would be a shame to waste this beautiful weather indoors."

Tata's face lit up with a smile. The prospect of escaping the stuffy confines of the palace seemed to be undeniably appealing. As for George, his young face transformed into a mask of pure, unadulterated joy. It was as if Vladimir had offered him a kingdom.

Once outside, the trio began to arrange their materials on a sturdy garden table. Vladimir carefully placed his books and papers, while Tata and George contributed their own stationery. The table was nestled amidst a riot of colour – tulips in every shade imaginable, daffodils reaching for the sun, and hyacinths filling the air with their sweet perfume. The gentle rustling of leaves and the cheerful chirping of birds provided a soothing soundtrack to their lesson. A host of tiny insects buzzed and flitted around.

While Vladimir immersed himself in teaching Tata the intricacies of French grammar, George became a whirlwind of energy, exploring every corner of the garden. He chased butterflies, climbed small trees, and seemed to have an uncanny ability to find every hidden nook and cranny. His laughter was a constant, joyful accompaniment to the lesson.

The day's subject, however, was proving challenging to his pupil, who was staring blankly at the page. "Tata, mon amie," he began gently, "we've covered the subjunctive before. Remember, it's used for expressing wishes, doubts, emotions, and so on."

Tata nodded slowly. "I know, Vladimir. But it's so confusing!"

"I understand," Vladimir reassured her, "It takes practice. Let's try this again. Look at this sentence: 'Je veux que tu viennes avec moi.' This means 'I want you to come with me.' Notice how 'que tu viennes' is in the subjunctive."

Tata's brow furrowed. "Why can't we just say 'Je veux tu viens'?"

Vladimir chuckled. "Well, that's a good question. The subjunctive adds a layer of nuance to the sentence. It expresses your desire or wish more strongly."

He paused, considering how to explain further. "Imagine you're asking a friend to do something. You wouldn't just say, 'You do this.' You'd say, 'I want you to do this.' The subjunctive helps convey that desire."

Tata seemed to be thinking hard. "Alright, I think I get it. But what about this one? 'Il est important que tu étudies.' Why 'que tu étudies' and not just 'tu étudies'?"

"Excellent question, Tata. In this case, 'il est important que' introduces the subjunctive. It's like setting the stage for the subjunctive mood. It's a way to express necessity or importance."

Vladimir leaned forward, offering encouragement. "Don't worry, Tata. It takes time. Let's try some exercises together. We'll break it down, step by step."

He opened his notebook and began to write. "Conjugate the verb 'être' in the subjunctive present."

Tata looked at the page, her face scrunched up in concentration. "Okay, so it's 'je sois', 'tu sois', 'il soit'..." She trailed off, unsure.

Vladimir smiled patiently. "Almost, Tata. It's 'je sois', 'tu sois', 'il soit', then 'nous soyons', 'vous soyez', and 'ils soient'."

Tata repeated the conjugations, slowly at first, then with more confidence. "I think I'm getting it!" she exclaimed.

Vladimir nodded. "Wonderful! Now, let's try forming some sentences using these conjugations."

As Vladimir sat across from Tata, he noticed the shift in her demeanour. She sat up straighter, her shoulders back, and a confident smile spread across her face. He remembered when he first agreed to tutor her in French, hesitant because they had known each other for years and she was older than his usual students. But now, watching her speak with ease and grace in his native tongue, he felt proud of her progress. It wasn't easy at first - she lacked confidence in herself despite her excellent French skills - but now she confidently trusted herself more and more every day.

"You really are an excellent teacher, Vladimir," she told him at the end of the lesson, as she closed her notebook. "No one has ever been able to show me how this worked so quickly and clearly before."

A faint blush rose to Vladimir's cheeks at the compliment. Teaching teenage boys at the Corps des Pages was one thing, but tutoring a mature girl of eighteen was an entirely different experience. He had never received compliments from his male students, but this student seemed to understand and appreciate his lessons much more deeply.

"I couldn't do it without an eager student like you," he replied with a smile.

Tata's smile faltered slightly as she glanced up at her mother's private apartments. Vladimir was certain that the Countess was watching their lesson closely, as she always did. 

"Well, my mother doesn't seem to share your opinion," she said, trying to brush it off, but her hurt was evident in her eyes. "She believes my pronunciation is still too Russian, and that no one would mistake me for a French girl even if I were born in France."

Vladimir winced inwardly. Though Tata rarely spoke about her personal life during their lessons, he could tell that she had a complicated relationship with her mother. The Countess would always be charming and gracious towards him when they were together, but she always found fault with everything Tata did. Once, she even commented on Tata's messy hair right in front of Vladimir, which he found highly inappropriate.

"I spent my childhood in France and I can honestly say that your pronunciation is excellent," he reassured her. "It takes a lot of effort for a native Russian speaker to master all the intricacies of the French language. Even your own mother may not have achieved such fluency."

Tata let out a small laugh at that before catching herself. "I've been speaking only in French with Natasha lately to keep practising, even outside of our lessons," she confided. "But I think she likes me too much to give honest criticism. She wouldn't want to hurt my feelings."

Vladimir couldn't help but laugh heartily at that. "You know Natasha as well as I do by now," he said. "She's the last person to sugarcoat anything, especially if someone asks her for an honest opinion. Trust me, if she says you're doing well, then you really are."

Tata gazed at Vladimir, seemingly lost in thought as if she had forgotten what she wanted to say. Her once direct and clear eyes now appeared distant and dreamy, an uncommon softness settling over them. A faint blush tinged her cheeks, adding to the quiet moment. Vladimir patiently waited, sensing something delicate unfolding.

"Tata?" he prompted softly, a touch of concern in his voice.

Her head snapped back as if she had just been jolted awake from a dream, and her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red. "Sorry, I got lost in thought," she apologized.

Vladimir chuckled, his voice laced with concern. "I could tell. Do you want to stay for George's lesson?"

Tata shook her head once more. "No, thank you. I really should be going now. My mother probably needs me for something, although I can't seem to remember what it was."

Vladimir grinned at her. "Well then, have a good rest of your day. See you next Wednesday?"

Tata's nodded vigorously. "Yes, definitely next Wednesday. By then, I'm hoping to have mastered the subjunctive."

"I highly doubt that, but we have plenty of time to work on it," Vladimir replied with a chuckle.

He knew she was fully capable of figuring it out before the next class, but he wanted to push her and give her a sense of accomplishment when she proved him right. Despite his challenge, she looked at him defiantly, a spark of competitiveness igniting within her. She turned on her heel and made her way back to the palace.

Chapter Text

Catherine Park, Tsarskoe Selo, July 1922

Vladimir

As Alexei's eighteenth birthday approached, anticipation at court grew. His official coming of age was near, with grand ceremonies and responsibilities ahead, though, thanks to his uncle's influence, his coronation and formal duties wouldn’t start for another three years. Still, there was a long list of events and obligations. Even though the country was slowly recovering from war, the Romanovs still carried a sense of prestige, making it important to maintain an image of wealth and power.

Diplomatic receptions, grand balls, and military reviews were all planned for the new Tsar. The most significant event would be the ceremony where soldiers and officers would swear loyalty to Alexei. Afterwards, there would be a smaller, private gathering where the imperial family and noblemen would do the same. It would be a strong show of unity and reinforce Alexei's role as Russia’s leader.

Though his parents couldn’t attend the celebrations due to their continued exile, his sisters were invited. Olga, now Crown Princess of Romania, and Tatiana, Queen of Yugoslavia, were included as a gesture of goodwill. However, Olga would miss the event since she would be heavily pregnant by then, but the others planned to attend.

As always with Alexei, there was constant concern about his health. Doctors checked on him daily, in addition to the many preparations already in place. Every family member, except the Vladimirovichi branch, had donated blood samples, which were being tested in England to find a suitable donor for a transfusion, just in case something unexpected happened before the celebrations. Vladimir, along with his parents and siblings, had all contributed their samples.

This would be Alexei's first public appearance as Tsar, and nothing could be allowed to go wrong.

"It's all a bit overwhelming," he admitted, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked next to Vladimir. Trying to offer some reassurance, Vladimir replied with a smile,

"I'm sure you've faced tougher challenges before. Yes, public speaking can be daunting, but it will become easier with practice."

Alexei gave him a sceptical glance before casting his eyes down once more. He was now almost as tall as Vladimir and the time he had spent at the Corps des Pages had done wonders to his appetite and general constitution. It was still painfully obvious that he was thinner than a young man his age ought to be and his legs, in particular, seemed barely able to sustain the rest of his body, but the controlled level of exercise he had been allowed to take at the Academy had to broaden his shoulders and torso and his uniform and boots helped conceal the disproportion between his upper and lower body.

His year at the academy had been a resounding success. He had made friends, received the level of education his young brain was yearning and had managed to graduate with honours. His Haemophilia also seemed to be under control and the doctors were optimistic that, with time, his attacks would become more distanced and controlled. Now, everything was set for him to start his first year at the University of Petrograd, to study Political Science. The first Tsar in History to do so.

On that day, Alexei and Vladimir had travelled from Petrograd to Tsarskoe Selo with the pretext of inspecting the Catherine Palace, where his sisters would be staying for their first trip to Russia in five years. Their uncle Michael had suggested that they all should stay at the Alexander Palace, which was just at the other end of the park, but all of them had agreed that the memories of the last days they had spent there, with the danger of revolution looming, their father's abdication and their illness, were too painful and they preferred the Catherine, which was not as personal to them.

Vladimir knew Alexei well enough to understand that he simply wanted to escape the pressures of the Winter Palace for a few days and mentally prepare for what lay ahead. Since Catherine Palace wasn’t quite ready to host guests, Alexei planned to stay with Vladimir and his family at Paley Palace, just a short walk from the park.

“It’s not just the public speaking,” Alexei admitted, his voice trailing off. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Even though that part terrifies me, and I know I need more practice. What really gets to me is that I often feel like an imposter.”

Vladimir listened closely, feeling the weight of Alexei’s words. Alexei’s gaze shifted nervously as he continued.

“I’m surrounded by people who could do this job so much better than me,” he sighed. “Uncle Misha is praised for his leadership, Uncle Kyrill has more experience and is beloved in the navy, Uncle Sandro and Cousin Andrei have made their marks in the Air Force... and then there’s me.” He shook his head, disbelief creeping into his voice. “What have I really done to deserve this?”

Alexei’s eyes showed genuine panic and fear, but Vladimir couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the question.

"You were born into it, Alexei," he said gently. "And I can promise you that your uncle would never have accepted the position nor would the people have accepted this new regime if it weren't for you. You are the link between the old and the new, a symbol of hope for our country."

But Alexei's fears persisted as he grunted under his breath. "People accepted me because I was just a child," he muttered bitterly. "In their eyes, I was nothing more than someone they could mould into their ideal leader. But what if they discover that, after all this time, I'm nothing like what they need?"

Vladimir watched as Alexei’s troubled expression deepened, his brow furrowing as he spoke. The young Tsar fidgeted with the cuff of his uniform, clearly weighed down by the responsibility ahead. It was a familiar look—the self-doubt that constantly ate at his confidence.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Alexei,” Vladimir said, his voice steady but kind. “Yes, you were born into this role, but that doesn’t make you any less deserving. You have qualities that many others don’t—compassion, empathy, and sharp intellect. Those strengths will serve you well when leading this country.”

Alexei scoffed as if Vladimir's words were mere flattery, unable to see the truth in them. After a long moment of tense silence, Vladimir decided it was time to change the subject to something more light. His mind raced for a suitable topic, settling on the upcoming balls and receptions.

"And really, shouldn't you be more excited about all the foreign princesses vying for your attention?" he prompted, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his tone. "It's not every day one gets to be so lucky."

To Vladimir's surprise, Alexei's reaction was far from enthusiastic. Instead, he looked at him with wide eyes, as if struck by a sudden realization. "Should I be excited about that?"

The question was asked in all honesty, as if Alexei had somehow forgotten that dancing and meeting young women was something one should look forward to.

Vladimir let out a gentle chuckle, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement. "When I was your age, Alexei, I couldn't wait to attend such events," he reminisced. "It was an opportunity to meet new people, to dance, and of course, to speak to young women. It's a delightful experience, I assure you."

Alexei's face flushed with embarrassment, the redness creeping up from his neck and into his cheeks. "To be honest, Bodia, the very idea of it has been keeping me up at night."

Vladimir stopped in his tracks and placed a reassuring hand on Alexei's arm. "Keeping you up at night? The dances?"

Alexei shifted uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed by his own admission. He glanced around nervously before finally finding the courage to speak again. "I... I don't think I'm very good at talking to people," he confessed. "And I'm particularly not skilled at talking to young women. And as for my dancing abilities... well, let's just say my dance teachers had a hard time with me and Nastya simply refused to practice with me because I was always stepping on her toes."

Vladimir struggled to contain a laugh at Alexei's earnest concerns. It was clear that these worries were weighing heavily on him. "What do you mean you don't know how to talk to girls?" Vladimir asked incredulously. "You have four sisters, you talk to Irina, Natasha and Tata all the time, it's not so different..."

Alexei shook his head, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. "No, it's different," he said with a sigh. "They've known me for years, they know all about me. My weaknesses, my temper, my illness." He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "People who don't know me, always stare, I'm well aware of that. They are always looking for something that gives it away, that shows that I'm not normal..."

Vladimir could see the turmoil in his friend's eyes and felt a pang of empathy. He wished he could reassure him, tell him that everything would be fine, but he knew deep down that it wouldn't be that simple. Alexei was right - people always looked at him differently because of his condition. They searched for any sign or slip-up that confirmed their suspicions that he wasn't like them.

"Do you understand now?" Alexei asked quietly, seeing the doubt in Vladimir's eyes and knowing all too well the realities he would soon face.

"Yes, I understand your concerns," Vladimir admitted with a sigh, quickening their pace once more. "Unfortunately, there's little we can do to change people's natural curiosity. The best course of action is to prepare yourself for their questions and stares. You know they'll come, so why not stay one step ahead and add a touch of humour or sarcasm? That usually throws off the less intelligent ones."

At this, Alexei couldn't help but let out a genuine laugh. "I have a feeling it's easier said than done. And what about our dilemma with dancing..."

Vladimir's face lit up mischievously. "Ah yes, the dancing. Don't worry, my friend, I know just the person who can help you perfect your moves." His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief as he spoke.

Chapter Text

In Vladimir's humble opinion, no one could match his sister Natalia's unrivalled skill as a dancer. From the moment she first stepped onto a dance floor as a child, her grace and fluidity had captivated all who witnessed it. Every movement she made was a work of art, each step imbued with a natural elegance that seemed to flow effortlessly from her body. While Vladimir had found solace in the pages of books and the melody of music, Natalia had discovered her passion in the realm of physical expression, through dancing and theatre.

Back in Paris, when their parents hosted cultural soirées at their house in Bolougne-sur-Seine, Natalia's eyes were always drawn to the graceful dancers on stage. She was particularly mesmerized by the ballet companies that would occasionally visit, especially the renowned Ballet Russes, whom her family had generously sponsored since its inception. Despite her deep fascination with dance, Natalia had always felt a twinge of regret that her father had never allowed her to learn ballet herself, as he believed it was unsuitable for a girl of her social standing. After all, it was one thing to support ballet artists, another completely different was letting one's daughter learn the art.

On top of everything else, Alexei felt at ease around Natalia, so he wouldn't be overwhelmed and ashamed of his lack of expertise. Also, Natalia was comfortable enough with him to be stern and efficiently prepare Alexei for his coming-of-age festivities. That had been the initial plan and the only thing on Vladimir's mind when he proposed the idea to them separately, and they both agreed immediately to hold a class the next day.

Natalia took her role as a teacher seriously, treating it with the utmost importance and care. In the grand ballroom, she arranged a special corner with heavy velvet curtains for privacy and brought her own gramophone from her bedroom so they could have music to dance to. Though she could dance flawlessly, Natalia asked Vladimir to find a book on the subject to enhance her teaching and explain the movements using the right technical terms.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, Natalia led Alexei to the elegant ballroom, with Vladimir and Irina eagerly taking their seats to watch them in anticipation. As Natalia put on a record on the gramophone, a waltz by Strauss echoed through the empty ballroom, giving it a lively and festive atmosphere even in the early morning.

"Right," Natalia said in a booming voice, walking over to Alexei with outstretched arms. "Show me what you know."

Alexei backed up one step, intimidated by Natalia's open posture. "You know how I dance, we've done it before."

Natalia, however, insisted on her method, "Alexei Nikolaevich, do you really think I'm paying attention to your dancing skills during our parties? I would only remember if you were truly terrible, and I don't recall that being the case."

A relieved smile spread across Alexei's face. "I assure you, my dancing is far from elegant."

"We shall see about that," Natalia replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She extended her hand, her palm upturned.

With a mixture of eagerness and trepidation, Alexei took her hand. As he awkwardly positioned his other arm around her waist, Natalia gently corrected him. "A bit lower," she said, in a professional tone.

"I am learning," he protested, his face flushing slightly.

"Good," she replied, her tone firm but encouraging. "Now, let's begin."

As they started to dance, Natalia's body moved effortlessly, leading Alexei through the steps. Vladimir, watching from afar, chuckled to himself as Alexei stumbled and recovered, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Relax, Alexei," Natalia said in a soft tone. "It's just a dance."

"Easier said than done," Alexei replied, his breath coming in short gasps.

Once she had made her first assessment of his skills, she stopped for a moment and, in a very serious and professional manner, started to explain to Alexei the steps involved. "Alright, let's break it down. The waltz is essentially a three-step pattern. It's a rise, a fall, and a close. You rise on the first beat, fall on the second and third, and then close your feet together on the fourth."

She demonstrated this in her graceful manner. "Watch my feet," she said. "Step forward with your left foot, then bring your right foot to the side, close to your left. Now, step back with your left, and bring your right foot to the side again, close to your left. That's one measure."

Alexei nodded, trying to memorize the steps. Natalia took his hands in hers, her touch gentle but firm. "Now, let's try it together. Remember, rise, fall, close. Follow my lead."

Alexei nodded, his feet anxiously shifting beneath him. He tried to follow her steps but stumbled and swayed. Natalia's grip tightened on his arm, steadying him. "Your frame is too rigid," she observed. "Relax your shoulders and let your arms flow with the dance."

Alexei panted, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I'm doing my best," he said between breaths.

Natalia continued to guide him through the steps, demonstrating each movement. "I know you are, but you're going to have to try a little harder if you want to get this right," she said firmly. "And remember, the 'box step' is the foundation of the waltz." She repeated the sequence with her own feet: left, forward; right, side; left, back; right, close.

Despite his best efforts, Alexei's steps were still hesitant and uneven. Vladimir couldn't help but sneak a glance at Irina, who was trying to suppress a laugh. They both quickly looked away so as not to interrupt their progress.

Natalia, growing slightly impatient, said firmly, "Alexei, focus! Rise, fall, close. Don't overthink it."

"Natasha," he said playfully, "I must remind you that I am the Tsar of Russia. Perhaps you could temper your orders a bit."

Natalia burst into laughter. "In this room, Your Majesty, I make the rules and you have to follow my orders or you'll get expelled."

"You wouldn't," Alexei countered, raising an eyebrow.

"Try me," she said with a mischievous smile, increasing the rhythm just enough to make him sweat. 

Gradually, Alexei's confidence grew as he surrendered himself to the rhythm of the music. After a while, Vladimir observed with a slight nod of triumph towards Irina, it even looked as if he was enjoying himself.

However, just as he was gaining momentum, disaster struck. In a moment of misstep, Alexei's foot collided with Natalia's, sending them both stumbling. With years of dance training and quick reflexes, Natalia managed to catch herself before they could fall. As she steadied Alexei, their bodies were brought intimately close - her hand resting on his chest and his arm wrapped firmly around her waist.

In that brief moment of closeness, their gazes locked. And in that instant, Vladimir couldn't help but feel a strange sensation deep within his stomach. Alexei's eyes held an intensity that seemed to penetrate straight into Natalia's soul. There was a flicker of something unfamiliar in his gaze, a longing perhaps, that Vladimir couldn't quite decipher. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for hers. A rosy blush crept up his neck, but it faded just as quickly as it came.

With mounting intrigue, Vladimir watched their interactions intently, but he soon realized that reading Alexei was no easy feat. He had to scrutinize every clue carefully to ensure he wasn't imagining things. The little he saw was gone faster than he could register, as Alexei quickly built a fence over his physical signs. And yet, Vladimir did find certain things that piqued his curiosity. When their fingers intertwined, he noticed a subtle change in Alexei's breathing. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and his eyes lingered on Natalia with a soft, almost reverent gaze. When she directed her attention towards him, his posture straightened and his movements became deliberate - as if he were trying to impress her in some way.

At one point, Alexei forgot his steps again and twirled awkwardly, which sent Natalia into a fit of giggles. As she closed her eyes, trying to recover so they could continue their lesson, Alexei looked at her as if he could listen to her laugh for the rest of his life.

As they caught their breath, Vladimir cautiously turned towards Irina, finding her watching them with equal curiosity. When she met his gaze, he saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes before she quickly hid it behind a hand placed over her lips.

"I see you have figured it out," she whispered playfully after a moment.

Vladimir's eyebrow rose in surprise. "You knew?" he asked.

The corners of Irina's mouth turned up into a sly smile as she nodded in confirmation.

"How long?" He asked, turning back towards them.

Irina laid back on her chair, eyes turning towards the ceiling and puffing. "It's hard to say. Alexei can be a bit hard to read and he was still little more than a child then, but I'd say around the time she had the Spanish Flu? Not love, exactly, but a deep admiration, at least. I saw it when he came to visit her."

Vladimir could not take his eyes off them after that, feeling his stomach clench. It was undeniably beautiful to witness the pure, innocent admiration Alexei had for Natalia blossoming as they twirled around the dancefloor, but this was not supposed to have happened. Grand Duke Michael had relaxed the marriage rules for other members of the family over the last years, allowing them to marry members of the Russian nobility, but, as Tsar of Russia, Alexei's choice had to be more careful.

His consort needed to be an equal, a member of another ruling or sovereign royal house, which excluded Natalia automatically. And this was just the written rule. There was also an unwritten understanding that Russian brides were off-limits. All Russian noble families were expected to be equally loyal to the Tsar and, as a reward, they received posts in the government and at court. Choosing a Russian bride would break the thin balance of power between them, as the family of the bride would inevitably be accused of favouritism. That was the reason why foreign Princesses were always preferred, families that had nothing to do with Russia and didn't understand the power plays that went on backstage for positions of power.

Vladimir was aware that it was too soon to think of such a far-reaching result as marriage, but, unfortunately for Alexei, everything he did could have political consequences. He knew all too well that there was no point in feeding into something that would never happen. However much it hurt him, this had to be nipped in the bud.

Vladimir leaned in closer, his voice low. "This cannot happen, Irina. You understand the implications."

Irina's eyes widened and she nodded slowly, a look of understanding passing over her features.

"I know," she replied with a soft sigh. "And I think Alexei knows it too..."

"You think?" Vladimir asked.

Irina nodded slowly. "Have you ever seen him act like he's not fully aware of his responsibilities, of what is demanded of him? I think that's why he's been keeping his feelings locked inside. He would never want to give Natasha the wrong impression. He knows it's hopeless."

"Does Natasha know?" Vladimir asked, a touch of worry creeping into his voice.

"No," Irina answered quickly. "She has no idea, thank goodness. She sees Alexei as a brother, nothing more."

Vladimir ran a hand through his hair, his expression troubled. "I'm starting to regret choosing her for this class."

Irina's brow furrowed. "Don't. They're young. Feelings change. Perhaps this is just a passing phase. Should we really interfere in this? Even if you tried to separate them, I'm sure they would continue to write to each other. Natasha would be heartbroken if she had to give up on her friendship with Alexei..."

Vladimir didn't say anything else. The pain of what he was about to do nagged at him, but it had to be done. It was better to end things at the start, not let it get too far ahead. He cared too much for them both to watch them get hurt in the long run. He made a mental note to schedule a meeting with Grand Duke Michael after Alexei's birthday. Perhaps even after he travelled to England to be with his family, just to avoid any suspicions arising. As much as it pained him, something needed to be done to prevent his infatuation from growing any stronger.

Chapter Text

Petrograd, August 1922

Natalia

The festivities for Alexei's coming of age started in a relatively quiet way with the arrival of his sisters one week before his birthday. Since they were staying at the Catherine Palace, which was just a short walk distance from the Paley Palace, Natalia and her family had been among the first to receive them. They were not so very different since she had last seen them at Grand Duchess Olga's wedding the year before, except for the babies they carried along with them.

The only one Natalia had not met had been Grand Duchess Maria, who had been heavenly pregnant and had not attended her sister's wedding. She found her delightful. She had a round face, dominated by large blue eyes always adorned with a warm smile. She seemed like a devoted wife and mother, radiating pure happiness and harmony with her husband Nikolai Demenkov, an officer who had followed her family into exile just to be close to her. Despite his less-than-flattering appearance - chubby with prominent cheekbones and a small moustache - Maria looked at him adoringly as if he were her real-life Prince Charming.

Their son Nikolai was almost a year and a half old, with the chubbiest legs and a mop of blond curly hair, inherited from his mother. He constantly bounced around happily, readily sitting on anyone's lap without any fuss.

"It's just such a relief that he's healthy," Natalia heard the Grand Duchess confess to her mother in a whisper over tea. "The doctors said if he had haemophilia, he would have shown symptoms by now. He's such an active little boy, always bumping into things and falling, but we haven't seen anything yet. I think we can breathe a sigh of relief now."

Natalia glanced across the room at Alexei, who was playfully bouncing his little niece Alexandra on his knee. Unlike Nikolai, Alexandra took after her father's side of the family with a head full of dark, thick curls, but she inherited her mother's grey eyes. Alexei seemed oblivious to the whispered conversation, but Natalia sensed a flicker of something in his expression. A shadow, perhaps, or a subtle withdrawal. She knew him well enough to understand the undercurrent of his sister's words. While Maria's relief was undoubtedly genuine, and the joy of a healthy child was immense, her words carried an unspoken subtext with a clear implication: Thank God my son is not like you, Alexei.

It was a painful realization, a reminder of the burden Alexei carried. Despite his outward cheerfulness, Natalia knew the weight of their family's affliction was a constant presence in his life. To hear it articulated so openly, even if unintentionally, must have been a sharp sting.

While her sisters were fully immersed in marriages and motherhood, Anastasia remained unchanged. She showed no indifference towards her niece and nephew - that would be too strong of a word - but she certainly didn't lavish them with the same care and delicacy as her sisters did. There were still no rumors surrounding her about potential suitors and she seemed completely content with that. At twenty-one years old, there was still plenty of time for her to marry, but being the only unmarried sister in a sea of wedded bliss meant she was constantly bombarded with questions about her plans. Her response remained consistently calm: "I'm happy just being an aunt."

The grand celebrations began on the evening of Alexei's birthday, with a lavish ball held at the Winter Palace. Every notable member of Russian nobility and the diplomatic corps was in attendance, along with representatives from various foreign royal houses. As she stood at the entrance of the grand ballroom, flanked by Vladimir, in his navy blue uniform of the Guards Corps, and Irina, looking radiant in an azure chiffon dress and their mother's aquamarine and diamond diadem.

At sixteen, Natalia was still not allowed to wear jewellery, so she improvised with what she had. She had carefully chosen a pale pink dress, its soft and flowing fabric hugging her curves and accentuating her youthful figure. The delicate lace that adorned the neckline and sleeves added a touch of elegance, while small pearls shimmered in the light of the ballroom, drawing attention to her graceful movements as she descended the grand staircase.

As she entered the ballroom, Natalia felt overwhelmed by the sight before her. Hundreds of royals and nobles, dressed in their finest attire and adorned with dazzling jewels, twinkled like stars in the dimly lit room. The shimmering jewels created a mesmerizing display, transforming the ballroom into a glittering constellation of diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Natalia couldn't tear her eyes away from the breathtaking scene, feeling like she had stepped into a fairytale world.

Amid all the guests, it was almost impossible to see Alexei, at least at first sight. The first guest that came their way was none other than Queen Marie of Romania, whom Natalia had admired as a young girl. However, three years later, her teenage fascination had somewhat faded away.

Accompanied by her husband King Ferdinand and their two unmarried daughters, Marie and Ileana, the Queen was the picture of grace and royalty. In a private conversation with Natalia's father, she revealed that Marie would soon announce her engagement to Tsar Boris of Bulgaria and that she hoped they could attend the wedding next year. She also revealed that her younger son, Nicholas, who had left a less than favourable impression on Natalia during their visit to Romania, had just joined the British Navy and was about to take a year-long commission around the world.

She was also constantly praising her youngest daughter, Ileana who, at thirteen, was still little more than a child, but, indeed, already showed all the signs that she would turn into a beauty with her olive skin and large blue eyes.

"Did I ever show you the photographs when Nicky and Alix came to visit us in Romania?" Queen Marie was asking Natalia's mother. "Alexei and Ileana were too cute together. He told her he would marry her someday. Who knows if that won't come true?"

Natalia had to try her very best not to laugh at the anecdote. Poor Alexei, it seemed he had always worn his heart on his sleeve. He would have died of embarrassment if he knew these little stories were being told and repeated among the guests.

She glanced around the room, looking for him and finally discovered him on the other side of the ballroom, surrounded by a group of Greek Princesses. He seemed at ease with them, laughing and joking, but Natalia knew him too well. Certain signs gave away how nervous he really was. He kept tugging the sleeve of his uniform and clearing his throat, but no one else was noticing that. He was a success and Natalia's heart burst with pride for him.

"Natasha?"

Natalia turned around when she heard the familiar voice calling her name and hoped she had been able to hide her disappointment when she saw Dmitri Alexandrovich, Feodor's brother standing behind her. He and his brothers were Alexei's first cousins, so it was only natural that they would be there, but, amid all preparations, she had forgotten about that possibility.

"Dmitri," she said, trying to put some enthusiasm in her greeting, but feeling she was overdoing it. "How good to see you."

"Is it?" He asked. "You look a bit surprised."

"Oh no, not at all. I was just distracted," Natalia replied. "Are you all here?"

"Feodor is not if that's what you're really wondering," Dmitri replied, smirking. "But nothing to do your sister. He just had a bad case of bronchitis and is recovering in Ai-Todor, the doctors were against him travelling."

"Oh," Natalia replied, genuinely concerned. She tried to find Irina in the middle of the crowd, but she couldn't. It was highly likely she was somewhere on a terrace or garden, catching her breath before facing the crowd again. "I'm sorry to hear that, is he alright?"

"Yes, yes, the worst of it is past," Dmitri guaranteed, flipping a hand through the air.

The lack of concern he showed for Feodor was shocking, even as she sat there with his name firmly written, underlined and bolded on her enemy's list, after the way he had ambushed Irina with his proposal. But she held her tongue and instead flashed Dmitri a charming smile, which seemed to momentarily throw him off-balance.

"Listen," he continued, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I know you'll be in high demand tonight once the dancing starts. So I thought I'd secure the first dance with you right away." He grinned sheepishly, clearly nervous despite his confident demeanour.

In her mind, Natalia imagined herself throwing her arms up in the air with a grunt. Starting the evening dancing with Dmitri Alexandrovich, who was a terrible dancer, much more so than Alexei, and giving him false hopes that she would ever entertain his affection in the same way she had during those wild summer nights in the Crimea (Really... what had she been thinking?) was the last thing she wanted. However, there was something bold about the fact that he was asking and she just couldn't bear it in her heart to see the look of rejection on his face.

"Sure..." She heard herself saying, feeling like she was eating soap.

After that, Dmitri didn't leave her side, fearing, most likely, that someone would snatch her away and steal his opportunity. To break the ice, he decided to give her a full account of his activities in his regiment, a full array of subjects from engineering to topography, not forgetting military strategy, that bored her almost to tears.

At long last, when the orchestra started to play its first notes, they made their way to the centre of the ballroom, where Alexei was escorting his grandmother, the Dowager Empress. As the most senior lady of the court, it was protocol that she should be Alexei's first partner, but, due to her age - she was seventy-four years old - many people wondered if she would be up to it.

However, it didn't take long for her to show why she had dominated court life for so many decades. Even at her age, wearing a heavy brocade dress covered in diamonds, she still waltzed with the same vigour and grace as many young women. It was clear her joints were stiff and the pace slower, but, still, she left the entire room, Natalia included, in awe.

As for Alexei, he looked very tall and elegant in his Life Guards Hussar Regiment uniform, his white jacket crisp and tailored to perfection. The golden buttons gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, accenting the shimmer of his military orders. He seemed to tower over the room, exuding elegance. He was nervous and that reflected in the stiffness of his movements, but Natalia doubted anyone noticed it. Considering his level of skill during their class, she thought he was doing rather well.

When Alexei and his grandmother finished their dance, the rest of the guests made their way onto the dancefloor, Dmitri escorting Natalia proudly by her arm. Once the first notes started, he leaned closer to her, placing his hand just barely above the limit of propriety in her lower back. "You look ravishing tonight, Natasha."

This time, it was impossible for her to maintain the façade and she rolled her eyes. She knew how to look ravishing if she so wished. Tonight, she looked adequate for the occasion, at best.

"Is that really the word you're going for?" She asked him. "I'm touched by your poetic flair."

Dmitri, undeterred, grinned. "It's the truth. You're the most beautiful woman in this room."

Natalia raised an eyebrow. "Does that ever work with anyone?"

Dmitri seemed taken aback by her question, stumbling over his words and nearly losing his balance. "What do you mean?"

"Is telling someone you haven't seen in two years that they are the most beautiful person in the room a successful pick-up line?" Natalia clarified with a calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Has it worked on anyone before?"

Dmitri opened and closed his mouth several times, searching for an answer he wasn't able to find. Up until that point they had been speaking in French, a language he dominated quite well, considering he had spent a great amount of time in France growing up, but now that he sensed the words slipping away, he switched to Russian.

"I don't know, I've never tried it before."

Natalia couldn't help but quip, "It shows."

She knew she was being somewhat unpleasant, but she was also trying to be respectful by keeping a kind smile on her face. "You might want to rethink your approach when talking to women. We prefer to be courted properly. Hearing exactly how you feel and what you want can take away some of the thrill of the chase."

Dmitri chuckled nervously. "Come now, Natasha, don't be cruel. You know I adore you."

Natalia let out a small sigh and glanced past Dmitri to Alexei who was now dancing with his sister Tatiana within her line of sight. She could tell he was more relaxed dancing with his sister and was fully embracing the music. Their eyes met briefly and she gave him an approving nod, silently acknowledging that he was doing a great job.

"Have you forgotten about our nights in Ai-Todor?" Dmitri pressed, trying to divert Natalia's attention back to him. "I shared all my hopes and dreams with you...we almost kissed."

The thought made Natalia cringe inwardly, but she tried not to let it show on her face. "Dmitri, asking me for a kiss and me saying no does not equate to an 'almost kiss'. I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you that."

A flush crept up Dmitri's neck, and his eyes darted around the room, seeking an escape from her blunt honesty. After another turn, Natalia found herself looking at Alexei again. He made a subtle gesture with his head towards Dmitri and squinted as if asking her if he was becoming tiresome. Natalia rolled her eyes and nodded in response.

"Natasha, you changed everything for me after that Summer," Dmitri insisted in a smooth tone, trying to seduce her. "I was never the same."

Natalia resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. She gave him a polite smile instead. "Thank you for your compliment, Dmitri, but I think you may be confusing infatuation with something deeper."

Dmitri, oblivious to her growing irritation, seemed lost in his own memories. His eyes took on a dreamy expression as he continued speaking. "I can still remember the white dress you wore with the blue sash; it was such an ethereal sight..."

Natalia's eye twitched. "I'm sure it was," she replied sarcastically. "But I have moved on from ethereal white dresses, unfortunately."

Dmitri persisted, undeterred. "And I can picture you laughing on the beach, the sun glinting in your hair..."

Natalia's patience finally ran out. "Dmitri," she said firmly, her anger now evident in her voice. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Let's change the subject."

"Natasha, please," Dmitri pleaded, his voice dropping to a low, desperate tone. "Tell me what I need to do for you to give me a second chance."

Natalia's gaze hardened and she spoke with gritted teeth. "I never gave you a first chance to begin with. The only thing I would like you to do now is to remember your steps and finish this dance."

As if the universe had conspired in her favour, the music finally ceased its relentless rhythm. A wave of relief washed over Natalia. She'd been holding her breath, and now it could finally escape. Dmitri, however, seemed reluctant to let go. His eyes held a desperate plea that she ignored. However, before he could protest, Alexei stepped into the breach.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he began, his voice carrying a polite firmness, "but would it be possible to steal Natasha away for this dance? I believe I've made some progress on the dance floor and would appreciate her expert opinion."

"Wait, Alexei, I just need one more-" Dmitri started, but he was quickly cut off by Natalia.

"That would be lovely, thank you, Alexei," she replied, her tone firm as she gently extracted her hand from Dmitri's grasp. She offered him a curt nod before turning to Alexei and allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

As they moved onto the dance floor, she couldn't help but glance back at Dmitri. He looked lost, a wounded puppy abandoned in the middle of the ballroom. She felt a pang of sympathy, but she quickly suppressed it. This was a necessary evil. He needed to understand that his behaviour was unacceptable.

Alexei, sensing her discomfort, drew her closer. "Don't worry about him," he murmured. "He'll get over it."

Natalia managed a small smile. "I hope so."

"Now you and Irina only have three more Alexandrovichi brothers left to reject, the list is almost complete," Alexei teased, unable to hide a wide grin.

"I'm glad someone thinks this is funny," Natalia replied giving him a look that warned him not to return to the subject again.

Chapter Text

Vladimir's eyes followed Natalia and Alexei as they glided gracefully across the dancefloor, their laughter and animated conversation filling the room. According to societal expectations and traditional protocol, Alexei should have been dancing with his sister Anastasia. But instead, he had boldly approached Natalia, whisking her away from Dmitri Alexandrovich's grasp and leading her into a lively dance.

He couldn't help but notice the curious glances from those around them, including Anastasia herself, who observed from a nearby corner with a mix of surprise and interest in her gaze. The air was thick with unspoken questions, adding an electric energy to the already vibrant atmosphere of the ballroom.

It was strange that he had not seen it before when it seemed so blatantly obvious now. Perhaps it was because they were all so young when Grand Duke Michael approached Vladimir and his father with the idea of introducing Irina and Natalia to Alexei. At the time, he had thought their influence would benefit him - two young Princesses who had grown up outside of Russia, exposed to a different world yet still rooted in Russian culture and with a deep understanding of the social rules surrounding the Imperial Family. They could show Alexei a different perspective while respecting and understanding his position as Tsar. It had seemed ideal at the time.

Vladimir did the math quickly. Alexei had been thirteen, Natalia not yet twelve. It was innocent enough when they had first thought of it, but he now realized that no one had thought of the long-term consequences of their proximity.

"Are you not planning on dancing tonight, Monsieur le Professeur?"

Vladimir turned to find Tata standing behind him. She wore emerald green, a gown that clung to her figure with a modern audacity. Its shimmering fabric caught the soft glow of the chandeliers, casting a verdant sheen upon her skin. The daring cut flattered her curves, and she carried the ensemble with an effortless confidence. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted sharply against the vibrant colour. For a moment, Vladimir couldn't believe this was the same girl he had spent the last year tutoring. He had to shake himself back to reality before responding to her presence.

"In a moment, Tata," he replied, his voice a touch formal. His mind was still grappling with the complexities of his situation.

"You look rather dashing tonight, if I may say so," she murmured, her voice, smooth and melodic, carrying a hint of amusement as she spoke. Her lips curved into a subtle smile, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that made his heart race. A flicker of something unspoken passed between them, but Vladimir dismissed it as his own imagination running wild.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the quiet evening air. Struggling to find words to respond, he shifted his weight and avoided her gaze. It didn't seem appropriate to return the compliment, given his position as her tutor. "Thank you," he finally managed to say.

They watched the couples swirling around the dancefloor for a little while, in a electricity-filled silence. To Vladimir's relief, Alexei and Natalia had already moved on to different partners. He was now happily spinning around with his sister Anastasia, while Natalia had caught the eye of one of the Vorontsov-Dashkov brothers.

"It's a beautiful evening, isn't it?" Tata remarked, breaking the silence between them.

"Yes, splendid," he agreed, trying to appear casual even though his heart was racing. There was something different about her tonight, something that stirred unfamiliar feelings within him.

He had known her for so many years since she had been little more than a child, and his mind was struggling with the fact that she had suddenly become a woman. A very attractive woman, if he had to be honest, much like her mother. She was not as tall as others her age, but she had a way of carrying herself that made her stand out. It was a quiet strength Vladimir knew she had inherited from the frequent clashes with her mother and governesses, a fire that burned deep within her that was impossible to contain.

It was the Russian soul she had in her, Vladimir had thought many times. There were glimpses of it in the high society circles he walked on, but he had never seen it as clearly as when he looked at Tata's eyes. After all, she had been born in a traditional Moscow family, not in the glittering palaces of Saint Petersburg. She might lack some confidence in her intellectual abilities, but she had plenty of it in herself and she showed it with increasing clarity

"You're staring, Vladimir," she purred, her voice low and seductive. "Is there something you want to say?"

A thrill ran through him at the sound of her voice, sending shivers down his spine. Her words were a direct challenge, daring him to reveal his thoughts and desires.

He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. "Why are you acting so peculiar tonight, Tata?" he asked, trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

She shrugged indifferently, taking a step closer. The delicate scent of her floral perfume enveloped him, making him feel dizzy and lightheaded. "It's just a little game," she said with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. "We don't have to be so formal here. After all, this isn't a classroom."

Her words had an intoxicating effect on him, stirring up a mix of curiosity and desire. He felt like he was on the edge of something unknown yet enticing.

"Tata," he started, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "I must remind you that even outside of the classroom, certain boundaries should still be respected."

A sly smile tugged at her lips, her eyes challenging him. She stepped even closer now, her lips brushing against his ear as she spoke, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. "Are you going to scold me, Vladimir?" she purred seductively.

Vladimir was overcome with desire so intense it bordered on pain. A floodgate had opened within him, unleashing a torrent of longing that he hadn't felt in years. His body betrayed him with uncontrollable reactions - shallow breaths, racing pulse, and an all-consuming heat that left him burning with need. For a blissful moment, he forgot where he was - in the middle of a grand ballroom - and who she was - Tata, his sister's friend and his pupil.

His mind raced, struggling to process the overwhelming rush of emotions coursing through him. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself speechless. His throat felt parched, his tongue thick and heavy. He was completely captivated.

Tata seemed to relish in his disorientation. A playful spark danced in her eyes as she took a step back, creating a safe distance between them. "Oh, and by the way, you can call me Natalia," she said with a coy smile. "Tata sounds a bit childish, don't you think?"

With that, she turned and sauntered away, leaving Vladimir standing alone in the middle of the ballroom, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions. He watched her retreating figure, feeling both relieved and disappointed. For now, he was safe from temptation, but the fire she had ignited within him still burned strong.

Chapter Text

The celebrations in honour of Alexei's coming of age had surpassed all expectations, reaching a grandeur that even the most optimistic could not have predicted. Throughout the festivities, Alexei carried himself with a rare combination of grace and humility that captivated the hearts of the nation, from the lowest peasants to the highest nobles.

At times he had been exhausted and it was hard not to see the dark circles under his eyes or when the pain in his joints had been almost unbearable, making him flinch slightly when saluting regiment after regiment during the oath of allegiance. But he had pulled through admirably and, for the moment, the internal wars regarding his ability to take on his role had been silenced.

He was now safely tucked away on a train with his sisters and their families for a well-deserved vacation in Constanța, Romania, where he would be received by Queen Marie and meet his parents, who were travelling there to be present at the birth of Olga's second child, who was due any day now.

The results from the blood tests they had all done in July had come a few days before the celebrations and revealed that there were a few matches he could rely on in case he needed a blood transfusion. His cousin George, Grand Duke Michael's son was one of the closest, as well as some of his Alexandrovichi cousins, Feodor included. Although, due to his own health issues, it was doubtful he would be a reliable option. In their family, only Irina had been a match.

With those concerns resolved for the time being, Vladimir had managed to secure an urgent meeting with Grand Duke Michael just before he left for his vacation in the south of France, to discuss the more pressing issue of Alexei's proximity to Natalia.

He had decided to take the matter into his own hands and not so much as mentioned it to his parents to avoid unnecessary worry and, in his mother's case, unfounded hope. She had already been deeply disappointed when Irina had chosen to refuse Feodor's proposal, which would have allowed her to become part of Grand Duchess Xenia's most inner circle. He understood his mother's reasons. After two decades of being ostracized by her husband's family, the idea of a match between her daughter and the Tsar's cousin had been a comforting thought, a ticket into a world that had long been denied to her and seeing that dream crashing down had been a hard blow to deal with.

He could only imagine how high her imagination might soar had she known that the Tsar himself appeared to be developing feelings for her other daughter...

Another dilemma that weighed heavily on his mind was Tata. Her behaviour at the ball had been strange yet captivating. After their brief and intense conversation, they didn't speak again. She avoided him for the rest of the party, and he was too unsure of what to do about it. He couldn't just push aside the fact that his student had tried to seduce him in a crowded ballroom, even though he desperately wanted to pretend it didn't happen.

He had tried to push her out of his thoughts for days, but the memory of her mischievous smile and the desire she stirred in him with her whispered challenge refused to fade away. It was unlike any feeling he had experienced since his long-lost kiss with Olga, but even then, it was different. With Olga, there had been a deep affection and a true connection of souls, but it had always been calm, distant, and respectful. The mere thought of Tata ignited a fire within his entire body and he wasn't sure how he was going to react when he met her again.

Fortunately, he did not see her as he was being escorted through the corridors and up to Grand Duke Michael's study, which he had come to know so well over the last year, after countless meetings. He found the Grand Duke relaxed on an armchair, looking at the sleepy city below, while drinking what looked like an iced tea. He rose to greet Vladimir and invited him to sit on the armchair next to him.

"Do you want one?" The Grand Duke gestured towards his drink, his voice carrying a note of casual amusement. "Or perhaps something stronger? I must say, your urgent note piqued my curiosity."

Vladimir shook his head, his eyes fixed on the Grand Duke. His voice was low, controlled. "No, thank you, Your Highness. The matter is serious."

The Grand Duke raised an eyebrow, his smile fading slightly. "Oh? Now you've intrigued me."

Vladimir leaned in closer, his hands clasped in front of him. "It may not appear urgent at first glance, but the implications are far-reaching. I believe it is essential we discuss this matter privately and without delay."

The Grand Duke leaned forward, his expression now serious. "Very well," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Let us hear it."

Vladimir hesitated for a moment, his fingers drumming nervously on his thigh. Then, with a deep breath, he began to speak. "Alexei and Natalia..."

He didn't need to say anything else. The Grand Duke's eyes widened in mock surprise, his eyebrows shooting up in comical exaggeration. His lips parted in a silent, astonished "O." For a moment, he seemed genuinely taken aback, his posture stiffening slightly. Then, a chuckle erupted from him, a deep, hearty sound that rumbled in his chest. He leaned back in his chair, his head thrown back as he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I must say I should have seen this coming." he managed to say between chuckles, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "The signs were there, I suppose. Alexei, always the dreamer, and Natalia, with her bright spirit. Opposites do attract, don't they?"

Again, Vladimir tried to smile and go along with the Grand Duke's jovial mood, but he was too conscious of the consequences to simply brush it aside as a simple childish crush. His expression turned grave as he cleared his throat.

"You know I've come to hold a deep affection for Alexei and, under different circumstances, I would like nothing more than for him to be happy and would welcome him into open arms to our family, but I think we both know that this affection cannot be encouraged."

Realizing that Vladimir was taking the matter seriously, the Grand Duke straightened on his chair and tried to suppress the smile that was plastered on his lips. "I understand your concern, Vladimir. I'm fully aware of what the dusty old laws of the House say about this matter. I've suffered the consequences of it very acutely myself, and so have your parents."

He paused for a moment to take a sip of his drink and consider the issue. "But perhaps it's too soon to do anything about it? What is the nature of the relationship?"

Vladimir shook his head vehemently. "There is no relationship," he stated firmly. "As far I could see, it is only Alexei who has developed feelings for Natalia, she hasn't even realized it yet. But I know that he has been feeling this way for a long time and I'm afraid that it will be increasingly difficult to control them with time. I don't see the point in prolonging Alexei's suffering and even risking Natalia getting hurt when we already know that a relationship between them would be impossible."

Grand Duke Michael considered his words for a moment, his gaze drifting towards the window. "I don't know, Vladimir. They are still so young, there's so much that can happen. Who knows if Alexei's affection will last? Things might come to a natural end without our interference."

"I would rather not risk it," Vladimir insisted. "Alexei has a sensitive soul. He doesn't make friends easily, but, when he does, he's loyal to them to the core. I have no reason to doubt he approaches his affection for Natasha in the same way. I believe it would be beneficial for him to meet new people and spend less time with her."

Vladimir's words seemed to pain the Grand Duke just as much as they pained him. They both knew how much Alexei's friendships with Natalia, Tata, and Irina had helped him cope with his family's exile. They had all been there for him in their own ways, but Natalia's role was especially crucial.

She was one of the few people who was not in awe of the fact that he was the Tsar. Not even Irina or Tata could distance themselves entirely from that reality. That's why Vladimir had enlisted her help in teaching Alexei to dance. She could get him to do what needed to be done without any resistance, and she wasn't afraid to stand up to him. She boosted his confidence in areas where he struggled and kept his ego and arrogance in check in others. After five years, Vladimir doubted there was anyone else (other than his sisters) who understood and could guide Alexei as well as Natalia did—both he and Grand Duke Michael often took advantage of her support over the years.

Grand Duke Michael broke the silence with a thoughtful question. "Impossible is an awfully strong word, wouldn't you say?" he asked.

Vladimir didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

"The world is changing," Grand Duke Michael mused as he gazed out the window. "Since the war, we haven't had a single traditional marriage in our family. I've allowed my nephews to marry whomever they chose, and I would have happily granted permission for Feodor to marry your sister Irina if she had desired it. You know my thoughts on all this nonsense about arranged marriages."

Vladimir took a deep breath. "Yes, I am aware. But Alexei's case is different. He is the Tsar, and his marriage is a matter of state."

The word made Grand Duke Michael wince. "I fear we are overanalyzing and placing too much importance on this. If everyone ended up marrying their first crush, the world would be a vastly different place..."

At that moment, Vladimir realized that Grand Duke Michael had no intention of addressing the issue. He wondered if he was blowing things out of proportion if it was possible that this situation would amount to nothing and if he was making a big deal out of nothing.

But then he thought of Natalia, who was completely unaware of the dangerous path she was headed down. She was too young to understand and there was still time to save her from heartache and a life that was not meant for her. He didn't want to voice his concerns to the Grand Duke, but even if the rules changed and society became more accepting, he knew that being Empress was not in Natalia's destiny.

She was a free-spirited soul, and always has been since the day she was born. She respected authority but would never submit to duty. She valued her own freedom and living life to the fullest above all else. She was the complete opposite of Alexei in that regard. If she had fallen for him instead, she would have followed her heart without considering the consequences. This served her well as a minor Princess with no responsibilities, but it would be disastrous for an Empress.

Vladimir persisted, "I was considering suggesting that it might be a positive experience for Alexei to travel for a while, perhaps on a Grand Tour of sorts. I am aware that due to his illness, there may be difficulties and he would need to be accompanied by a large group of doctors, nurses, and attendants. However, I believe the benefits would outweigh any challenges. He would have the opportunity to see the world, meet new people, and have unique experiences."

"Except that he is set to start university in the fall," Grand Duke Michael reminded him gently, yet firmly. "All arrangements have been made in that direction."

Vladimir cautiously responded, "I'm confident that you could make alternative arrangements if you wished."

"Vladimir," Grand Duke Michael's tone was gentle but firm as he continued, "I understand your concern for them. Truly, I do. But to completely disrupt Alexei's life and education based on mere suspicion is drastic. He is a young man, and it is natural for him to be drawn to a beautiful and intelligent woman. But love at this age can often be fleeting."

A wave of frustration washed over Vladimir. He knew, logically, that the Grand Duke was right. But his instincts told him otherwise. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Grand Duke cut in.

"Alexei has a promising future ahead of him, with responsibilities and duties to fulfil. It would be unfair to divert his path for something that may turn out to be insignificant. Young people need time and space to develop and mature. Maybe, with time, his emotions will change or fade away."

Vladimir sighed inwardly. He couldn't refute the logic behind the words. Yet, he couldn't shake off the feeling that he was witnessing a slow-motion disaster. With a heavy heart, he nodded in agreement. The Grand Duke smiled, satisfied with their understanding, and stood up to signal the end of the meeting.

"Thank you for your concern, Vladimir," he added, as he accompanied him to the door. "And, although I think it's too soon to do anything about this, I still hope you keep an eye on them, just so we don't get caught off-guard."

"Of course," Vladimir assured him. "She's my sister. I only want the best for her."

Chapter Text

As Vladimir emerged from the study, the warm, late afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows momentarily blinded him. He blinked rapidly, adjusting his vision to the brightness. His gaze fell upon a figure lounging comfortably in a plush armchair, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Vladimir, what a surprise," Tata said, in her usual, lively and almost innocent tone. "How are you?"

For a moment, Vladimir was taken aback. If he hadn't been on the receiving end of Tata's flirtations, he wouldn't have believed it. She looked so innocent and composed, nothing like the seductive temptress he had encountered a few days earlier. She wore a loose white embroidered blouse paired with a flowing red skirt, a far cry from the tight emerald dress that had accentuated her curves at the ball.

However, even in this seemingly innocent pose, there was an undeniable allure about her. Her bare feet rested carelessly on the chair's arm, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her smooth, olive skin. It was impossible for Vladimir to deny the pull she had on him, no matter how hard he tried to resist.

"I-I'm good, thank you," Vladimir managed to stammer out. "And you?"

She nonchalantly shrugged, her hand holding the book gently as she turned it to face him. The cover depicted a delicate watercolour painting, adorned with gold lettering that read "In Search of Lost Time" by Marcel Proust. He had recommended it to her to read over the summer, and she was now engrossed in its pages.

She looked up at him, her expression curious. "Does this get any better?"

Her question broke through his thoughts, and he found himself surprised at her unchanged demeanour after their previous encounter. A part of him was disappointed that she wasn't rising from her chair, walking in his direction and leaning in close to whisper something scandalous into his ear.

He cleared his throat, trying to hide his unexpected disappointment. "It's a masterpiece," he replied, his tone more offended than intended. He couldn't fathom how someone could make it through the first chapter of the book without sharing his opinion. "Are you struggling with the language?" he asked curiously, wondering what could possibly be holding her back from seeing the brilliance of Proust's words.

Tata's answer was accompanied by a small smile that danced at the corners of her lips, a hint of mischief glimmering in her eyes. "No," she said, her voice low and melodious. "It's not the language. It's just...boring." She paused, her gaze widening innocently as she continued, "I mean, it's probably a masterpiece, like you said. But it's a bit...slow, don't you think?"

Vladimir couldn't believe his eyes or ears. The woman who had been so forward and flirtatious with him just days ago now sat primly in an armchair, nonchalantly discussing the merits (or lack thereof) of a Proust novel. Her transformation was so sudden and complete that he was at a loss for words, feeling utterly perplexed.

A surge of confusion and doubt flooded through him. Had their previous encounter been nothing more than a figment of his imagination? Was he losing his grip on reality? He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Perhaps it's simply an acquired taste," he managed to say, though his voice sounded strained even to his own ears.

Tata's lips curved into a knowing smile, her enigmatic gaze holding steady on him. "Indeed," she replied cryptically, leaving Vladimir even more bewildered than before.

After that, he had expected to say something else. Anything. But she simply readjusted her position, bringing the novel back up to her face and disappearing behind it once again. The bright cover with its intricate designs seemed to swallow her whole. Despite his irritation, he found himself unable to look away from her. He knew he should walk away and forget about this encounter, but he also knew that this moment would linger in his mind for days to come.

Unable to resist any longer, he called out her name - "Tata?" And just like that, she lowered the book once again, her dark eyes meeting his with an intensity that made him stop in his tracks and forget what he was about to say.

"Did you forget something?" she asked, her voice soft but full of curiosity.

Vladimir had prepared a long speech for this very scenario. He was going to lecture her on how proper young ladies should behave and how they needed to clear the air before resuming their lessons in October. He would even threaten to resign from his post if she didn't know her place. But now, all those words were forgotten as he stood before her as a bundle of nerves. Despite his reputation as a skilled poet, he couldn't string together more than a few simple words in front of her.

"The other night..." he began, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the empty room.

She responded with a soft, playful scoff, her full lips curling up into a mischievous smile. The sound was like a feather brushing against his skin, and it sent shivers down his spine. "You couldn't get that out of your head, could you?"

His carefully crafted facade crumbled at her teasing retort. A surge of desire, raw and primal, coursed through him like electricity. He struggled to regain control over his thoughts. The first delirious idea that came into his mind was that he needed to close the distance between them and silence her witty retorts with his lips. It was a dangerously tempting image, one that consumed his mind and stirred emotions he had long suppressed.

He felt a hot blush crawling up his neck and into his cheeks. He looked away, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of lavender from her shampoo and it mixed with the light perfume she wore, making it hard for him to concentrate on anything else but her presence. He couldn't believe how quickly she had reduced him to a rattled bundle of nerves. 

He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. "You are...truly something," he managed to say through gritted teeth, barely audible above the pounding of his heart.

Tata's laughter filled the air once more, a sound that was like music to Vladimir's ears. It was the sound of her true self, the side he had known before this moment. "I hope you enjoy your vacation, Vladimir. Try not to lock yourself inside some dusty library, you're in desperate need to catch some sun."

Vladimir was left speechless, his mind reeling from the shift in power dynamics. The solid ground beneath him seemed to tilt and sway, leaving him momentarily disoriented. With just a few carefully chosen words, she had rendered him utterly powerless.

As Tata rose gracefully from the armchair, Vladimir couldn't help but notice how the sunlight danced on her hair, creating an ethereal halo around her. She appeared to be a vision of youthful vitality and strength, and in that moment, he realized his mistake. He had foolishly believed he could control her and the situation at hand, underestimating her abilities.

He struggled to find his voice as she turned to leave, feeling a heavy sense of dread wash over him. In a meek attempt to maintain some sense of control, he managed to utter a weak "Have a pleasant vacation, Tata." 

But deep down, he knew that when they returned, everything would be forever changed between them.

Chapter Text

Later that day, the answer to Vladimir's issues seemed to be handed to him on a silver platter, quite in an unexpected manner.

He was sitting alone with his father in the library after his mother and sisters had already retired for the day. His father was going through his personal correspondence, something he liked to do in the quiet hours of the evening, while Vladimir tried to pair more than two sentences in the book he was trying to read without being distracted by thoughts of Tata's exposed ankles.

"Apparently my niece Marie is sending her daughter Ileana to school in France," his father mentioned nonchalantly as he scanned the letter. "It's quite interesting how times have changed. In the past, it would have been unthinkable for a Royal Princess to attend boarding school."

His mind was in a haze and it took a while for his father's words to register. They were jumbled, like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be put together. School. France. Princess. Finally, everything clicked and he widened his eyes in realization, turning to his father with an unexpected eagerness.

"Maybe Natasha should go too," he blurted out without thinking.

His father raised an eyebrow and gave him a confused look. He was already reading another letter, his mind absorbed by some other minor news from another relative. "What are you talking about?"

"Boarding school," Vladimir clarified, the idea becoming more appealing by the second. "In France."

He was aware that his father must thought him strange and unpredictable at that moment. He couldn't see his own face, but he imagined it was an open book, with his eyes wide and pupils dilated as a million thoughts raced through his head. That was it - the perfect solution to all their problems. Natalia's education had been severely impacted by the years of war. While Irina had worked hard to overcome the difficulties, Natalia had taken advantage of the situation to avoid studying diligently. She relied on her charm to manipulate teachers into giving her easy grades, though she was undoubtedly intelligent and had Vladimir's photographic memory. This also explained her skills as an amateur actress; she had a natural talent for memorization.

The issue of her education had been ongoing for several months now, especially since Irina had left her classroom. She had become even more careless and their parents were at a loss on how to handle her. Under different circumstances, Vladimir wouldn't have considered boarding school as a viable option. However, since Grand Duke Michael refused to intervene and separate Alexei and Natalia, this seemed like the best course of action.

"You believe it is wise to send Natasha away to a boarding school?" His father repeated slowly, making sure he had heard his son correctly.

"Not just any school. Perhaps an all-girls school. We could even ask Queen Marie for recommendations, as she has already sent her own three daughters there," Vladimir clarified, leaning in. "You and Mama were concerned about her education and were searching for new tutors. This way, you won't have to worry about any of that. Plus, she would have the opportunity to make new acquaintances..."

"I don't think Natasha needs assistance in that regard," his father interjected. "If anything, Irina would have benefitted more from that type of environment. And yet, I did not allow her to attend university, remember?"

Vladimir took a moment to think over his father's statement. It was a valid concern - there was a possibility that Irina would feel overlooked when they sent Natalia abroad for further education, while she wasn't even allowed to attend the university that was just a few miles away from the palace. But he could explain the reasons to her later, he was certain she would understand.

"Well, perhaps this will drive her to work harder to compete against her classmates," Vladimir offered, hoping his father wouldn't realize he was coming up with reasons on the spot. "She wouldn't want to be at the bottom of the class, right?"

To his surprise, his father seemed intrigued by this argument. He set aside the letter he was reading and reached for the one from his niece instead.

"I suppose it's not a bad reason to send her," he said slowly. "But, still, why should we pick a school abroad? I'm sure there are perfectly adequate schools in Petrograd that can..."

Vladimir interrupted him this time. "Do we want to send her to an adequate school or the best? You know how advanced the French education system is. Plus, I'm sure Natasha would love the opportunity to spend a year abroad," he said, pausing to consider his next words. "Or maybe even two."

"I have no doubt she would be thrilled, that's what worries me," his father said, running his fingers through his chin. "If we were to go through with this idea- and keep in mind, it's just an idea for now since it's so sudden and the school year is about to begin- we would need to find trustworthy people to go with her."

"What about Tata?" Vladimir suggested, hoping it would sound like a casual suggestion.

"Misha's stepdaughter?" His father asked sceptically. "Isn't she around the same age as Natasha?"

"No, she just turned nineteen," Vladimir clarified. "And I know that Grand Duke Michael and Countess Brasova are eager for her to improve her French, so this would be a perfect opportunity. Of course, we can find other guardians who are more responsible, but Tata is Natasha's closest friend; she would be ecstatic to go."

Vladimir conveniently left out the fact that sending Tata away with Natasha would also solve one of his current issues. If Natalia went with Tata to France or any other country, he could keep his position as George's tutor and maintain his close relationship with Grand Duke Michael without endangering his stepdaughter's reputation.

Really, Queen Marie was probably writing a fantasy novel or decorating a lamp somewhere without realizing that her casual suggestion of sending her daughter to school had unintentionally resolved the two issues that had been plaguing Vladimir's mind for weeks.

"I would have to think about it," his father concluded, readjusting on his chair. "And talk this over with your mother and Natasha, of course."

"Certainly," Vladimir agreed, returning his gaze to his book.

Coming from his father, a "maybe" was one of the most hopeful responses one could get. It took all of his strength not to blow out a great puff of relief.

Chapter Text

Biarritz, Late August 1922

Irina

For Irina, finding a suitable lady-in-waiting was no easy task. Her upbringing in Paris had not prepared her for the intricate social hierarchy of Russian aristocracy, and her natural shyness made it even more challenging. The ideal candidate needed to be someone she could trust and confide in, while also having the necessary social status and influence. Additionally, there was the delicate matter of rank; as a mere Serene Highness, Irina needed a companion from a lower social standing, which greatly limited her options. Most young women her age held titles equal to or higher than hers, making the search even more daunting.

Most young women of her age held titles equal to or higher than hers, making the search even more arduous. Fortunately, guided by Olga's astute advice, Irina discovered a perfect match in Countess Maria Vorontsova-Dashkova. A native of Tsarskoe Selo, Maria boasted the coveted connections Olga had forewarned about, enjoying a close friendship with the children of Grand Duchess Xenia. More importantly, she possessed an undeniable charm and grace that made her equally at ease in the most exclusive Petrograd circles.

Maria was an extrovert at heart, yet possessed a remarkable ability to maintain discretion and poise. Irina not only admired these qualities but found them invaluable. While sharing Irina's love of books, Maria had a keen interest in fashion, a skill set that proved indispensable as Irina navigated the complexities of her first social events without her parents. Their friendship had blossomed naturally, and Irina couldn't have been more pleased with her choice.

Technically, Maria's attendance on Irina's foreign trips was optional. However, her fondness for Biarritz was similar to that of the rest of the family, and she accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. Work was the furthest thing from their minds in the two weeks since their arrival. Natalia, too, had taken a liking to Maria. Although their bond could never replace the special connection between Natalia and Irina, the three women shared many enjoyable moments together, their interactions remarkably free of conflict. Beach days, shopping sprees, leisurely strolls along the promenade, and indulgent ice cream treats became their shared pleasures.

The fact that Maria knew Feodor since she was born also proved to be more helpful in Irina's healing process than she could have anticipated. She knew she could confide in her, as she both understood Feodor's character and also respected her too much to let any of her confessions transpire to the outside world. In contrast, Irina found it impossible to share her innermost thoughts with Natalia. For the first time in her life, their perspectives diverged sharply. Natalia's anger towards Feodor was absolute, and she seemed indifferent to the genuine reasons behind his proposal.

Eight months had passed since the night that changed everything. A fragile sense of peace had begun to settle over her, and she now believed she'd made the right choice. Yet, her heart stubbornly clung to the past. She missed him desperately - letters, their conversations, the way her tiny body felt safe and comfortable when he wrapped his arms around her. Knowing his family frequented Biarritz filled her with dread, a fear of an accidental encounter she tried to suppress. Not seeing him had been essential in her healing process. To confront him now, with his towering presence, his unruly hair, and those grey eyes that held the power to ensnare her soul, would undoubtedly shatter the fragile progress she had made.

Morning light spilt onto the terrace, casting dancing shadows on the polished table. Irina, wrapped in a soft wool shawl against the morning chill, sorted through her correspondence. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm croissants mingled with the salty tang of the sea air. Maria, Natalia, and their father were already engrossed in their own breakfasts, their faces etched with varying degrees of concentration. Her father was reading the newspaper, while Maria and Natalia were going through their own correspondence.

"Did you know that Alexei's sister is pregnant again?" Natalia asked, looking up from her letter.

Irina looked up at her sister. By this time, Olga would be about to give birth, if she had not already, so it couldn't be her. "Tatiana?" She asked.

"No, Marie," Natalia clarified. "At this pace, Alexei is going to have an army of nieces and nephews in no time."

"Did he mention Olga?" Irina asked. The two of them had struck a more or less formal friendship after her wedding, almost two years before. Olga must have felt like she could trust her and the two started to correspond shortly after that. It was fairly incoherent and they could go weeks without sending a letter, which was what had happened over the last few months.

"No, nothing. But he wrote a week ago, so there might be some news from Romania soon," Natalia mused. "If you asked me, I would have never guessed from how she looked at that wedding that they would have two children in two years..."

"Then it is fortunate that I've raised a well-behaved daughter that would never make such crass comments about the Crown Princess of Romania," their father interjected in a hushed tone, still engrossed in his newspaper.

Understanding the hint, Natalia lowered her gaze and moved on to the next letter, mumbling "Just saying what everybody's thinking" under her breath.

In between laughing discreetly at Natalia's reaction, she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Maria was so invested in the letter she was reading that she hadn't heard a word of what had been said at the table. She had her eyebrows knitted together as her eyes moved rapidly over the words.

"Is everything alright?" Irina asked in a low voice, making sure Natalia wouldn't hear it.

Maria lifted her gaze from the letter with a startle. She tried to smile, but it was nearly impossible not to see the look of concern on her face.

"Yes. Yes, everything's fine, I just heard some news from Nikita..."

Irina's stomach gave a little flip when she heard the name. Nikita was Feodor's closest brother, as well as Maria's sweetheart, but she already knew that when she chose her as her lady-in-waiting. She knew that she was bound to hear news about Feodor through her and she tried to act as if it didn't matter.

"Oh? And how is he?" Irina asked, feigning interest as she stared at the piece of toast on her plate.

What she really wanted to know was how Feodor was doing, but she couldn't bring herself to say his name out loud. She knew that Maria understood the underlying question and played along with her pretence.

"He's well, they're in Cannes, they decided to stay at their aunt's house this year," Maria replied lightly, though Irina could see the tension in her eyes.

"Thank goodness!" Natalia exclaimed from across the table. "I was afraid we would run into them on the street and have to pretend like nothing happened."

"Which is what any polite young lady ought to do when she runs into an acquaintance that did nothing wrong to her in particular," their father interjected, still engrossed in his newspaper.

"I'm not saying I'd physically harm him," Natalia clarified with a sweet smile as she stirred her coffee. "But it would give me immense satisfaction to look him straight in the eye and then ignore him like he means nothing to me. Because he doesn't."

Their father simply sighed at this point. "Well then, it's fortunate that they are in Cannes..."

Despite Irina's attempts to explain that she was the one who ended things with Feodor, Natalia remained adamant in her dislike for him. Her practical nature led her to believe that Feodor was at fault and nothing could change her mind. For eight months since his proposal, Natalia had used every opportunity to speak ill of him, causing Irina immense pain at first. But now, she simply tuned her sister out and tried to escape into her thoughts.

"Irina, would you like to take a walk down the promenade with me?" Maria's voice brought her back to reality.

"At this hour?" Natalia exclaimed, even though the question had not been directed at her. "The sun will be burning us alive and our skin will be fried by the time we get home"

Irina was about to agree, but Maria gave her a meaningful look and she understood that her sister wanted to talk to her in private.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to, Natasha," Irina said. "I think I need to walk this off after that breakfast. A bit of fresh air sounds perfect."

Natalia gave them an exasperated look as if they were crazy. "Suit yourselves. I'm not going to jeopardize my two weeks of trying to achieve the perfect skin tone with a walk. I'll stick with Papa here."

"The joy is immeasurable," their father commented, not without a hint of sarcasm.

It didn't take long for Irina to understand that the plan was not for a walk. Once they were at a safe distance from the breakfast table and Maria was certain no one could hear them, she took a deep breath and gave Irina a sympathetic look.

"I'm sorry for dragging you away like this and with such a poor excuse," she said, something clearly bothering her as they walked hurriedly through the corridors, heading towards Irina's bedroom. "There was something in Nikita's letter that I think you should know, but I didn't want to say it in front of Natasha, so this was the one thing I was certain she wouldn't want to do."

Irina felt a shudder running through her body. If this was something she wanted to keep from Natalia, then it could only be about...

"Feodor?" Irina asked hesitantly, not entirely sure if she would want to hear it.

Maria nodded slowly as she opened the door to the bedroom, pushing Irina gently inside. Before she continued, she asked her to sit on a chair by the window, then she sat opposite her and held her hands. It was only then that Irina realized they were shaking.

"I know how much you still care about him, so this is not going to be easy to hear, but I think you have a right to know," Maria told her in the most considerate tone she could manage.

"Is he alright?" Irina heard herself asking, her heart pounding against her chest. "Is this about his illness?"

"His illness? No, no," Maria quickly clarified, shaking her head. "He's been doing well, as far as I know... no, it's not about that. Well, I suppose there's no good way of getting this out, so I might as well just say it. Nikita told me that Feodor has been courting Princess Isabelle of Orleans for a few weeks now..."

Irina thought how curious it was that one simple set of words forming a concise sentence could make such a dramatic change in her brain. It was quite remarkable how it went from worry, to anger and then, to her deep irritation, to sadness in just a matter of seconds.

"Nikita says this was really their grandmother's idea," Maria continued, possibly thinking that these new sets of words could make things better for Irina, but the only thing that was keeping her grounded was her lady-in-waiting hand, which was gripping hers tightly. "She's been pushing the idea of Isabelle for months now. You know how she always wanted her sons to marry a Órleans Princess at some point or another. Well, it seems that this winter she decided to spend a few weeks in Cannes while Feodor was there for his usual stay and she just kept inviting Isabelle and her sisters to tea and taking them on walks with Feodor and all that. But Feodor wasn't having it at first, he didn't want to give up hope on you..."

At that point, the words became blurry as Irina silently did the math. She had refused Feodor's unexpected proposal in late December. He travelled straight to France after that, so these tea parties and walks must have happened somewhere between January and March. It was late August and they had been courting for "a few weeks", which meant Feodor had resisted the temptation of finding another woman for an amazing four to six months. How magnanimous of someone who had been ready to marry her at a moment's notice.

"In the end, he just thought that he didn't have a reason to keep saying no to his grandmother, so he agreed to see her again last month and things have more or less evolved since then," she heard Maria say after a while, missing all the details in between. They didn't matter anyway.

She remained quiet for a very long moment, unable to find the words to describe how she felt. She couldn't complain, could she? Had she accepted Feodor's proposal, they would most likely be married by now. She had been the one to walk away, to set him free so he could choose the future he wanted. And he did. That was it, there was no dwelling on it. But, then again, why did she feel so miserable about it?

"How are you, Irina?" Maria finally asked. "Are you alright?"

"I'm..." Irina started, but she hesitated and took a deep sigh. "I'm not sure. I know I was the one who ended things, but this all feels rather..."

"Sudden. Quick, yes," Maria completed her thoughts, a tone of indignation in her voice. "Everyone is quite shocked at this, except for the Dowager Empress herself. I've known Feodor since I can remember and this is not like him at all. He's so loyal to his friends. We all thought he would find his way back to you, eventually. Uncle Sandro is devastated, he adores you."

Irina shook her head and rose from her seat in a rush. This was ridiculous, all of it. She had made her choice and Feodor's had made his, they all needed to shake themselves awake from this fantasy that fate would eventually bring them back together.

"It's fine, Maria, I understand his position," she said, although she wished her voice could have been more firm. "I'm happy that he found someone. I know how having a family is important for him and if Isabelle is ready for that, then there's nothing more to say. I just want him to be happy. I promise you that's the only wish I have for him."

Maria stared at her with her chin dropped for a moment and then shook herself awake. "It's more than alright if you are upset. Eight months is an incredibly short amount of time to go from loving someone so much they want to marry them to..."

Irina raised her hand in a pleading gesture for her to stop. "It really is fine, Maria. I'm not going to lie and pretend that I'm not sad, but I'll get over it. This was my choice. I'm not going to blame Feodor for it, I understand."

Maria laid back on her chair, resigned. "Well, you're a lot more magnanimous than I would be..."

Irina clenched to the hem of her dress. God only knew how much she wished she had Natalia's fiery nature, how much easier it would have been to externalize her pain, send an angry letter, punch him, scream how much he hurt her. But that was not how she was. She would deal with the pain herself, quietly, discreetly, hoping it would pass.

"What do you say if we take that walk we were talking about?" She asked simply, reaching for the sunhats in her closet. "I know it's not the best time, but I think I could really use some sea air."

Chapter Text

Excerpts from letters exchanged between Countess Maria and Prince Nikita Alexandrovich

Biarritz, 23 August 1922

My Dearest Nikita,

Do you think Feodor is truly serious about Isabelle? Part of me still hopes that it's all just a ploy to gain Irina's attention. We both witnessed his heartache last December, and it's hard to believe he could move on so quickly.

Irina handled the news with such grace and dignity; I have never seen her like this before. Spending time with her only makes me adore her more. She's incredibly intelligent - almost an intellectual - with a sweet personality and natural beauty, though she doesn't seem to realize it. Maybe it's because she is constantly surrounded by such big personalities, like Vladimir who is seen as the greatest poet of our time, and Natalia who commands every room she enters.

But regardless, Irina is way out of Feodor's league. As much as we love him, he can't compare to her intellect. And yet, even after the unfortunate news, she still holds a deep affection for him and won't tolerate any criticism towards him.

Could you speak to Feodor and help him see reason? Someone like Irina is worth waiting for, I assure you.

Cannes, 26 August 1922

My dear, I cannot pretend to understand Feodor's thoughts. His pride must have taken a hit with Irina's rejection, and Isabelle is giving him the attention he craves at just the right time.

Let us not forget that she was there for him when he was sick last month, wiping his brow and holding his hand. It may seem petty, but that is exactly what sensitive men like Feodor enjoy.

And let's not ignore the fact that our grandmother is ecstatic about this match and has been expressing it in letter after letter to him. We may act as though it doesn't matter, but we both know how much he values her opinion. Moving on and making granny happy? It seems like a perfect combination, even to me.

If only Irina had kept in touch over these past few months, things might not have escalated to this point. He believes that she has moved on and wouldn't believe me if I told him she still has feelings for him.

I agree with everything you said. Irina truly doesn't realize how beautiful she is. She's always stood next to Natasha, who is simply stunning. It's hard to compete with her in both appearance and intelligence, but that doesn't diminish Irina's worth in any way. We had to bend over ourselves to believe Feodor when he told us they had kissed.

Could you speak to her and convince him to write to him? I think it would help if he knew about her feelings.

Biarritz, 28 August 1922

Write to him? After finding out he's courting another? I think she would rather cut both her hands. And I don't blame her. Feodor never wrote to her either.

Also... Natasha is stunning? No one can compete with her? If I didn't know you any better, I would say that you are in love with her!

Cannes, 28 August 1922 (sent on the same day by urgent courier)

My dear, please forgive me. You know that my heart belongs only to you and nothing could change that.

- Followed by two pages of compliments, shared memories, and promises for the future -

What I meant was that everyone seems to think highly of Natasha's appearance. Dmitri swears he will never marry anyone else even though they only spoke for a couple of minutes.

Well, if neither of them is willing to compromise, there's not much more we can do...

Chapter Text

September 1922

"Boarding school?"

The news sent a ripple through the dining table. This was their last evening at Biarritz. They usually stayed for an additional two weeks in Paris before they returned, but, this year, because of Alexei's celebrations, they had to cut their holidays short. Their father's announcement at the end of the meal came as a complete surprise. Natalia was being sent to a boarding school on the outskirts of Paris for a year. It was too late for her to start the year at the same time as the other girls, so she would travel there in January, right after Christmas.

Irina looked around the table, still unable to digest what was happening. She seemed the only one who was surprised by it. Vladimir just gazed down at his empty plate and her parents seemed pleased. Natalia, who was sitting right in front of her, reached out her hand, to hold hers, but Irina couldn't bring herself to respond.

"Was I the last person to know?" She asked, directing her gaze at Vladimir.

He threw an apologetic look her way but said nothing.

"It all happened so fast," Natalia spoke up, her face filled with remorse. "Mama and papa only told me about the opportunity last week, and we weren't even sure if it was still available, so we didn't want to trouble you with it. But I'm so excited, Irishka, I really am! A whole year in Paris?"

The onslaught of information was making her feel dizzy. There were too many conflicting emotions to deal with. First, and foremost, she would lose Natalia, her loyal companion. The mere thought of it made her wince. She tried to remember how much time they had spent apart in the sixteen years since Natalia had been born and could only remember the time when she had been sick with the Spanish flu and had been unconscious for days. But, even then, Irina had been by her side through all of it. She wasn't even certain she knew how to function without Natalia there to guide her.

Gradually, a new feeling, one less sisterly and more resentful, crept into Irina's thoughts. It had been a year and a half since she mustered up the courage to ask her father to attend university, only to be denied. She understood that boarding school was vastly different, but, still, Irina wouldn't even have needed to leave the palace to attend a few lectures at Saint Petersburg University. She could simply take the train in the morning and return in the evening. Her lady-in-waiting and a battalion of servants could have accompanied her for all she cared. All she wanted was to expand her knowledge and engage with other minds.

Now, no one seemed to find any problem with sending her younger sister to a different country for an entire year. The double standards and the raw injustice of it all were eating at her.

To a certain extent, she was accustomed to this treatment. Her sister always seemed to shine brighter and attract more attention, making her easy to manage in comparison. She never minded playing second fiddle in most aspects of her life, content with being overshadowed by her sister's beauty, charm, and fun-loving nature. However, what she couldn't accept was being denied the one thing she truly wanted and valued, despite having fought hard for it. And now, seeing Natalia being handed that same opportunity without putting in any effort or interest made her resentful and filled with negative thoughts towards her beloved sister who was still looking at her with hopeful eyes.

Irina knew that none of this was Natalia's fault, but at that moment, she struggled to contain her feelings of resentment.

After several moments of silence, Irina spoke up. "I think I need some fresh air." She got up from her seat at the table and ignored the faint protests and cries coming from her family. When she sensed someone following her, she broke into a run. She needed to be alone, to sort through the jumble of emotions weighing heavily on her chest.

The house they always rented in Biarritz was situated atop a steep cliff, offering a breathtaking view of the sea below. To access the beach, they had to descend a long flight of stone steps carved into the rock face by the homeowners. Though it was usually easier to reach the beach through the street, Irina decided to take the steps that evening, hoping the physical exertion would help clear her mind.

It was somewhat effective. Her breaths came in short gasps as she reached the beach, where the soothing sounds of waves crashing against the rocks calmed her mind for a brief moment. She sat on the sand and watched the powerful waves for what felt like an eternity, taking in the salty sea air that chilled her lungs. She was tired. She was so tired of being perfect.

After what seemed like hours, Irina heard footsteps approaching on the sand. She turned and saw her brother Vladimir making his way towards her. It shouldn't have surprised her; they often came to this spot to confide in each other about their struggles. It was here that he had poured his heart out, sharing his love for Olga and the difficulties he faced with their father. They had always been open with each other, which only made his recent behaviour even more painful for Irina to bear.

He sat by her side and they were silent for a while, both watching the waves ahead of them, until Vladimir finally decided to break the ice.

"I'm sorry," he said, and she knew he meant it. "This was very much a last-minute plan and I didn't know if it was going to work, so I had to keep you in the dark."

Irina had thought that there was nothing else that could surprise her that evening, but it turned out that she couldn't have been more wrong.

"A plan?" She asked Vladimir, unsure of what he meant. "What plan? What are you talking about?"

His expression was the most serious she had ever seen. "I spoke to Grand Duke Michael," he said, a sense of urgency in his voice. "But he didn't take my concerns seriously. He believes this will all pass on its own, but I don't want to take any chances. Sending Natalia to boarding school seemed like the perfect solution. She needs a better education and she misses Paris. It just all fits together."

Irina stared at her brother in disbelief, her mouth agape. It was bad enough that Natalia was being taken away from her, that no one seemed to understand how unfairly they were treating her in regards to their education, but she would never have thought that Vladimir, out of all people, also had engendered the entire thing just because he had seen Alexei swooning over their sister in a vulnerable moment.

"Please, tell me this is a joke," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Please tell me you are only telling me this because you want me to laugh and forget what happened."

Vladimir seemed surprised at her reaction. "I had to do something about it... Not to mention Natasha is thrilled about the prospect and, once she finds out Tata is going with her, I'm sure, she'll--"

The look Irina gave him must have been haunting because he shut his lips into a thin line and looked at her almost as if he was scared of what he was seeing.

"Tata is going as well?" She asked in a quiet, tense tone.

For a beat, Vladimir didn't react. But then, she noticed him slowly nodding and she couldn't contain her emotions any longer. For the second time that evening, she lept to her feet and strode quickly down the beach, consumed by anger and on the verge of tears. Vladimir chased after her, calling out her name and begging her to stop. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to punch him, to hurt him for causing her such pain.

"Do you not understand why I'm so upset?" She yelled at him with all the frustration she could muster.

"I understand, Irishka, I was planning on discussing everything with you--"

"No! You don't get it!" She exclaimed. "I've always been overlooked! I'm always at the bottom of everyone's list! I'm just so exhausted from all of this!"

Vladimir didn't know how to handle her outburst and Irina couldn't remember feeling this angry before. All the frustration she had bottled up over the years was bursting out at once.

"I wanted to go to university, you know that. I told you countless times! It was the one thing I truly wanted. And you also know why - not just for the knowledge, but for the chance to meet new people and be challenged by them," she tried to keep her voice steady, but it cracked as tears streamed down her cheeks. "You could have convinced Papa to let me go, just like you convinced him to send Natasha away. But you didn't do anything to help me!"

Vladimir struggled to find the right words, his mouth opening and closing without producing any sound. Eventually, he managed to speak.

"It was different," he finally said. "She's going to a girls' school, a very conservative school for that matter. Princess Ileana is attending as well, a few years behind. Papa considered it adequate, he would never see the university in the same light."

"Did you even try to ask him?" Irina asked.

Vladimir lowered his gaze and then shook his head. "I'm sorry, I understand your frustration..."

Irina wiped the tears from her eyes, but they just kept coming. Once one issue was addressed, the next came rolling in with the same force. "And did you stop to think that, by separating Natalia from Alexei, you were also separating her from me? And Tata as well? Did you just think I would be overjoyed at the prospect of being left in Petrograd alone?"

Her brother's face showed a hint of guilt, but he quickly pushed it away. "This isn't about us, Irishka. No matter how much it hurts, we have to do this. I would have loved to see Natalia and Alexei together if it made them happy, but trust me when I say that this is the best decision for all of us. You don't want our family to get involved in politics. Does it hurt? More than you can imagine. Even if I am losing her, I understand that this is the right thing to do."

Irina shook her head. "It's not the same for you. You haven't spent every single day of your life with her. You didn't find comfort in your new life in Russia in your friendship with Tata, I did. They are everything to me."

After that, they fell into an uneasy silence. Irina tried to regain control of her emotions while Vladimir attempted to comfort her by holding her hand, but she pulled away from him. It was so strange to be angry at him.

"And you know what is the most ironic part of all this?" She asked him after what seemed like an eternity.

Vladimir shook his head.

"Part of the reason why I refused Feodor's proposal was that I wasn't ready to move with him to the Crimea. I didn't want to leave my family behind, of course. But, above all, I wasn't ready to leave Natasha, Tata and Alexei," she confessed, watching as Vladimir's expression crumbled. "And now here I am, about to lose them all anyway while Feodor has happily moved on with his life. How pathetic is that?"

Vladimir's face twisted with a mix of guilt and helplessness. He wanted to offer comforting words, to make things better, but he knew they would fall short. He had created this storm, and now she

"Irina, I'm so sorry," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "I never meant to cause you this much pain. I was trying to protect everyone, but I failed miserably."

Irina looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. "It's too late for apologies, Vladimir," she said, her voice cold. "You've already done the damage."

"I know, I know," he pleaded. "But please, let me try to make it up to you. I promise I will do everything in my power to make this easier for you."

Irina shook her head. "There's nothing you can do now," she said. "I just need some time alone."

Vladimir nodded, understanding the depth of her pain. "Of course," he said. "I'll be here when you're ready to talk."

He stood up and walked away, leaving Irina alone on the beach. She watched him disappear into the twilight, feeling a deep sense of loneliness. She had lost her confidante, her protector, and now, it seemed, her brother as well.

As the waves crashed against the shore, Irina wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find solace in the familiar rhythm. She knew she would have to face the reality of the situation eventually, but for now, she just needed to be alone with her thoughts.

She sat there for a long time, the wind whipping through her hair, the salt spray stinging her face. The sky was a canvas of orange and purple, and the stars were beginning to emerge. It was a beautiful night, but Irina couldn't appreciate it. Her heart was heavy, and her mind was racing.

She thought about her life, about her future, and about the people she loved. She realized that she was going to have to be strong. She had no choice. She had to find a way to cope with the changes that were coming.

As the first rays of dawn began to paint the sky, Irina stood up and walked back to the house. She was exhausted, but she knew that sleep would be elusive. She had too much to think about.

Chapter Text

Sinaia, 10 September 1922

Dear Natasha,

I know you always like to be the first to know about big news, so here I am, sitting at my desk, barely two minutes after I heard the news that my sister Olga has given birth to a little boy this morning. She's still recovering in another wing of the palace, and her newborn baby is still being tended to. Nastya, who says hello by the way and wonders how you're doing, and I are just waiting for the call to finally meet the little one.

Olga and Carol had already planned on naming him Mircea after Carol's late brother who died during the war as an infant. That was always their top choice. Funny enough, Olga had been hoping for a girl and refused to believe anyone who suggested she might have a boy. I can only imagine how she must be feeling now, but I can't wait to see her and find out.

I know my sisters don't mean any harm when they talk amongst themselves about how awful it would be to have boys. They've seen all the pain and suffering this illness has caused me, so of course they wouldn't want their own children to go through the same thing. But sometimes, (and please promise not to tell anyone) it stings a little bit to be discussed as some sort of anomaly.

Haemophilia is a part of my identity, but it does not define me entirely. I have proven my abilities over the years and created a life for myself without my mother or Rasputin. I am content and living a fulfilling life, experiencing the same things as others my age with some necessary precautions. The hardships I have faced have given me a unique understanding and empathy towards the suffering of others. I hope that my example can be used positively rather than constantly feared as a possible outcome for someone's child.

Aside from that, our time in Romania has been enjoyable. Queen Marie goes above and beyond to ensure that we are constantly having a good time. We stayed in Constanța for a week, which is an interesting blend of old and new. As a port city, you can smell the sea and fish from miles away. Our accommodations were right on the Black Sea, which is truly stunning with its deep blue waters. I've been told that the nearby resort Mamaia is where all the excitement happens, but even here in Constanța, there is a certain charm. The ancient ruins remind us of the city's rich history.

After the bustle of Constanța, Sinaia was a welcome change of pace. It’s like stepping into a fairytale. The mountains are breathtaking, covered in a blanket of green in the summer. It's a place of peace and quiet, far removed from the worries of the world. The air is crisp and clean, and there’s a sense of history in every corner. It’s a world away from the city, and I must admit, it’s rather enchanting.

Here, we met with the Queen’s children, as this is where they always spend the Summer. Elizabeth seems to have formed their own little duo, while Mignon was occupied with her fiancé. So I spent most of my time with Nicholas and Ileana, who were both delightful company. Ileana is thirteen now, but she's very mature for her age and a bit of a tomboy, so she always joined our adventures. She and Nicholas (who everyone calls Nicky) are part of a movement called the Boy and Girl Scouts and they have both learnt useful survival skills for outdoor excursions. We spent many nights camping out in the woods surrounding the palaces and exploring the various paths and trails together.

I must confess that I've grown even more attached to Nicky over this trip. I know you didn't like him very much the last time, but he's changed now. He serves in the British Royal Navy and has countless captivating stories from his travels. Nicky is a true extrovert; he can strike up a conversation with anyone about any topic – whether it be old ladies at court who find him delightful or serious ministers.

However, this trait also makes him a bit arrogant and spoiled at times. He loves playing pranks and practical jokes whenever he can, especially when ministers come to visit. He might leave something sticky on their shoes, tamper with their cars so they won't start, or say something outrageous with such a straight face that no one knows if he's joking or not. But somehow, he always manages to charm his way out of trouble without even a scolding.

Despite my mother's disapproval and barely concealed disdain, I continue to enjoy my friendship with him. His presence brings a sense of excitement and freedom that I crave. Unfortunately, he will soon be returning to England and continuing his travels, leaving me behind.

As for my brother-in-law Carol, I am still unsure about my feelings towards him. Nicky looks up to him with great admiration, claiming he is the most intelligent person he knows. However, I can't shake off his condescending attitude towards us younger folks. He is hardly ever at home, even though Olga could go into labour at any moment. And when he does grace us with his presence, he retreats to his study and only interacts with us when necessary. It almost feels like we are an inconvenience to him

It was never a secret that Olga's marriage to him was a practical arrangement rather than one of love. But as time passes, even the small amount of affection and respect they once shared seems to be fading away rapidly. Olga barely notices his absence when he's away - in fact, she almost seems relieved and more at ease when he's gone. Her sole focus is on her young daughter, whom she dotes on with complete devotion. This causes tension between her, Queen Marie, and Princess Elizabeth - they believe she should also pay attention to Prince Carol, but Olga's strong-willed nature leads her to brush off their opinions and do what she believes is best.

I fear that her melancholy may consume her. It has happened before during the war, and I see it in her eyes now that she struggles with her choices. But she keeps her emotions and true thoughts guarded, making it difficult for us to reach out to her. The only person who may hold the key to understanding her is Tatiana, but she remains fiercely loyal and unwilling to share any secrets with us.

As you requested a description of my niece, I must say she takes after Carol more than Olga. Her delicate features resemble the Queen's, with deep, almost violet eyes. Her skin is darker than any in our family, much like Nicholas and Ileana. Even Olga jokes about the resemblance, teasing that the only thing she inherited from her was her large head - a trait the Queen often comments on, albeit not in a flattering way. Personally, I think too much is made of physical appearances. But if Olga has outgrown this quip, I have no doubt Marie will too.

I fear I have rambled enough for one letter. I spent the afternoon driving with Nicholas and now my wrists ache from gripping the wheel.

I am aware of your distaste for nature and preference for urban activities. But here in the countryside, the views are truly breathtaking. As we walked along the winding forest trails, I couldn't help but imagine your reaction to some of the sights. Perhaps they would even change your opinion about taking long walks. Maybe when we gather for Mignon's wedding next year, I can show you these stunning vistas? It would be my pleasure to try and change your mind.

I hope Biarritz was not too boring this year. I can’t wait for your report on everything that happened. I think I can make a brief stop at the Paley Palace before I have to return to Petersburg. Will you be there on the 26th? Let me know.

Your always devoted friend,

Alexei

P.S. Over dinner, the Queen mentioned that one of Uncle Paul's daughters will be attending the same school as Ileana next year. She couldn't recall which daughter it was though. Did Irina finally succeed in persuading your father to allow her to continue her studies?

Chapter Text

Tsarskoe Selo, November 1922

The final preparations for departure were in full swing. Natalia's room was a mess, with clothes being folded and trinkets being packed by the maids. She carefully selected which books and magazines to bring along, while her trunks cluttered the hallway. Her father had refused to walk through that part of the palace until she finished packing, but Natalia enjoyed the chaos of it all. As she picked out each item, it felt like she was getting ready to go back home.

Although school wouldn't officially start until after Christmas, Natalia's parents had decided to leave for the city a month earlier. They wanted her and Tata to have enough time to get settled and buy everything they needed for their exciting journey to France. During the week, Natalia would attend classes, but on weekends she would stay with Tata at the magnificent mansion in Bolougn-sur-Seine, the very same house where Natalia had spent her childhood. Despite being surrounded by maids, housekeepers, and chaperons at all times, Natalia couldn't contain her excitement for the upcoming shows they would be attending. Opera, ballet, theatre - perhaps they could even sneak into a jazz club to catch a performance. Natalia had heard that this new style of music was causing quite a stir in the city and she could feel her entire body buzzing with anticipation.

There was a dark side to it all, of course. She would be separated from Irina and Alexei. Though she tried not to dwell on it, the thought of saying goodbye to them eventually crept into her mind. She knew that Alexei would manage without her; he was doing well in university and had his own responsibilities as a Tsar-in-training. But Irina was different. They had never been apart for such a long time and she relied on her sister's guidance and wisdom. She couldn't imagine how she would cope without her. Additionally, she felt guilty about taking Tata with her and leaving Irina alone in Russia. However, the chance to travel was too great to pass up.

For weeks, there had been a thick and uncomfortable tension between them. Finally, they decided to have a long conversation about it. Irina felt resentful that she wasn't given the same opportunity as Natalia, but she tried not to blame her sister for it. Even though it was difficult for her to stay behind, she understood why Natalia needed to go and gave her full support. With the weight of their issues lifted Natalia could fully focus on her upcoming trip with Tata. They had spent weeks planning out every detail of their adventure and now they would depart the very next day. Tata had already settled into the Paley Palace, where they would make final arrangements before leaving.

Natalia was aware that Tata preferred staying at the Paley Palace rather than living under the same roof as her mother. Their relationship was rarely discussed, even though Natalia and Tata had been best friends for years. The truth was that Natalia could count on one hand the number of times she had seen them together.

The countess was a stunning woman with captivating eyes, but she seemed distant and uninterested in children. Except for her son George, who held a special place in her heart as the only child with Romanov blood. Most nights, the countess would go out partying with friends and spend her mornings and afternoons recovering to do it all over again. Tata hardly ever saw her, having been raised by nannies. One time, when Natalia's mother complimented Tata's dress and said she looked beautiful in it, Tata revealed that her own mother never gave her compliments.

"She always seems to find fault with everything I do or say," she had told her, sadness evident in her eyes.

Natalia prodded for more details, but Tata quickly changed the subject. She didn't like pity, always striving to present herself as a strong woman who could overcome any challenge without showing signs of struggle. Natalia looked up to her and felt childish in comparison. When someone hurt or offended Tata, or spoke in a way that Natalia deemed inappropriate, she could feel it deep in her bones and would make sure everyone knew exactly how much their words affected her. That was the biggest difference between them: Natalia openly displayed her emotions while Tata kept hers buried inside.

In any case, even if the reason for Tata to be there early could have been better, she was still excited about having her. Irina never liked packing and was indifferent to fashion, while Tata shared her passion for it. In fact, Irina wasn't even at the palace. She had spent the afternoon with Maria - her lady-in-waiting - and her family and still hadn't returned, even though it was late afternoon and still dark outside.

"Natalia," Tata called out as she rummaged through one of the bags. "Do you mind if I go to the library to check if I left my Lelong catalogues there? I can't bear the journey without them."

Tata, who was helping a maid fold a delicate dress for travelling, immediately agreed. "Of course, no problem. But won't your brother disapprove of keeping fashion catalogues in the library?"

Natalia scoffed. "I couldn't care less what he thinks. I'm not getting rid of my catalogs and I can't store them all in my room, so he'll just have to deal with it."

With a grin, Tata exited the room and made her way to the library.

A little while later, there was another knock on Natalia's door. This time, it was her mother peeking in with a beaming smile.

"Alexei is here to visit you," she announced.

Natalia's first instinct was to look outside. The sky was dark and heavy with clouds, and snow had started to fall a couple of hours before, blanketing the streets and rooftops in a pristine white coat. It looked like a winter wonderland, and Natalia couldn't help but smile despite her initial irritation at the thought of having to scold Alexei for his impulsive visit. She knew he must have left his classes early just to make the journey to Tsarskoe Selo to see her.

As she made her way through the elegant halls of the palace, she couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement in her chest. It had been two long weeks since they last saw each other, their busy schedules keeping them apart. Despite trying to come to terms with the fact that she wouldn't see him before her departure, a small part of Natalia had always hoped for a surprise visit from Alexei.

"I told him he didn't need to come all this way," Natalia muttered under her breath as she followed her mother into the grand drawing room. She tried to sound cross, but deep down she was touched by Alexei's gesture and couldn't wait to see him again.

Chapter Text

Natalia entered the drawing room, the warmth inside wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. It was already dark outside, and the faint snowfall, visible through the large windows, seemed to soften the edges of the world beyond. Inside, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the candlelight, casting a gentle, golden hue over the polished wood floors. The air was filled with the scent of burning wood from the fireplace, mingling with the faint aroma of pine from the evergreen branches arranged on the mantel.

Her steps were hesitant as she approached Alexei, who stood by the fireplace, engaged in deep conversation with Vladimir. The fire's glow highlighted the healthy colour in his cheeks and the broadness of his shoulders under the green uniform of a Colonel of the Guards. The uniform, bestowed upon him on his eighteenth birthday, suited him perfectly now, accentuating his regained strength and maturity. Natalia's heart swelled with a mix of pride and relief at the sight of him looking so much fuller and healthier than before.

It had been two years since his last haemophilia attack, and while most people celebrated this milestone with optimism, those close to Alexei, like Natalia, knew better than to fully relax. As Alexei turned and caught sight of her, his expression softened instantly, and a warm, heartening smile spread across his face. His eyes sparkled with life, a sight that filled Natalia with a quiet hope. 

When he reached her, Alexei pulled her into a familiar embrace, and she could feel the solid warmth of his body through the thick fabric of his uniform. It was a reassuring reminder of his improved condition. "I told you that you didn't need to come."

Alexei's teasing smile widened, his voice light and playful as he responded, "And since when do you tell me what to do?"

Alexei's playful tone was met with a raised eyebrow from Natalia, who couldn't help but roll her eyes at his confidence. "You think very highly of yourself, don't you?" she asked with a hint of amusement in her voice.

A mischievous grin played across Alexei's lips as he shrugged. "I just know you too well," he replied, causing Natalia to shake her head in mock exasperation.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Vladimir clearing his throat from the other side of the room. Both Alexei and Natalia turned to look at him, their annoyance palpable. They had forgotten he was there at all.

"Maybe you'd like to stay for dinner, Alexei?" Vladimir piped up, stepping closer to them. "I'm sure my parents would be delighted to see you."

Alexei nodded graciously. "That sounds like a lovely idea if I'm not too much of a nuisance."

"Not in the least," Vladimir reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, do you want me to show you that first edition of Pushkin's poems I discovered last week? It's quite impressive."

While Vladimir seemed excited by the prospect, Natalia looked less than thrilled at the thought of being left alone with her brother and Alexei. She shot him a disapproving frown, but before she could speak up, Alexei interjected with a slightly terrified expression on his face.

"I appreciate the offer," he started tentatively, "but I think I'll pass on the library tour."

Natalia couldn't hold back a small smile at his discomfort. "I don't blame you," she chimed in. "Why don't we take a walk outside instead?"

The idea of stepping out into the crisp night air appealed to her, offering a brief escape from the confines of the room. She could almost feel the cold, invigorating air on her skin, an escape from the warm, heavy atmosphere inside. Without giving Vladimir a chance to object or persuade them otherwise, Natalia smoothly took Alexei's arm, her grip firm yet light, and began to guide him toward the door.

They reached the foyer, where the cold draft from the outside seeped in, brushing against their faces and making the transition from the warmth of the palace even more pronounced. Natalia let go of Alexei's arm and reached for her coat. There was no rush; they moved with a quiet, shared understanding, taking their time as they prepared to step into the night.

As Alexei helped her with her scarf, carefully wrapping it around her neck as he always did, she looked up at him, and their eyes met for a brief moment, a silent conversation passing between them—concern, affection, the unspoken worry that neither dared to voice. Alexei's brow furrowed slightly, his expression serious. He adjusted the scarf one last time, making sure it was snug and secure, before his gaze returned to her face, lingering there with a quiet intensity.

"So... how are you feeling?" he asked softly, with genuine concern.

Natalia smiled at him. As the time to leave approached, she was feeling increasingly sad about leaving him, her constant companion, the one person she knew she could open her heart out and meet with nothing but understanding, but she also didn't want to worry him, so she shook her head. "I'm ecstatic about it, Alexei. There isn't another word for it. I'm trying to hide how happy I really am because I know this is hurting Irina, but I feel like I'm coming home."

She could see Alexei's eyes slowly dropping to the ground as she spoke. She knew how he and Tata had felt horrible for Irina, how the whole thing seemed terribly unfair to her and she wondered if, deep down, Alexei was reproaching her for being so vocal about her happiness.

"I would take Irishka with me if I could," she added, trying to improve the situation. "But it's out of my hands. Papa needs her here with him."

Alexei nodded as he buttoned his coat and tilted his head towards her. "I know you would, Natasha. No one is blaming you for that part. You shouldn't be feeling bad for a second, especially if this makes you feel so happy."

Natalia nodded, relieved that he wasn't angry, though an undercurrent of something unspoken lingered between them. There was a subtle tension in Alexei's demeanour, a quiet storm brewing beneath his calm exterior, but she couldn't quite place it.

Outside, the world was blanketed in white, the snow crunching rhythmically under their boots. The air was crisp, filled with the stillness of winter as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Natalia adjusted her gloves, her breath visible in the cold air, while Alexei seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon.

Seizing the moment, Natalia scooped up a handful of snow, quickly shaping it into a snowball. With a mischievous grin, she launched it at the back of his head. The snow exploded against his coat, sending a flurry of powder into the air. Alexei froze, stunned for a heartbeat, before turning to her with a look that promised playful retribution.

Giggling, Natalia bolted across the garden, her laughter echoing in the stillness. The snow crunched loudly beneath her feet, but she wasn't quick enough. A well-aimed snowball hit her squarely on the back, the cold seeping through her coat as icy droplets trickled down her neck.

Their snowball fight raged on, the garden filled with their laughter and the sound of snow being packed and thrown. Each was determined not to surrender, but as minutes turned to what felt like an eternity, Natalia's energy waned. With a breathless laugh, she finally gave in, collapsing backwards into a soft mound of snow. She lay there, the snow embracing her like a cloud, and soon Alexei flopped down beside her.

They lay there, side by side, staring up at the bright, endless sky. Their breath mingled in the cold air, forming misty clouds that drifted upwards. A delicate snowflake drifted down, landing on Natalia's eyelashes. Alexei reached out, brushing it away with a gentle touch.

"I bet they don't have such high-quality snow in France," Alexei teased.

Natalia chuckled softly, her laughter as light as the snowflakes falling around them. "No, but at least we see the sun more often. We don't have to huddle indoors for weeks on end, waiting for winter to pass."

"True," Alexei conceded with a grin, "but then we have the white nights in summer to make up for it."

Natalia propped herself up on one elbow, her eyes glinting. "The white nights are lovely, I'll admit. But have you ever strolled along the Seine at sunset, with the Eiffel Tower twinkling against the sky?"

Alexei's expression softened, a slow nod acknowledging the beauty of her words. "It's a sight to remember," he agreed. "But French food? Always so... refined. In Russia, we eat to feel alive. Hearty meals that warm the soul."

Natalia laughed, the sound bright against the stillness of the snow-covered garden. "Like borscht? That's just beet soup with a fancy name."

"Borscht is a masterpiece," Alexei retorted, feigning offence. "And don't forget the caviar. The finest delicacy."

"Caviar?" Natalia teased, wrinkling her nose. "You mean fish eggs? Give me a good cheese platter any day."

"Cheese is for the faint-hearted," Alexei shot back, his eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. "Real men eat caviar."

"Real men," Natalia countered, a smirk tugging at her lips, "know how to appreciate a glass of fine wine."

"Vodka," Alexei said, leaning closer, "is superior in every way."

Natalia shook her head, giggling. "You're impossible."

Alexei shrugged, but there was a wistful edge to his smile, his gaze lingering on her. "I'm just trying to change your mind."

Natalia raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Change my mind? About Paris? You should pick your battles more wisely, Your Majesty," she quipped, imitating the stern tone of his former tutor.

But Alexei didn't laugh. His gaze fell, his gloved fingers tracing absent circles in the snow. "I'm just... afraid you'll love it too much," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Natalia almost missed his words, the quiet vulnerability in them catching her off guard. "Afraid?" she repeated softly.

"I'm trying to make Russia seem as wonderful as it can be... so you'll want to come back."

Surprise flickered across Natalia's face, followed by a gentle amusement. She hadn't expected Alexei to be so worried about her going to Paris. It was endearing, she thought. "My parents still live here, Alexei. If all else fails, they'll likely drag me back themselves once the year is over."

This time, a genuine smile reached Alexei's eyes, warming his expression. "That sounds like a plan I can support. I might even send a Cossack or two to help them."

Natalia burst into laughter, the sound brightening the cold air. "You'll need at least three just to carry my things."

The mood lifted, and Natalia could feel the tension ease from Alexei's body as they lay side by side. But soon, the gentle snowfall intensified, turning into a swirling blizzard. Snowflakes clung to Natalia's eyelashes, blurring her vision. She knew it was time to head back inside before they were completely enveloped by the storm. Alexei seemed to sense the same and quickly moved to help her to her feet.

As she reached for his hand, Natalia felt the firm yet gentle grip of Alexei's gloved fingers around hers. The leather was cold to the touch, slightly rough from the weather, but the warmth of his hand underneath radiated through the fabric, reassuring and strong. He pulled her up with ease, steadying her as they both found their footing in the deepening snow.

"You must write every week," she said, her eyes locking onto his with a seriousness she wanted him to understand. "I need to know you're okay."

For a brief moment, something flickered in Alexei's eyes—an intensity that flared up and vanished almost as quickly, but not before she noticed it. His expression turned uncharacteristically serious, his gaze sharpening as if he were seeing her in a new light.

"One letter a week will be the bare minimum," he replied in a low, rough voice, carrying a weight that hadn't been there before.

He held her gaze longer than usual, his eyes searching hers as if trying to memorize every detail. His hands moved to her upper arms, gripping them gently, holding her in place as though he feared she might slip away, like a snowflake caught in the wind. It wasn't the first time he had touched her like this—over the years, their friendship had grown close, and physical contact had become natural. Natalia had always been affectionate with the people she cared about, and she had come to embrace Alexei just as she did Tata, Irina, or Vladimir. Yet this touch felt different—more deliberate, more charged with unspoken emotions.

Natalia felt slightly uncomfortable in their proximity. Her eyes searched his face, noticing the way his brows knitted together, the uncharacteristic tension in his jaw. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and she couldn't understand why.

She felt a knot of worry tighten in her chest. What could be troubling him so much? Had something happened? Was he in some sort of danger?

"Are you alright?" Natalia asked. Alexei shook his head.

"Not really," he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. "Natasha... I—"

He trailed off, his fingers tightening around her arms just enough to send a shiver down her spine. It wasn't fear, but a profound sense of something she couldn't quite name—a powerful urge to pull him into a comforting embrace, to offer him solace against whatever was troubling him.

She squeezed his arm gently, offering him a soft, reassuring smile. "Whatever it is, Alexei, you can tell me," she said, her voice calm yet filled with concern. "I'm here for you, no matter what."

For a moment, a sad smile flickered across his face before he shook his head, the expression quickly fading.

"Is it something at university?" she asked softly. "Or is it about your family? You know I'll understand." She watched as he struggled to find the right words, feeling increasingly helpless with each passing second.

"I'm just... I don't know," he said, taking a deep breath as if trying to gather his thoughts. "I've been thinking about how..."

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes shifting away from hers. "I'm just going to miss you, that's all."

Natalia chuckled softly, pulling him into an embrace. "You had me worried for a second there, silly," she told him. "I'm going to miss you too, but you're making it sound like we're never going to see each other again. We'll stay in touch and, before you know it, we'll be back together."

Alexei forced a sad smile, but Natalia could see that there was still a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He laughed softly, but it still sounded strained to her ears. "Yeah, I guess I was just being a bit dramatic", he said, his voice quieter. "You're right. We'll see each other again soon."

Natalia noticed the flicker of disappointment in his eyes and her playful demeanor softened. She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. "You know you can always count on me, don't you? Even if I'm far away."

Alexei's smile was small but genuine as he met her eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing. "I know I can, but it's nice to hear it," he admitted his voice soft and a little vulnerable. "Sometimes, I just need a reminder. Thank you, Natalia. It means more than you know."

Alexei's smile warmed Natalia's heart, and she couldn't help but let out a soft laugh. The vulnerability in his voice made her want to lighten the mood, so she smiled back and teased him gently. "You'll still have to put up with me for a very, very long time after that, Alexei Nikolaevich."

Chapter Text

Vladimir

When Vladimir had carefully planned to send Tata and Natasha to Paris, he hadn't expected Tata to arrive at his house a full day before their departure.

The trip back from Petrograd with Alexei had seemed like something harmless, a chance for his friend to say a proper goodbye to Natalia after sharing four years of their lives in close companionship. But when Vladimir had been on his way to greet his father at his study, he saw Tata emerging from the library, carrying a box filled with Natalia's fashion catalogues—catalogues he had thought securely hidden—and stopped in his tracks.

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, everything else faded away. Tata's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she clutched the box to her chest, a gesture that made him shiver, stirring emotions he had tried his best to keep buried. He knew better than to linger, knew this house was full of people, with his father just beyond the door to the study. But he couldn't seem to move, caught in the unexpected sight of her.

She looked down quickly, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, the boldness he sometimes saw in her nowhere to be found. This was the same girl who had tried to seduce him in private, but then always appeared nervous, almost shy, as if none of those moments had ever happened, when they were in public. The contrast tended to leave him confused, torn between the memory of her advances and the image of her standing before him now, seemingly innocent and vulnerable.

After what felt like too long, he forced himself to break the silence. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear his thoughts, and began to walk again.

"Tata," he said as he passed her, his voice a low murmur. He meant it to be a simple greeting, but it came out weighted with the confusion he couldn't quite shake.

"Vladimir," she replied in a low voice, her confidence replaced by a tremor that only deepened his bewilderment. Her eyes flicked towards the study door, then back to him. For a brief moment, he could see her pulse in the delicate curve of her neck. "I... I thought you were still in Petrograd."

"I was," he answered slowly, trying to keep his tone even, though every word seemed to hang in the air between them, heavy with meaning. His feet carried him forward, but his thoughts remained stuck on the sight of her standing there, looking so different from what he'd come to expect. "But Alexei and I decided to return early... to surprise Natasha before she leaves."

A small, almost nervous smile played on her lips, her gaze dropping to the floor. "That was thoughtful of you," she said softly, her voice barely carrying in the quiet hallway. The words were innocent enough, but he couldn't ignore the way she bit her lip afterwards, reminding him just enough of their previous encounters to make his heart beat faster despite himself.

The tension between them grew thicker as each moment stretched out while they stood there, neither willing to fully acknowledge what each was thinking. The house around them was full of people, any one of whom could walk in on them at any second. His father's study was just a few steps away, which was also a strong reminder of the propriety they were expected to maintain.

But even as these thoughts flickered through his mind, Vladimir was unable to look away from her. She was so close, so frustratingly close, and yet her behaviour left him uncertain, unsure of what was real and what was part of some game she was playing.

Finally, she turned, walking towards the staircase at a slow, deliberate pace, as though she were carefully controlling her every movement. The soft rustle of her skirt on the steps was the only sound that broke the tense silence.

Vladimir watched her go, his heart pounding, his thoughts a tangled mess of desire and confusion. He should be relieved she was leaving, should be focused on the task ahead, but instead, he felt a growing unease—an awareness that his feelings for Tata were far more complicated than he had ever allowed himself to admit.

Later that evening, at dinner, Vladimir sat at his usual place, which happened to be directly across from Tata, who was seated between Natasha and Irina. As the courses were served, polite conversation flowed easily around him. Natasha recounted stories from her latest social gatherings in Petrograd, their mother chimed in with gentle questions, and his father offered occasional remarks in his measured tone. But despite the lively chatter, Vladimir's attention was fixed on Tata, who seemed intent on pretending he didn't exist.

She engaged effortlessly with everyone else, her smile bright and her laughter light. She listened attentively to Natasha's anecdotes, asked his father about his walks, and even complimented the cook's efforts when the dessert was served. But not once did she look in Vladimir's direction, not even a fleeting glance.

He felt his frustration grow with each passing moment. He tried to join the conversation, directing a question at her about the upcoming trip to Paris, but she responded with a vague, noncommittal answer, her gaze firmly fixed on her plate, on Natasha, Irina, and Alexei, but never on him. It was as if he were invisible, a ghost at the table.

A few times, he caught himself staring at her, challenging her to meet his eyes, to acknowledge him in some small way. But each time, she remained resolutely focused on anyone but him, a sweet smile constantly plastered on her face, her demeanour as cool and composed as ever. The ease with which she ignored him was infuriating, it felt like a silent rejection that cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

Finally, as the meal came to an end and the family began to disperse, Tata stood, thanked his mother for the lovely dinner, and excused herself from the table, her arm linked with Natalia's. She brushed past Vladimir as she left, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, but still, she didn't look at him, didn't offer even the smallest acknowledgement of his presence

Later that night, the house had settled into a quiet lull. Most of the family had retired, the sounds of footsteps and chatter fading into the background as the corridors emptied. Vladimir, however, had retreated to the library to find some peace after the confusion that had plagued him during dinner.

He sat in one of the deep leather armchairs near the fireplace with a book open in his lap. The room was dimly lit by a few wall sconces and the dying fire in the hearth, casting long shadows that flickered across the rows of shelves. Despite his efforts to immerse himself in the pages, his thoughts kept drifting back to Tata, and he discovered, to his great annoyance, that he was still disturbed by her behaviour.

As Vladimir absentmindedly turned a page, the door to the library creaked open. His gaze snapped up, and his heart skipped a beat when Tata stepped inside. She paused at the threshold, but instead of the surprise he had anticipated, there was a brief moment where their eyes met, and he could see something in her gaze—an awareness, perhaps even a touch of satisfaction.

"Tata," he said, his voice breaking the stillness, softer than he intended. He quickly closed his book, setting it aside as he rose to his feet. Despite his attempts to remain composed, his mind whirled with possibilities—had she come to find him? Was her coldness at dinner just another one of her games?

A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she stepped further into the room, every movement deliberately calculated, almost as if she were savouring the silence between them. "Vladimir," she greeted her tone smooth and warm in a way that was far from the innocent politeness she often displayed in front of others. "Your father mentioned I could take some books with me for the journey. I thought it might be a good time to choose them now."

Her explanation was simple enough, but there was something in the way she said it that made Vladimir's pulse quicken. She moved deeper into the library, her footsteps soft on the carpeted floor, and Vladimir couldn't shake the feeling that she knew exactly what she was doing.

The flickering light from the fire highlighted the calm confidence in her posture and the way she carried herself as though she were fully in control of the situation. Vladimir nodded, gesturing toward the shelves that lined the walls. "Of course. Take whatever you like."

He remained standing, torn between wanting to stay and feeling the urge to leave, understanding that the sudden solitude between them was full of implications. Tata's gaze lingered on him for a fraction longer than necessary before she turned to the shelves. Her fingers traced along the spines of the books, but there was a sense of purpose to her actions. Even as she browsed, it was clear she was acutely aware of his presence, her fingers moving carefully, as if she were waiting for something.

After a moment, she turned to him, her dark eyes meeting his with a hint of playful challenge. "You know these books better than I do," she said, her voice smooth and inviting. "What would you recommend? Something to keep me company on those long Parisian nights?"

Her request was casual, but there was an underlying note of something more—an invitation, perhaps, or a subtle test. Vladimir hesitated, his mind scrambling to focus on the question, even as the tension between them continued to build.

"Well," he began, stepping closer to the shelves, his gaze scanning the rows of books as he tried to steady his thoughts. "It depends on what you're in the mood for. Something light and entertaining? Or perhaps something more... thought-provoking?"

Tata moved beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her. "I think I'd prefer something thought-provoking," she replied, her tone almost conspiratorial. "Something that will keep my mind occupied."

Vladimir nodded, reaching for a book on a higher shelf. "In that case, you might like this one," he said, handing her the volume. But as he did, their fingers brushed, the contact sending a familiar jolt of electricity through him.

The miscalculation of his move startled him. He had expected her to respond with their usual light-hearted banter, but as their fingers touched, a current of energy passed between them, leaving him momentarily breathless. Her dark eyes, typically filled with playful mischief, now held an intensity that made his chest tighten.

Tata took the book, her gaze never leaving his. "Thank you," she said softly, the words laced with a meaning that went beyond simple gratitude. The charged silence stretched between them, the air thick with tension.

After a while, a soft, almost knowing whisper broke the quiet. "Coward," Tata teased, her lips curling into a smirk that revealed the game she had been playing all along.

Vladimir blinked, trying to shake himself out of the surreal moment. 

"What?" he asked.

Tata held the book against her chest with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver through him. Her intense gaze never wavered, those sharp eyes drilling into him as if peeling away his carefully constructed layers. "You're a coward, Vladimir Pavlovich," she repeated, her tone deceptively light yet cutting through his defences with precision. "You'd rather send me away than face whatever's tormenting you in that clever little head of yours."

Vladimir felt the weight of her words like a blow. He had thought he had been discreet, that his plan was flawless—Tata would be the ideal choice to accompany Natalia abroad. They were close, she needed to improve her French; it was logical, unassailable. But Tata, of course, had seen straight through it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, but his voice lacked conviction, his eyes unable to meet her piercing gaze.

At that moment, he understood that he could leave if he wanted to. He could turn away, retreat to his chair, and pretend that nothing had transpired between them. But something about the way Tata was looking at him—her eyes holding him captive with an almost magnetic force—rooted him to the spot.

It was as though she held the strings to his very soul, tugging at them with a subtlety that only she could master. Despite the easy escape route laid out before him, Vladimir found himself unable to move, his gaze locked with Tata's, her intensity drawing him in deeper. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that she could see through him—through the veneer of confidence, past the wall of cold logic he clung to. She saw his fears, his doubts, and his weaknesses, laid bare before her.

"Of course you don't," Tata said with a cheerful lilt. The corners of her mouth lifted into a mischievous smile, and her eyes twinkled with playfulness.

Vladimir felt a rush of annoyance at her carefree attitude. 

"Don't get me wrong," she continued, "I'm beyond grateful for the opportunity to go to Paris." Her gaze flicked to his face before returning to the book. "Perhaps I need to get away from you just as much as you need to get rid of me. It's easier if we pretend that nothing is happening, isn't it?"

Her words were light and teasing, but her eyes held a hint of something else—a challenge, perhaps? Slowly and deliberately, she placed the book on a nearby table and sauntered over to lean against the shelf beside him. The subtle scent of her perfume, a blend of jasmine and something he couldn't quite place, enveloped him, stirring memories of warmer, more intimate moments they'd shared.

Vladimir felt a surge of irritation wash over him. This was going too far. "Tata," he began, his voice low and controlled, "I don't even know who you really are anymore. One moment you're shy, indifferent, and the next..." He trailed off, the words catching in his throat as she smiled, the warmth of her expression disarming him.

Tata's smile widened, her lips curving into a perfect, knowing arc as she closed the distance between them. Her fingers, cool against his heated skin, delicately traced along his sharp jawline, leaving a tingling trail in their wake. The sensation was both exhilarating and unnerving, as though her touch was awakening something dormant within him.

"Or, perhaps, you just don't pay attention," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, sending a ripple of heat across his skin.

His mind was a haze as he struggled to focus, to remember why Tata's touch shouldn't feel this good. He tried to bring back the fact that they were standing in the grand library of a palace, surrounded by people who could walk in at any moment. Despite their discreet corner hidden behind towering bookshelves, his mind should have been more alert.

"It's very likely that you never noticed how my heart practically bursts out of my chest every time you walk into a room," Tata continued, her voice soft and intimate, her words brushing against his ear like a caress. Her delicate fingers traced gentle circles around his cheek, her touch sending a warmth coursing through his veins. "How I could barely hold my pen when your gaze was focused on me. You're always so distracted inside that brilliant mind of yours, you hardly seem to notice what happens right in front of your eyes."

As her fingertips trailed down his neck, the faintest pressure caused his pulse to quicken under her touch. The warmth of her skin lingered long after her fingers moved on, leaving him acutely aware of the erratic rhythm of his breathing. She was testing him, pushing the boundaries to see how far she could take this, and Vladimir felt as though he were teetering on the edge of something both thrilling and dangerous.

"But a whole year, always standing so close to you, is too long to hold it together," Tata whispered, her voice breathless with desire, each word laced with a yearning that was impossible to ignore. Her eyes glimmered with a longing that betrayed her true feelings, the depth of her emotions barely concealed behind the teasing lilt of her voice. "I couldn't keep pretending I didn't want you."

Vladimir swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he fought against the powerful pull she had on him. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of her standing so near, her scent enveloping him like a delicate, intoxicating fog. He reminded himself that nothing had happened yet, that there was still a way out of this. With a trembling hand, he gently took hers and moved it away from his face, the warmth of her skin lingering on his fingertips. "Tata, we can't...this isn't—"

"Appropriate? Yes, I know," Tata interjected, her voice light but edged with a daring smirk. Her lips curled into a mischievous smile. "But luckily for you, I'll be in Paris for a year. You won't have to see my face or resist me for a very long time."

Vladimir's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself locked in her gaze. She was undeniably beautiful, with a face that could inspire poetry and art, every feature perfectly sculpted, every expression captivating. Her dark, soulful eyes held a longing that seemed to reach out and caress him, stirring something deep within. The small, alluring smile that played at the corners of her lips made it nearly impossible for him to resist the magnetic pull towards her.

His common sense and self-control were rapidly dissolving under the heat of her presence. Her words were like a flame, flickering and dancing, slowly consuming the rational thoughts that he clung to. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears, each beat loud and insistent, as though his very body were betraying his attempts at restraint. His breath quickened, coming in short, uneven gasps as if struggling to keep pace with the wild rhythm of his heart.

She was so close—close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, the delicate scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a vice.

Tata leaned in, her lips just a whisper away from his, her hand resting lightly on his chest. Vladimir's resolve crumbled as he found himself leaning in as well, drawn to her as though by an irresistible force. His hand moved to the small of her back, pulling her closer, his fingers trembling with the anticipation of what was about to happen.

But just as their lips were about to touch, Tata pulled back. The sudden distance between them felt like a cold slap to Vladimir's face, his breath catching in his throat as she stepped away from him.

He blinked, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The warmth of her touch still lingered on his skin, and the desire that had flared so fiercely between them left him reeling, teetering on the edge of something he wasn't sure he could control.

Tata's eyes sparkled with mischief, her voice light and teasing as she spoke. "This is something for you to think about while I'm in Paris," she said as she stepped back, her tone almost sing-song, "Think of it as a little souvenir. A reminder of what you could have had if you weren't such a prude."

Vladimir's heart clenched, a mixture of frustration and longing tightening in his chest. "Tata..." he began, his voice strained, a protest forming on his lips.

But Tata only laughed, a sound full of amusement and just a hint of vindication. "Oh, Vladimir," she said, her tone dripping with playful reproach. "You know, this was your idea, after all. Didn't you want to send me away? Well, here I go." She tilted her head, her expression almost innocent, but the glint in her eyes was anything but. "I'm just giving you what you wanted. But I thought I'd leave you with something to remember me by."

Vladimir's breath hitched, the truth of her words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He had been the one to suggest her departure, the one to push her away, and now she was turning his own plan against him with a mischievous twist. Her eyes twinkled with that wicked glint, fully aware of the turmoil she was leaving in her wake.

"You know," she added, her voice softening to a whisper, "a whole year without me might just make you realize how tough it is to want something you can't have." She gave him a lingering look, her lips curving into a smile that was both sweet and tantalizing. "But don't worry, Vladimir Pavlovich," she teased, her tone light and airy, "I'm sure you'll be counting the days until I'm back."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Vladimir standing there, rooted to the spot, his mind spinning. The echo of her playful words and the memory of their almost-kiss hung in the air, taunting him, as if she had left behind a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow, straight into the trap she had so cleverly set.

Vladimir watched the door close behind her, the silence of the library suddenly deafening. He remained frozen for a moment, his brain trying—and failing—to make sense of what had just transpired. Finally, he let out a long, exasperated sigh and sank back into the chair, his legs giving out beneath him.

He stared blankly at the ceiling, one hand covering his face as if that could somehow block out the whirlwind of emotions spinning inside him. "A whole year," he muttered to himself, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. "I sent her to Paris for a whole year."

Chapter Text

Paris, Late November 1922

Irina

The car wound its way through the familiar streets of Paris and Irina gazed out the window at the city she had always called home. The golden light of the early evening bathed the buildings in an inviting glow, softening the edges of the grand boulevards and the intricate facades of the Haussmannian buildings. The sight of the Seine, gently reflecting the last colours of the sunset, brought a small smile to her lips. She had missed this-the comforting hum of life in Paris, the elegant rhythm of the city that had been the backdrop of her childhood.

Yet, despite the comfort she felt in returning home, there was a bittersweetness that lingered in her heart. Natalia's impending absence already weighed heavily on her. The house would feel emptier without her sister's laughter echoing through the halls, and the knowledge that Natalia was off to a prestigious boarding school only deepened the ache. Irina was genuinely happy for her, proud of her sister's opportunities, but it was impossible to ignore the sharp sting of envy and disappointment that had settled in her chest.

She was more grateful than ever for having Maria, her lady-in-waiting, in her life. They had grown closer than ever in the aftermath of her disappointment at Natalia's departure and even her family had welcomed her with open arms. She now spent a great deal of her time with them, as she slowly came to terms with the injustice her parents had put her through.

She even suspected that Maria's older brother, Roman, was starting to develop feelings for her. He had even tried to say as much once, but Irina had gently pushed him away. Her heart was still locked and, to her infinite annoyance, it was Feodor who held the key. She had loved him for so long since she had been little more than a child, that it seemed almost impossible to let anyone else in. People often praised her for her loyalty, but, in this case, she wished she could teach herself how to turn it off.

On that evening in particular, it would have been useful, since they were on their way to a soirée at the house of the Duke of Guise, the father of Isabelle, the woman who Feodor had been in a relationship with for months now.

The Duke had been her father's friend since their Parisian days and they had often been at each other's houses over the years, but his daughters had always been just a little distant towards Irina and her siblings. They were polite, but they kept their distance and they had never been friends. Even in Paris, some people did not consider Grand Duke Paul's second family worthy of the same treatment as other full-blooded relatives.

As they drove through the streets of Paris, dressed in their best clothes, Irina considered how brilliant Isabelle's match with Feodor really was. Everyone knew Feodor's grandmother, Aunt Minny, had long wished for one of her sons to marry an Orléans princess. Now, her wish seemed close to fulfilment through her grandson. Irina tried to understand why this prospect bothered her so much. Hadn't she been the one to push Feodor away? To tell him to forget her, just as she would try to forget him?

She recalled Natalia's words when she discovered about his new relationship, her face red with rage: "It's one thing to forget, but it's quite another to forget so quickly." Perhaps that was it-perhaps it had been too soon. But, then again, they hadn't spoken or written to each other for almost a year.

Despite everything, Irina felt as calm and collected as she possibly could. She knew the house, she knew the hosts, she knew most of the guests and she would be there with both Maria and Natalia. She just needed to walk in, greet the hosts, watch the performances and then wait until it was time to leave. She had the plan clearly traced in her mind and had even practised her indifferent expression in the mirror that she planned to use when she inevitably ran into Isabelle.

Once they walked in, she managed to greet the Duke and Duchess of Guise gracefully, noticing that they seemed happier than usual but she tried not to dwell on it. However, it all fell apart as soon as she walked into the drawing room.

"Merde..." Natalia whispered, reflecting, quite accurately, what Irina was feeling herself.

Feodor was there, standing in the corner with Isabelle, and, the moment her eyes landed on them, it felt as if the ground had been pulled from beneath her. Every ounce of calm she had meticulously cultivated drained from her body, leaving her breathless and unsteady.

Her heart, which had been beating steadily moments before, now pounded violently in her chest, echoing in her ears. She could scarcely believe he was there, so close, after nearly a year of silence. The shock of seeing him, of being thrust back into the reality of all that she had lost, was overwhelming. It was as if time had stopped and every emotion she had buried so deeply came rushing to the surface all at once-longing, regret, love, and a raw, aching hurt.

She had convinced herself that she was prepared for this moment, that she could handle it with the grace expected of her. But seeing Feodor, towering above the crowd, was like an open wound being torn apart. The sight of him, as familiar as it was painful, reminded her of everything they once shared and everything she had sacrificed.

For a brief moment, her resolve wavered, and she felt the urge to turn and flee, to escape before she could be consumed by the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. But Natalia's firm grip on her arm anchored her to the spot, forcing her to confront the situation head-on. Irina felt as though she were being torn in two. One part of her wanted to run away, to protect herself from the pain of seeing him with someone else, while the other part was rooted in place, unable to tear her eyes away from the man she still loved.

Her stomach twisted painfully as the reality of his presence sank in. She could see the surprise on his face, the way his eyes widened slightly when he noticed her, but she quickly averted her gaze, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. The room around her seemed to blur, the voices and laughter fading into a distant hum as her focus narrowed to the figure of Feodor.

The memories of their time together flooded her mind - his laughter, the warmth of his hand in hers, the way he had looked at her when he proposed. And now, here he was, standing next to Isabelle, a woman who could give him everything she had denied him. The realization cut through her like a knife, sharp and merciless. This was the price she had paid for her dreams, for her determination to pursue a future beyond the expectations of her family. And yet, despite the certainty of her decision, the pain of seeing him again was almost unbearable.

Irina fought to maintain her composure, to suppress the turmoil raging within her, but she could feel the cracks forming in the facade she had so carefully constructed. Her hands trembled slightly, and she clasped them together in front of her to hide the trembling. The room felt too small, too crowded, and the air too thick to breathe. All she wanted was to escape, to find a place where she could be alone with her thoughts, to process the storm of emotions that seeing Feodor had unleashed.

"Are you alright, Irishka?" She heard Natalia whisper in her ear.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Irina managed to reply and she felt every word. She was so nervous that she felt like her stomach might burst right there.

"No, you're not," Natalia whispered with determination, holding her hand tightly. "He does not deserve that."

Irina nodded, even though she felt anything but brave. Some people were already throwing discreet glances at them and she did not want to give them the satisfaction of showing them how much Feodor's presence was upsetting to her. Especially not Isabelle. She took a deep breath, gave a final squeeze to Natalia's hand and then held her head high.

She searched for Maria, who had been standing behind her when they walked in, but she could not find her anymore. For a moment, Irina wondered if she knew Feodor would be there since she was in constant contact with Nikita, but she trusted her lady-in-waiting too much to let the thought settle. This must have been a last-minute arrangement.

They avoided the confrontation with Feodor and Isabelle for as long as they could, by greeting all of her sisters and her brother first. They usually didn't exchange more than a few words with each of them, but, on that evening, Natalia seemed to have a wide range of subjects to discuss. Irina admired her with all sincerity. It was as if she had opened a secret box full of never-ending topics. It was good enough to make them last until supper.

While they were talking, Irina took notice of other important guests at the Guise residence that evening. Nikita and Dmitri, Feodor's brothers were also there, as well as his sister Irina and her husband Felix, whom she had never met.

As fate would have it, or maybe in a ploy to tease her, Irina's designated place at the table was just two seats away from Feodor, directly across from him, as if someone wanted to make sure she had front-row tickets to the show of affection Isabelle was trying to display. Natalia sat on her right side and tried to shield her as much as she could, but it was almost impossible not to lock eyes with him from time to time.

Isabelle's voice rang out with feigned enthusiasm as she chartered endlessly, demanding Feodor's attention with every word. But Irina could feel his eyes straying toward her, his glances brief yet unmistakable. His attention made her secretly shiver, and not in a bad way at all, more in a way that made her want to smile.

When the meal was almost over, Natalia suddenly leaned onto her and made all sparse happiness disappear with a single sentence, uttered in a careful, low whisper in her ear:

"Irishka, I don't know if you have realized, but there is a very real chance that Feodor and Isabelle will announce their engagement tonight."

She kept talking after that, telling her to be prepared, to remain calm, to go outside and catch some air as soon as she could, but Irina only caught a few disentangled words. She kept looking at her empty plate now, she couldn't take her eyes off it after she understood that there was indeed a strong probability that he would do just that. It made sense. It would make the announcement all that more spectacular if the girl who had rejected such a prize of a fiancé was there to see him claiming his happiness in the arms of another woman much worthier than herself.

As soon as the meal was over, she pushed her chair back and began to slip away from the table, desperate for some air.

Just as she was about to leave, Maria appeared at her side, her voice low but urgent. "Irina, Nikita wants to talk to you. He's waiting on the terrace."

"Nikita?" Irina's heart skipped a beat. "Did he say why?"

Maria shook her head, her eyes scanning the room. "No, just that it's important."

Irina hesitated, feeling the weight of the evening pressing down on her. The last thing she wanted was a conversation with Feodor's brother. But she nodded, resigned. "Alright, I'll go."

She headed towards the terrace, the cold November wind hitting her as soon as she stepped outside. She welcomed the chill, hoping it would clear her head. She walked past a few guests who were smoking, making her way to the farthest corner where she could be alone.

Leaning against the stone pillars, she looked out over the city of Paris, full of lights preparing for another evening. The view should have comforted her, but all she felt was a gnawing anxiety. The thought of Feodor, of what might happen tonight, was almost unbearable.

As the other guests gradually returned indoors, drawn back by the warmth and the promise of entertainment, Irina remained where she was. If there was to be an engagement announcement, she didn't want to give Isabelle the satisfaction of seeing her reaction. She stared out into the night, trying to steady her breath, trying to prepare herself for whatever was coming next.

The door behind her creaked open, but she didn't turn around, assuming it was just another guest retreating back inside. She closed her eyes, letting the cold air wash over her, wishing she could stay out here forever, away from the scene that was about to unfold.

After a moment, the footsteps seemed to hesitate. There was something familiar about them, Irina thought. A rhythm that her body seemed to recognise, a presence she hadn't felt in so long. Her heart began to flutter, a warmth spreading through her despite the chill in the air. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Feodor.

Chapter Text

She could sense him standing there, just a few paces behind her as if waiting for her to acknowledge him. The realization filled her with a strange mix of anticipation and nervousness. She had imagined this moment so many times, rehearsing what she might say if they ever met again. But now, with him so close, words seemed to elude her. Slowly, almost afraid to break the spell, Irina turned around.

There he was, illuminated by the soft glow of the lights from inside, his tall figure standing against the windows. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes... there was something in them that made her breath catch. He looked at her as if she was the only person in the world, as if the year apart had been nothing more than a fleeting moment.

She had braced herself for awkwardness, for pain, even for cold indifference. But what she saw in his eyes surprised her. There was no anger, no resentment. Only the same deep, quiet longing she felt herself.

"Feodor," she whispered, the name barely escaping her lips. The sound of it seemed to hang in the air between them, heavy with all the things left unsaid.

"Irina," he replied softly, his voice a familiar comfort she hadn't realized she missed so much. He took a step closer, and she could feel the warmth of his presence wrapping around her. "Nikita told me Maria wanted to talk to me... about something important."

Irina blinked, and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she understood what had happened. Maria and Nikita had clearly set this up, orchestrating their encounter. The thought of it almost made her laugh.

Feodor stepped closer until he was standing right beside her, the scent of his cologne mingling with the crisp night air. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. He lit one with the practice of someone who had done so a million times before, the small flame briefly illuminating his face before he took a drag. After a moment, he turned to her, holding out the case.

"Would you like one?" he asked, his voice low and familiar. Irina hesitated for only a second before nodding, accepting the offer. Her fingers brushed against his as she took a cigarette, the brief contact making her shiver. Feodor lit hers as well with a steady hand despite the slight breeze.

They stood there in silence, the city of Paris sprawled out below them, a sea of lights flickering in the distance. The sound of their soft breathing and the occasional crackle of the burning tobacco were the only noises besides the traffic below. Despite the emotional whirlwind inside her, the silence between them felt easy, almost comforting.

Irina took a slow drag from her cigarette, the taste grounding her. She could feel the warmth of Feodor's presence next to her, the simple nearness of him doing more to calm her nerves than anything else could have. For a few moments, it was as if they were the only two people in the world, sharing a private moment that felt both natural and surreal.

Finally, Feodor broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. "I couldn't find you inside." He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up into the night air. "But I did find your sister" he began, his tone light but with a hint of mischief. "Her Russian has improved tremendously since the last time we spoke."

Irina wasn't sure if he was trying to divert the conversation or simply make her smile, but his words caught her off guard. She turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow in mild curiosity. "What do you mean?"

Feodor laughed, the sound warm and genuine, so distant from the tension that had been building inside her all evening. "She insulted me very eloquently," he continued, his amusement evident. "Her verbs were perfect, even though she was upset. A few months ago, she might have mixed them up in a situation like that, but she did wonderfully. And the vocabulary... Some of my colleagues in the army would blush if they heard half of what she said. All of it pronounced correctly, of course."

Irina felt a flicker of embarrassment for Natalia but found herself more entertained than anything. The image of her younger sister, standing tall and fierce, reprimanding Feodor in flawless Russian was almost too delightful to resist. She could hardly blame her—Natalia had never been one to hold back, especially when it came to defending her family.

She glanced back at Feodor, who was now watching her with that open, unguarded expression she remembered so well. Despite everything, his honesty was something that had always drawn her to him, a quality that made it difficult to stay angry or distant for long. "I suppose she felt the need to rise to the occasion," Irina replied, a small smile tugging at her lips."The French are quite liberal with their cursing, but she must have realized that it would be rude to insult you in our host's language."

Feodor tried to keep a straight face, but his eyes betrayed him, the corners crinkling with barely contained enjoyment. "True," he admitted, his tone still playful. "But I must say, I'm rather impressed. She has quite the fiery spirit."

Irina's smile widened, the tension in her chest loosening ever so slightly. "She does," she agreed. "If I had half her courage, I might have done the same."

Feodor chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I don't doubt that for a moment." He flicked the ash from his cigarette, then turned to look at her, his expression softening. "It's one of the things I've always admired about you, Irina. You're not afraid to stand your ground when it matters."

Irina's smile faltered, and she felt a flicker of irritation rise within her. Feodor's words, so sincere and complimentary, only fueled the frustration she was trying so hard to hide. She didn't want to be charmed by him, not when she was doing her best to stay distant, to remind herself of the hurt he had caused—or rather, that they had caused each other.

She turned her gaze back toward the city. She wanted to remain angry, to hold on to the indignation that had kept her steady since their painful parting. But here he was, making it difficult to cling to that resolve. "You shouldn't say things like that," she murmured, her voice tight as she took a drag from her cigarette. "It's not fair."

Feodor seemed to sense the shift in her mood, his expression becoming more serious. "Irina..." he began cautiously.

But she didn't let him finish. "You moved on, Feodor," she said, her voice tinged with the bitterness she'd been trying to suppress. "You moved on so quickly. How do you expect me to forget that?"

Feodor's brow furrowed, his face a mix of hurt and frustration. "I didn't want to move on," he said, but his voice was more forceful, tinged with bitterness.

Irina felt a pang of guilt, but her anger flared up, desperate to drown it out. "You didn't want to? Did someone force you, then? Did your grandmama threaten to disown you if you didn't marry Isabelle?" Her voice was sharp, dripping with sarcasm.

Feodor's eyes narrowed, his posture tense. "You were the one who walked away," he hissed, his voice low and brimming with barely contained rage. "I could have chosen a better time to propose, yes, but we could have made it work if you really wanted to. I suffered for months, Irina, only getting fragments of news about you from Nikita. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

Irina's throat tightened as guilt and anger warred within her. She was losing control, feeling the tears threaten to spill as her emotions clashed violently. But she refused to back down, refused to show him how much she was hurting. "You think I didn't suffer too?" she shot back, her voice rising with each word. "You think it was easy for me to walk away? I didn't want to hold you back! But you... you moved on so quickly. It was as if I meant nothing to you."

Feodor's expression hardened, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. "You left me in the dark, Irina. You didn't even give me a chance. What was I supposed to do? Wait forever for someone who clearly didn't want me anymore? Isabelle was there, and she wanted to be with me, while you were nowhere to be found!"

The air between them crackled with tension, the anger and hurt too much to bear. They were standing so close now that Irina could feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath mingling with hers as they both stood their ground, refusing to back down.

"You don't get to blame me for moving on," Feodor spat, his voice rough with emotion. "I resisted Isabelle for as long as I could. But how could I keep fighting for someone who wouldn't even fight for me?"

Irina's voice trembled with the force of her emotions as she snapped at him, her anger boiling over. "Yes, I do! You cornered me and didn't even give me time or space to think!"

Feodor's expression hardened, but then something shifted. His lips twitched, and a hint of a smile appeared, despite the intensity of their argument. Irina caught it, and her frustration flared even more. "Are you really laughing at a time like this?" She demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief and irritation as she glared up at him.

Feodor's attempted smile faded, but the ghost of it lingered in the dimples that appeared at the corners of his mouth—a trait that had always made her heart flutter, now only serving to stoke the flames of her frustration.

"No, I'm not laughing at you," he replied softly, his voice laden with a mixture of exasperation and hurt. "I just find it ironic. You're angry at me for moving on, but it was you who told me to. You were the one who said you didn't want to hold me back, remember?"

Irina felt a sharp pang in her chest at his words, memories flooding back of that painful day when she'd ended things between them. She had thought she was doing the right thing, setting him free to pursue the life he wanted without her ambitions weighing him down. But hearing him throw those words back at her now ignited a fresh wave of anger.

"I said that because I thought it was what you wanted," she shot back, her eyes flashing with indignation. "You proposed to me in front of everyone, without even asking me how I felt, without considering what I wanted for my own life. You expected me to drop everything—my studies, my dreams—to follow you to Crimea like some obedient little doll!"

Feodor's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he stepped closer, diminishing the already small space between them. The cool night air seemed to sizzle with the intensity of their emotions.

"I proposed because I love you, Irina," he replied, his voice rising with barely restrained emotion. "I wanted to build a life with you, but you pushed me away. You left me standing there, humiliated, and then disappeared without a word. What was I supposed to do? Wait indefinitely for someone who clearly didn't want me?"

"I never said I didn't want you!" Irina's voice trembled, the rawness of her own emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "I wanted us to make decisions together, to consider each other's dreams and aspirations. But you made that impossible when you blindsided me like that!"

Feodor ran a hand through his hair in frustration, his composure unravelling before her eyes. "And you made it impossible when you shut me out completely. Do you have any idea how many letters I wrote that went unanswered? How much it hurt to hear about your life through secondhand sources while I was left in the dark?"

His words hung heavy between them, the weight of their shared pain and misunderstandings pressing down on them both. Irina's resolve faltered as she searched his eyes, seeing the depth of hurt and longing reflected there.

"I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant sounds of the party inside. "I didn't want to trap you, to make you choose between me and what you wanted. I wanted you to be happy."

"And what about your happiness?" Feodor asked, his tone softening as he took another step closer, their bodies now mere inches apart. "Did you ever consider that my happiness was with you? That I was willing to wait, to make it work, if only you had let me in?"

Irina's breath caught in her throat, the proximity of him making her acutely aware of every detail—the warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp night air, the intensity burning in his gaze.

"I... I didn't know," she admitted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You never gave me a chance to know. Everything happened so fast, and I was scared of doing the wrong thing."

Feodor's gaze softened, his eyes tracing her features as if seeing her anew. The tension between them shifted the anger and hurt giving way to a profound, aching tenderness that neither could ignore. After a while, Feodor took a deep breath and shook his head.

"I don't think I've ever seen you raising your voice before like you are doing now. It's... I don't know, Irina. You're always so composed, so strong that sometimes it's difficult for me to see if you care about this. About us." he murmured, his voice a gentle caress that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, a tumultuous mix of emotions swirling within her—regret, longing, fear. He was so handsome, she thought, as she took in his rugged features and that unruly hair she had once loved to thread her fingers through. Anger still pulsed through her veins, but it was overshadowed by something deeper, something more primal - a pull she could not resist.

The memories of his arms around her, holding her close and safe, rushed back with such a force that nearly took her breath away. She could see it in him too, in the way his gaze kept flickering to her lips, the way his chest rose and fell with each laboured breath.

"I do care, Feodor," she managed to whisper, somehow, with the last breath she had left in her lungs. "I wish you knew how much I care about you."

The vulnerability at that moment was palpable, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm that had grown between them. Feodor lifted a hand slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid she might pull away. His fingers brushed lightly against her cheek, the touch sending sparks of electricity skittering across her skin. Irina leaned into his palm instinctively, eyes fluttering closed as she savoured the warmth and familiarity of his touch.

For a heartbeat, they stood frozen, caught in a moment so intense it felt as if the world had stopped around them. The air between them was heavy with all the emotions none of them dared to speak, with the silent challenge hanging in the charged space—who would be the first to surrender to the undeniable pull between them? Their gazes locked, each daring the other to break, to give in. And then, in a flash, the tension shattered. Feodor's hands were suddenly on her, strong and possessive, gripping her waist and pulling her against him. For a split second, he hesitated, his gaze searching hers, silently asking for permission. Irina answered with the barest of nods, and that was all it took. His lips crashed down on hers with desperate urgency, as if all the words left unspoken, all the feelings buried deep, were unleashed in that single, searing kiss.

Irina melted into him, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady, insistent thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer still, as if she could never be close enough. She gave in completely, surrendering to the heady rush of sensation, to the intoxicating thrill of the forbidden. The room full of people behind the terrace door, the expectations, the rules—everything dissolved into nothingness. In this reckless, stolen moment, nothing else mattered but him, but them.

As the kiss deepened, it became more urgent, more desperate, as if they were trying to make up for all the lost time, all the words left unsaid. Feodor's hands roamed up her back, pulling her impossibly closer, while Irina's fingers tangled in his hair, savouring the softness she'd missed so much.

Eventually, the need for air forced them apart, both gasping as they rested their foreheads together, eyes closed, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Reality began to creep back in, bringing with it the weight of consequences and the painful realization of where they were and what had just transpired. Irina's eyes fluttered open, meeting Feodor's gaze, now clouded with a mix of longing, confusion, and a hint of regret.

The sounds of laughter and conversation from inside the room slipped through the terrace doors, shattering the fragile connection they had just shared. The weight of what they had done hit her all at once. Feodor wasn't hers anymore. He belonged to Isabelle, who was just inside, surrounded by friends and family who were there to celebrate their engagement.

Feodor's gaze didn't waver, but when he spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. "I... I'm sorry, Irina. I don't know what got into me. Isabelle... Isabelle is inside, and her family—"

Irina felt a sharp pang of guilt, but his words stung in a way she hadn't expected. "You're right," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, though it trembled with hurt. "We really shouldn't have done that."

But she couldn't hide the disappointment that bled into her tone, and it must have shown on her face because Feodor reached out, taking her hand in his. "Irina, please, let me explain—"

But she shook her head, pulling her hand back, not wanting to hear whatever excuse or explanation he had to offer. The moment was over, and no words could change what had happened or what was true now.

"No, Feodor," she whispered. "I understand. I do. But... it doesn't change anything."

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze one last time. "I wish you and Isabelle all the best. Truly."

Before he could say anything else, before she could let herself falter, Irina turned and hurried back inside. The warmth of the room hit her like a wave, but it did nothing to soothe the icy guilt that had settled in her chest. She moved quickly through the crowd, her eyes scanning the room until she found Natalia.

"We need to leave," Irina said, her voice clipped, trying to keep the panic from seeping through.

Natalia's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't question her sister. Instead, she nodded and took Irina's arm, guiding her through the room. On the way out, Natalia caught sight of Maria and motioned for her to come over.

"Find our parents," Natalia instructed quietly. "Tell them we need to leave, now."

Maria, sensing the urgency in Natalia's tone, didn't hesitate. She nodded and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Natalia to lead Irina outside to the waiting car. Irina didn't look back. She couldn't. Every step away from the party, from Feodor, was a step toward regaining control, toward burying the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. But once she was inside, the echo of that kiss lingered, and Irina couldn't shake the feeling that something had irreparably changed between them—and within herself.

Chapter Text

The morning after the soirée, Irina did not leave her room. Each family member took turns knocking on her door. Natalia was the first, right after they had arrived, and she was followed shortly by Maria. Early in the morning, her mother tried her luck, apologizing for pressuring her to accept Feodor's proposal the year before. Even her father came knocking shortly before lunch, speaking to her patiently about how heartache was an inevitable part of life. He assured her that the worst part—discovering Feodor's engagement—was already over, and that from now on, things would only improve.

Irina listened carefully and was tempted to open the door at times, but she couldn't summon the strength to leave her bed. She knew heartache well. She had felt it when Feodor left for the Crimea, and when she was forced to refuse his proposal despite her deep desire to be with him. But this time, it was different. Before, there had been hope; it was all a matter of time. If he waited for her, if she completed her education, then maybe, just maybe, they could be together. But the finality of his engagement to someone else was unbearable. She knew her father must understand; after all, he had endured much worse when he lost his first wife. Perhaps that was why he eventually went away and left her alone with her thoughts.

She would get over it eventually—of that, she was sure. She just didn't know when.

As the day waned, Irina cried herself into a deep sleep. When she finally awoke, she felt a slight relief in her chest, though her head still felt heavy. Looking to her side, she saw Natalia, sleeping in a chair next to her bed. A tray with a pot of cold tea and some biscuits sat on her nightstand. Her sister must have brought them earlier. Irina smiled faintly and reached out to hold her sister's hand. Natalia immediately opened her eyes and sat up straight.

"Feeling better?" she asked, a worried expression on her face.

Irina shrugged and reached for a biscuit, attempting to smile. "Not yet. But I will be. I promise."

Natalia moved from the chair to sit beside Irina on the bed. They held each other tightly, sitting in silence for a while.

"This is why I'll never fall in love," Natalia declared. "Everyone just suffers for no reason. If I ever see Feodor again, I swear I'll punch him. Papa said he wouldn't punish me if I did."

Irina smiled and brushed a lock of hair out of her sister's face. "You will fall in love, Natasha. And you will love every bit of it. At least I did... until now."

Natalia squeezed her even tighter when she saw another tear escape down her sister's cheek. "It doesn't matter. I just want to find Feodor and hurt him. And Isabelle too. I'd tie them to a post and set them on fire for making you feel like this. I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my days in Siberia for it."

Irina laughed for the first time in days. Only Natalia could have made her feel better in such a moment.

"Thank you, Natasha. But, although that image does sound tempting, I'd rather you stay here with me. Siberia is too far away, and it's awfully cold this time of year. Or so I've heard."

They concluded that a life sentence in Siberia wouldn't be the best outcome, but they found amusement in imagining various dark fates for Feodor and Isabelle. It was a silly game, but it distracted Irina from her despair. They played for what felt like hours until they heard what sounded like a fight downstairs.

The sisters exchanged confused glances. They could have sworn they heard their father's voice echoing through the corridors, but since he hardly ever raised his voice, it was hard to tell.

"Something is going on downstairs," Natalia finally said. "Stay here. I'll check and let you know."

Irina nodded as Natalia disappeared behind the bedroom door. She waited, but her sister didn't return. The loud voices continued, and Irina grew increasingly worried. What if something serious was happening to her family? In an instant, she threw on her robe over her nightgown and ran toward the stairs. The scene below froze her in place.

The foyer resembled a battlefield. Her mother was holding back her father, who was shouting with such vehemence that the veins in his neck stood out. Jacques, the gatekeeper, was doing his best to restrain Natalia, who was being difficult to handle. Despite his efforts to lift her off the ground, she was still kicking and shouting, "Coward!" repeatedly. Even with his tall frame, Jacques struggled to keep his balance. Maria and Tata simply looked on, not knowing what to do.

And in the middle of it all, seeming shorter than ever amid the confusion, but with his head held high, stood Feodor.

"I just want to talk to her. I already apologized to you, even though I didn't have to, but I won't leave until I see her," Feodor said, his voice resolute.

"She doesn't need you, you idiot! She's already forgotten all about you!" Natalia shouted back.

Irina couldn't move. She hadn't expected him to come. Why would he? He must have a million things to do, and a thousand places to be. Why was he here?

A second later, Feodor's eyes lifted from the chaos, and he saw her. Their gazes locked for just a moment before he broke through the human barrier her family had formed, rushing up the stairs. Natalia bit Jacques's hand and chased after him, her father joining her. Irina ran in the opposite direction.

"Irina! Irina, wait! We need to talk!" he called out.

Irina didn't answer. She rushed back into her bedroom and this time, she locked the door. Moments later, she heard Feodor pounding on it with his fists.

"Irina, please. Just listen to me. I promise it won't take more than a minute."

"There's nothing to talk about," Irina managed to shout from across the room. "Won't Isabelle wonder where you are?"

"It doesn't matter anymore, Irina. I broke off the engagement. There won't be a wedding."

Silence fell. The footsteps rushing up the stairs halted, and Natalia's shouting ceased. The only sound Irina could hear was the rapid beating of her heart. It was so fast she feared she might not be able to breathe. Her palms were sweaty. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn she was having a stroke.

"Irina..."

Feodor was right on the other side of the door. Only a wooden frame separated them. At any other time, she would have gladly opened the door and taken him into her arms, but she wasn't ready for that.

"Talk," she managed to utter after a few minutes.

She immediately heard Feodor's body straighten on the other side of the door, and his knuckles gently knocked on the wood.

"Is there any chance you could open the door?" he asked.

"No," she replied instantly.

She could hear his exasperated sigh, but she stood her ground. Besides not being ready to look him in the eye, she was suddenly very aware of how she looked—still in her nightgown, hair a mess, face streaked with dried tears. If he saw her like this, she feared he would run back to the Guise mansion and try his luck with the next daughter.

"Can we at least talk in private?" Feodor asked.

The commotion that had briefly ceased started again. There was a chorus of loud voices from the stairs, but the only clear phrases Irina could make out were Natalia's "You must be joking if you think we're leaving you alone with her" and her father's "You ought to learn some manners, young man! No one is going anywhere."

Irina heard Feodor kick the door in frustration, but he didn't move. Despite everything, she gave him credit for that. Anyone else in his position would probably have run by now.

"Very well then," he finally said. "Before we go on, can you answer two questions? And be honest."

Irina hesitated but mumbled a "yes" just loud enough for him to hear.

"Did you or did you not ask me to find someone who would want to start a family with me after I proposed last December?"

Irina's chest tightened. She had expected him to ask that question for nearly a year, and she had imagined countless scenarios for how to respond. But now, she couldn't. Her voice caught in her throat. After what felt like an eternity, she managed to utter the hardest "yes" of her life.

"And did I or did I not tell you that you could continue your education, even if we got married?"

Irina straightened her posture as soon as the question left Feodor's lips. She tried to remember the fateful day, but she had been so nervous and had tried so hard to suppress that memory that she found it hard to recall all the details. But she had indeed a vague recollection of him saying that it wouldn't be a problem for him.

"You said that?" She asked quietly, hoping he would listen.

There was a shift in the door. Feodor seemed to be pressing his body against it even more.

"I did, Irina," he whispered. "And I mean it. I just want to make you happy and if that's what you want, then I'm more than glad to make it easier for you."

Irina took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. The prospect of continuing her education was too tempting, too strong for her to deny. She had already concluded that her parents wouldn't allow her to pursue her dreams, so what if she could do that with Feodor?

"What about your dream of starting a family?" She asked, careful not to let her fantasy get the better of her. There had been a strong reason for her to refuse his proposal and she needed to remind herself of it.

She heard a sigh from Feodor from the other side of the door. Her family and guests were still outside, listening to every word and she could only imagine how difficult it was for him to talk about this subject in front of them, but she needed to be sure.

"It can wait," Feodor finally said after a moment of silence, his voice gentle yet firm. He took a deep breath as if gathering the courage to continue. "You can be my family for now. It would make me the happiest man in this world and the next if you want to do that."

Irina hesitated the weight of his words settling over her. She slowly turned to the door, her hand resting on the handle for a moment longer, as if to steady herself. When she opened it, she found herself face to face with Feodor. The dark circles under his eyes showed that he hadn't slept, while strands of his blond hair fell messily over his forehead. His shirt was slightly rumpled, unbuttoned near the collar, and Irina noticed it was the same one he had worn the previous evening. Yet despite his dishevelled appearance, there was a warmth in his gaze that made her heart skip a beat.

For a brief moment, they simply looked at each other. The world seemed to slow down, the sounds of the bustling corridor fading into the background. Then, as if remembering himself, Feodor's lips curved into a smile—one so bright and full of love that it took Irina's breath away.

"What are you saying?" she asked, her voice no more than a whisper, though her heart pounded loudly in her chest.

Feodor's smile wavered, and for a fleeting second, Irina thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. But then, without warning, he dropped to one knee before her. The suddenness of the gesture sent a wave of shock through the onlookers in the corridor, their collective gasp filling the air. There was no ring this time, no grand gesture of material wealth. But as Irina looked down at him, she realized she didn't need one. All she needed was this moment, this man, and the sincerity in his eyes.

"I'm asking if, by any chance, you would mind being my wife," Feodor said, his voice trembling with emotion. His eyes were fixed on hers, bright and hopeful, searching for any sign of hesitation.

Irina felt tears welling up, blurring her vision, but she blinked them away, determined to think clearly. She had never imagined this—never thought that something so simple, so pure, could happen to her. Yet here it was, unfolding in front of her like a dream she didn't want to wake from. But before she could say anything, a thought struck her.

"And Isabelle?" she asked her voice soft but concerned. "Is she alright?"

Feodor's expression softened, a mix of sadness and understanding passing over his face. "She will be," he answered in a steady voice. "We weren't that compatible anyway. And..." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "She deserves someone who loves her as much as I love you."

Relief washed over Irina, and she exhaled slowly, her heart swelling with something that felt like disbelief and joy.

"Will I be able to continue my studies?" she asked, her voice small, almost fragile.

Feodor nodded earnestly, not letting go of her hands. "Wherever you like," he promised, his voice soft but unwavering.

Irina exhaled slowly, her heart swelling with a mix of disbelief and joy. This never happened to her. Just one simple thing going well—one thing that allowed her to pursue her dreams, with everything good in between. It was too much, almost overwhelming, but as she knelt to be level with him, taking his hands in hers, she realized she wanted this—wanted him.

Tears streamed freely down her cheeks now, but she didn't care. She could see Feodor's tears too, reflecting the same emotions that churned within her, and she smiled—a small, hopeful smile.

"You really don't mind waiting before we start a family?" she asked, her voice trembling with hope.

Feodor squeezed her hands tightly, shaking his head, his own tears falling as he looked at her with such intense love that it made her chest ache. "I don't mind at all," he whispered. Irina's smile grew, a sense of peace washing over her.

"Then I guess I don't mind giving it a try," she whispered back.

As soon as the words left her lips, Feodor pulled her into his arms, holding her as if he never wanted to let go. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart against her own.

Around them, the soft sound of clapping began to fill the corridor—her family, friends, and even the servants, were all caught up in the moment.

Irina closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of Feodor's perfume. She wanted to pinch herself, to make sure this wasn't just a beautiful dream, but the solidity of his embrace, the warmth of his breath against her hair, told her that this was real—more real than anything she'd ever known.

"I thought she didn't like him. Wasn't that why she refused him the first time?" she heard her father grumbling somewhere in the background, his voice filled with confusion.

"Papa, really, you do need to read more novels," Natalia replied, her words interspersed with quiet sobs.

Chapter Text

Paris, January 1923

Natalia

The whirlwind of social events following the announcement of Irina and Feodor's engagement was enough to make even the most experienced socialites dizzy. It was fortunate that the proposal had been made in Paris, where a good love story was always welcomed and celebrated. In Russia, few people knew about Feodor's impending commitment to Isabelle, so the news was welcomed with very little scandal attached. The only exception had been, of course, Feodor's grandmother, the Dowager Empress, who had planned the match with care only to see her dear grandson choose the daughter of the woman she had once expelled from a ball for wearing crown jewels that had once belonged to Empress Maria Alexandrovna.

However, her disapproval did nothing to damper the mood. Feodor and Irina were back to their normal, puppy-eyed selves, as if nothing had happened and, this time, they were both eager to set a date as quickly as possible, so it took them less than a week to decide that they would be getting married in May. They would have chosen an even earlier date if they could, but their parents had somehow managed to convince them that six months was the minimum amount of time required to prepare a proper ceremony.

There was also a point of contention in the early discussions regarding the place where the wedding would take place. Feodor was eager to marry in the chapel at Ai-Todor, which would mean a very small ceremony with a limited number of guests. The idea of a reduced guest list was also very tempting to Irina, but their parents were still not on board with the idea. Natalia and Irina's mother had always dreamed of a grand ceremony at the Royal Chapel in the Winter Place and it was going to be extremely difficult to convince her to let go of the idea.

As for Irina, Natalia had no doubt she was deeply in love with Feodor and the time they had spent apart had only intensified their feelings for each other. Still, there was a new urgency about marrying that was very uncharacteristic of her. In fact, while their mother talked endlessly about dresses and flowers, dragging them for hours on end through the best shops in Paris, Irina seemed to have little interest in the details. She would have picked the first fabric she saw on the very first day they went shopping and she was more than glad to let their mother handle all the planning.

It was true that Irina had never cared about fashion in the same way Natalia and Tata did, but still, it was difficult not to wonder if she was using the wedding as an escape route, rather than something she actually wanted.

Still, Natalia tried not to dwell on it too much. Irina looked happy and Paris seemed more exciting than ever, which, for a girl who had just turned seventeen, was all that mattered.

That evening they were all celebrating the fact that Natalia's school would start the following week with a visit to the ballet. The Ballet Russes, the company Natalia's father had supported since their start, was premiering a new ballet and, for the first time in her life, Natalia was going to watch them at the Théâtre de l'Opéra.

The Ballet Russes had been a central part of her childhood in Paris. Monsieur Diaghilev, the mastermind behind the company, was a close friend of her parents and a frequent guest at their house in Boulogne-sur-Seine, where he often took his dancers. Natalia remembered fabulous evenings where, hidden under a table so their parents wouldn't find them and send them to bed, Irina and she watched the dancers perform in their ballroom in the brilliant costumes the world's most renowned designers created for them.

She had always been fascinated by them. As a child, she had kept a scrapbook with pictures of their beautiful costumes, samples of fabric which Monsieur Diaghilev had always been kind to offer her when he came to visit, and autographs from the dancers. The most prized she kept were from Anna Pavlova and Vaslav Nijinsky, who had visited her parents shortly before the war and their move to Russia.

However, because of her age, she had never been allowed to attend a live performance until now.

Her state of excitement in the days before the spectacle and, especially in the car as they made their way to the theatre, was impossible to describe. She shared the car with Irina, Feodor, Tata and Maria and neither of them was able to utter a word as Natalia filled them with unsolicited knowledge and curiosities about the Ballet Russes.

It was quite possible that, by the time they arrived at the theatre, they were all tired of hearing about them, but Natalia barely noticed it and, frankly, didn't care.

She was in awe of the theatre. By now, she knew the most splendid palaces of Russia like the back of her hand, so she shouldn't be so taken aback by the sight of it, but there was a certain reverence to this place. It was here that art was created and showcased to all who walked through its doors. Centuries of applause - or, in some cases, disdain - for the creations of the human mind. It was humbling to think of the past artists that had graced this stage, of how their art still stirred emotions so deep so long after they were gone. And now to feel the pure energy and passion of the current artists who wanted to follow the same path and become immortal.

"It's quite something, isn't it?" Her father whispered in her ear after they had taken their seats.

Natalia nodded, unable to hide a smile so big it made her cheeks hurt. "It's more emotional than I thought it would be," she confessed.

Her father gave her a kind smile. "I would give anything to feel the thrill you are feeling now again for the first time."

The final whispers of the audience faded into silence and Natalia felt a tingling anticipation sweep through her. The theatre was suddenly still as if the entire world had paused to hold its breath. Then, slowly, the grand chandeliers above began to dim until the vast auditorium was bathed in nothing but soft light.

Natalia's eyes were fixed on the heavy velvet curtain that covered the stage, with its deep red folds barely visible in the gloom. She could sense the tension in the air, as if all hearts were beating in the same rhythm. Then, without warning, the curtain began to rise.

The audience became deeply silent and every pair of eyes locked on the stage as the fabric slowly ascended. The darkness that had shrouded the stage began to peel away, revealing an entirely new world hidden just beyond. Natalia's breath caught as the first sliver of light spilt onto the stage, and then—like fireworks—a riot of colour flooded her senses.

It was as if the entire spectrum had come to life before her. Reds, blues and yellows exploded onto the stage as if each colour was competing to outshine the last. The set, which had been designed by some of the most accomplished and applauded artists of the day, seemed to shimmer in the soft glow of the stage lights. And the, the dancers walked in, dressed in sparkling costumes that made them look like creatures that were not of this world. They filled the space with their fluid and synchronized movements, like the gears of a finely tuned clock.

The backdrop was a dreamscape, a scene that was surreal and breathtakingly beautiful. Natalia felt as though she had been transported to another realm, a place she had imagined a thousand times, but had never been quite able to put to paper. Whoever had designed the set, seemed to have somehow managed to step into people's imaginations and bring their most prodigious fantasies to life.

The orchestra filled the theatre with sound that seemed to have been crafted in the same way as the costumes and the sets. The music sounded like a long-lost melody, something Natalia had once heard but could not quite place, something that made her feel exactly what the dancers were expressing on stage. It was a perfect complement to the visual spectacle.

As Natalia's eyes roved over the stage, captivated by the sheer brilliance of the performance, they were suddenly drawn to one particular dancer. He wasn't the tallest nor the most imposing figure there, yet there was something about him that commanded her attention. His movements were fluid, almost ethereal as if he and the music were not separate entities but a single, harmonious being.

He seemed younger than the others, with features not yet marked by the passage of time. He was not the lead dancer, but there was an undeniable presence about him, a raw energy that made him stand out amid the sea of more seasoned performers. Every leap, every turn, every graceful extension of his limbs was imbued with a vitality that made it harder for her to breathe.

Natlia tried to make sense of what was making him stand out and concluded that it wasn't just his technical skill —though that was evident in every precise movement he managed to perform—it was the way he danced as if the music were an extension of himself. His body moved with such a natural rhythm that it seemed as if the notes flowed directly through him, guiding his movements.

Even from the distance of the box, Natalia could sense his passion. There was a fire in his performance, a burning intensity that radiated outwards, reaching every corner of the theatre. He was not simply mimicking the steps he had learnt from the choreography; he was living it, breathing it, transforming it into something uniquely his own. His personality burst forth with every step, his emotions playing out in the rise and fall of his body, the graceful sweep of his arms.

The more she watched him, the more Natalia found herself unable to look away. It was as if he had hypnotized her, leaving all the other dancers to fade away into the background. She could feel his magnetic charisma drawing her in, making her feel as though she were the only one in the theatre, and he was dancing just for her.

As he continued to dance, Natalia's heart beat faster, her breath coming in soft, shallow gasps. The world around her seemed to blur, leaving only the dancer, the music, and the powerful emotions the combination of it all was awakening within her. She realized that this was why she had come—to witness something extraordinary, something that would stay with her long after the final note had been played.

And here it was, in the form of a dancer whose name she did not yet know but whose performance she would never be able to forget.

Chapter Text

When the performance came to an end, Natalia sat mesmerized, still feeling her heart racing from the exhilaration of everything she had just witnessed. Every movement from that young dancer had left a lasting impression on her mind. She knew she was still breathing somehow, but it felt as if all air had been taken out of her lungs. Even her hands were trembling and she clutched to the edge of her seat so nobody would notice just how much a simple spectacle had affected her. 

Sitting by her side, her father glanced at her with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She was certain he could see the sparkle in her eyes, the flush of excitement on her cheeks. With a playful glint of his own, he leaned over and asked, 

"Well, Natalia, what do you think? Shall we go home now, or would you like to meet the dancers?"

Natalia thought she had no emotions left to feel, but, after hearing her father's words, she could swear her heart was bursting out of her chest. The prospect of meeting the dancers, especially that one dancer in particular, was almost too much to bear. It was useless now to contain her excitement and her breath came out in quick, eager bursts as she turned to him with wide eyes. 

"I would love to meet them!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. 

Stepping into their world, even for just a moment, seemed almost too good to be true. Her father chuckled softly, pleased by her enthusiasm. 

"I thought you might say that," he said as the final curtain fell and the audience erupted into applause. Natalia joined in, her hands clapping fervently, though her thoughts were already racing ahead to what might come next.

When the applause subsided and the theatre slowly emptied, Natalia remained in her seat, her mind still spinning with everything she had seen that evening — the colours, the music, the dancer —it was all so vivid, so overwhelming.

Then, just as she began to rise, she heard a soft knock at the door of their box. Natalia's father turned to see a young man standing in the doorway, dressed smartly in evening attire. He bowed respectfully and then spoke in a polite and measured tone.

"Your Imperial Highness," he said, addressing Natalia's father, "Monsieur Sergei Diaghilev extends his warmest regards and wishes to invite you and your family to meet the dancers backstage if it pleases you."

Her heart raced with renewed excitement while her father looked at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, Natasha," he said, "it seems your wish has come true. Shall we accept the invitation?"

Natalia nodded eagerly, unable to produce any sound. She couldn't trust herself to speak, afraid that her excitement might spill over into incoherent babbling. Instead, she simply smiled and it took all of her restraint not to skip like a schoolgirl. This was more than she could have ever hoped for—a chance to step behind the curtain, to see the dancers up close, and perhaps even speak to them.

As they followed the young man out of the box and towards the backstage area, Natalia's mind felt like a carousel, full of questions. What would the dancers be like off-stage? Would they be as extraordinary in person as they were in the spotlight?

Backstage, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The luxury of the theatre gave way to a bustling, more intimate world, filled with activity, the sound of soft laughter, and the rustling of costumes. Natalia's heart pounded as they entered a large room where several figures stood, waiting.

Monsieur Sergei Diaghilev himself appeared almost immediately. He was a short, stout man, with a round, protruding belly that strained against his fashionable white shirt. His appearance was further marked by a peculiar moustache, thin and wiry, that sat awkwardly above his upper lip which, Natalia thought to herself with an amused smile, looked more like a small, wriggling worm than a traditional moustache. It seemed almost out of place on his face, adding an oddity to his otherwise unremarkable features. Yet, despite this unconventional appearance, he possessed a charisma so powerful that no one could remain indifferent in his presence. This was the man who, single-handedly and through sheer force of will, had sparked a revolution in the world of ballet.

His eyes twinkled with warmth as he approached the Grand Duke and his family, bowing slightly in greeting. "Your Imperial Highness," he said with a gracious smile, "it is an honour to welcome you here. We are delighted that you could join us this evening."

He then turned to Natalia, with a sharp yet kind gaze, as if he could sense the excitement bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. "Weren't you the young lady who always used to ask me for photographs when I went and visited your parents?" Diaghilev asked in a blend of humour and pride.

Natalia felt a sudden rush of heat to her cheeks. In a room filled with such immense talent, the memory of her younger self—eager, wide-eyed, and perhaps a bit too bold—made her feel slightly self-conscious. She could hear a few soft chuckles from the dancers around her, but their amusement was kind, not mocking.

"Yes, that was me," Natalia admitted in as clear a voice as she could manage. She offered a shy smile, lowering her eyes briefly before meeting Diaghilev's again. "I was very eager to have something to remember those visits by."

Diaghilev's smile widened, his eyes twinkling with affection for the memory. "And now, here you are, meeting the very people you admired from those photographs," he said warmly.

As the chuckles faded, Natalia's initial embarrassment was replaced by a more profound feeling of self-awareness. She had been introduced to countless important people over the years—nobles, diplomats, royalty—but none had ever made her feel quite like this. It was difficult for her to process how these individuals who, in their daily lives, might seem like ordinary people could be transformed into something extraordinary, almost magical on stage.

After a short while, Diaghilev began to introduce the dancers and creators of the evening's spectacle.

"Allow me to present first our brilliant choreographer, Bronislava Nijinska," Diaghilev announced, gesturing towards a woman of strong presence and clear determination. Natalia recognized the name immediately, the sister of the legendary Vaslav Nijinsky. Nijinska greeted them with a respectful nod, her gaze warm but focused, as if her mind was already on the next production.

Next, Diaghilev moved to the lead dancers, whose faces were still flushed by the energy of the performance. "This is our star tonight, Mikhail Fokine," Diaghilev said, introducing a man of striking features and an aura of grace and command that was one of the dancers Natalia had admired from afar for many years. Fokine offered a polite bow showcasing an air of calm confidence. Beside him stood Vera Karalli, the prima ballerina, who offered Natalia a soft, knowing smile, as if she could sense her awe and understood it well.

Diaghilev then paused and, with a gleam of pride in his eyes, he turned toward a figure standing slightly apart from the others—a young man of medium height, with strong, well-defined muscles that contrasted with the slight hesitance in his posture, as if unsure whether he truly belonged among such esteemed company. From then on, the world seemed to come to a sudden halt and every gesture seemed to unfold in slow motion as she recognized the dancer she had admired on stage.

"And lastly," Diaghilev said, his voice taking on a tone of personal pride, "allow me to introduce someone very special. This is Serge Lifar, from Kyiv. Tonight was his debut with us, his very first production." He turned to Serge with a smile of encouragement. "You may have noticed him—though he was not yet the lead, his presence on stage is unmistakable."

Natalia's eyes widened as she looked at Serge Lifar up close and was ashamed to admit his presence made her feel slightly dizzy. He had olive skin that glowed warmly under the soft backstage lights, and his dark, slightly tousled hair fell just over his eyes, adding a touch of mystery to his gaze. His eyes, almond-shaped and oriental, drew her in with their deep, captivating intensity. He looked like a figure out of a romantic tale—exactly how she imagined Don Juan might have appeared in real life.

The slight uncertainty in his posture only heightened the allure, making him feel more real and not just the brilliant and confident creature she had seen on stage. The closer she stood, the more she noticed—the subtle curve of his lips, the graceful line of his jaw, and the way his presence seemed to pulse with an energy that was magnetic and undeniable. Her pulse quickened, a flush rising to her cheeks as she realized just how taken she was by his looks.

But just as her heart fluttered with anticipation, hoping, somehow, that this meeting would play out like a story from a novel, Serge Lifar's gaze slid right past her without a hint of recognition or interest. His attention was entirely focused on her father, the Grand Duke as if Natalia were invisible. He offered a tentative smile to her father, clearly humbled by Diaghilev's introduction, and gave a small bow. "I am honoured to meet you, Your Imperial Highness," he said softly, with the same grace that had filled his movements on stage.

After Serge returned to his place at the back of the line, his hands clasped behind his back and gaze fixed on the floor, Natalia's parents began a long, animated conversation with Diaghilev and the two main dancers. They discussed the technical intricacies of the performance, the size of the audience, and other details that, while interesting, couldn't hold Natalia's attention for long. No matter how much she tried to focus on their words, her eyes kept drifting back to Serge.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" Tata whispered in her ear, teasing and full of mischief.

Natalia felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks, and she quickly pressed her gloved hands against them, hoping to cool her sudden embarrassment. "I don't think there's such a thing as an ugly ballet dancer, so I don't see the importance" she whispered back, trying to deflect Tata's attention and hide her flustered state.

"Oh, I've seen plenty of ugly ones!" Tata chuckled softly. "But definitely not this one. There's something different about him, isn't there? He has that... Don Juan look."

Natalia bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile over the fact that they had both thought of the same charming character to compare Serge to. 

"I suppose," she admitted in a whisper as she stole another glance at Serge. "But what's impressive about him is the way he moves, the way he... feels the music."

Tata nodded, leaning closer. "You're right. It's like he's living it, not just performing. Which only makes him even more attractive, don't you think?"

Natalia smiled at her friend's persistence. "Maybe a little," she agreed reluctantly, her eyes once again finding Serge, standing quietly, seemingly oblivious to the attention he was drawing from the girls.

Their whispered conversation was interrupted by Natalia's mother, who, with a warm and gracious smile, turned to Diaghilev. "Monsieur Diaghilev, you simply must stop by sometime for tea. It would be our pleasure to host you the next time we're in town."

Diaghilev inclined his head slightly in gratitude. "It would be my honour, Princess," he replied, his tone smooth and sincere. "You're leaving already?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Natalia's mother responded, her voice tinged with pride. "The Grand Duke, myself, and our eldest girl are just about to leave for his cure in Homburg, but we'll be back sometime in April to pick up my daughter's trousseau for her wedding. I don't know if you've heard, but she just got engaged to Prince Feodor Alexandrovich, Grand Duchess Xenia's son."

Diaghilev's eyes brightened with recognition and congratulations. "Ah, how wonderful! My warmest felicitations to your family and to the happy couple. Such splendid news."

Irina, standing beside her mother, blushed slightly at the mention of her upcoming wedding, while Feodor offered a gracious nod. The conversation briefly shifted to the wedding preparations, with Natalia's mother elaborating on the excitement and bustle that awaited them upon their return.

"Our youngest is staying around Paris, though," her mother added after a while. "She's going to a boarding school just outside the city to improve her education."

At that moment, Serge Lifar, who had been standing quietly at the back of the group, glanced very briefly at Natalia. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and her heart stopped for a moment as she realized she had been caught staring. Mortified, she quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She felt wholly inadequate. The heroines she read about in books always knew how to be poised, how to hide their interest. Right now, she felt like an open book that anyone could read.

But out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Serge's reaction—a subtle smirk played on his lips, his expression amused. It was as if he found her flustered reaction endearing, though he said nothing, allowing the moment to pass as quickly as it had come.

"Well, we won't take up more of your time," Natalia's father said, bringing the conversation to a close with a courteous smile. "Congratulations on your spectacle, it was brilliant as always."

Diaghilev and the other dancers bowed their heads in acknowledgement, offering their thanks. As the group began to disperse, Natalia stole one last glance at Serge. He was already turning away, his back to her as he moved toward the exit with the other dancers.

For a moment, she hesitated, fixing her gaze on his retreating figure, taking in the way he carried himself with such grace, looking every inch like a character out of a fairytale. There was something almost surreal about seeing him walk away as if the entire encounter had been a fleeting dream.

And then he was gone, disappearing through the doorway, leaving Natalia with a heart still fluttering from the unexpected exchange. The room seemed a little quieter without him, and as her family prepared to leave, she couldn't help but wonder when—or if—she might see him again.

Chapter Text

Sofia, Bulgaria, March 1923

Irina

The wedding day for Princess Marie of Romania (who everyone affectionately called Mignon) and Tsar Boris III of Bulgaria arrived on a rainy March day, with a bitter winter chill that seemed bent on clinging to the Earth despite the imminent arrival of Spring. Irina was in the midst of her own rush of wedding preparations, but she welcomed the break and the chance to visit a city that had always fascinated her. This time, she was the only one of the siblings accompanying her parents. Since Natalia had already missed a few months of her school year, their parents had decided to keep her in Paris. Vladimir had given his usual excuse of the work keeping him at the Corps des Pages, but Irina knew full well that this was a part of his usual policy to avoid Olga.

In the meantime, following Irina and Feodor's official engagement, her lady-in-waiting, Maria, and Feodor's brother, Nikita, had finally taken the same step, announcing their plans to marry later in the year. While Irina knew this meant she would sadly lose Maria as her lady, the thought of gaining her as a sister-in-law more than made up for the change. The joy of seeing two people she cared for find happiness together softened any sense of loss, and Irina couldn't help but feel that their lives were becoming ever more intertwined.

As for the Bulgarian wedding, the bride's family was, of course, fully represented at the occasion. King Ferdinand, who had a soft spot for this daughter of his, looked emotional and even let out a few tears during the ceremony, Queen Marie tried a little harder than usual not to be the focus of attention and her oldest children looked more peculiar than ever to Irina.

Carol had gained a considerable amount of weight since the last time Irina had seen him and was in a foul mood throughout the ceremony and reception. Olga stood beside him, looking elegant and serene, but hardly ever looking at her husband. Her little daughter, Marie, who was now one year and a half, stood very upright and well-behaved between her parents, while Olga held the little boy, Mircea, who was six months old, throughout the entire ceremony, not letting even the baby's nurse take him for one moment.

Little Marie was a curious blend of her parents' features, with a somewhat distinctive head shape that was larger than average, her rosy cheeks and protruding lips a clear inheritance from her father, while her bright, crystalline eyes were the same as her paternal grandmother's. Her head was a mass of blonde curls, which her younger brother tugged at throughout the ceremony, eliciting no reaction from the stoic child.

Tatiana was also there with her little girl, Alexandra, who was just a couple of months older than Marie but was as dark as her cousin was light. Although she was the older one, she looked smaller, her hair was cut in the new style and her face was more oval than her cousin's. As she grew older her resemblance to her father was increasingly obvious and the only thing she seemed to have inherited from her mother was the gray eyes and the sleek figure.

Alexei, who was there more to see his sisters than due to any close relations to the bride or groom, bumped into Irina just as she was walking into the hall where the reception was going to take place. It had become increasingly difficult to see him these days. His studies at the university consumed much of his time, and with each passing day, he was drawn further into the complex affairs of governance. His uncle, Michael, had been grooming him for greater responsibilities, bringing him to cabinet meetings with growing frequency, entrusting him with minor state papers, and even involving him in a debate at the Duma earlier that year.

Perhaps it was the weight of these new responsibilities, but Irina noticed that he looked a bit more worn than before. His complexion was paler, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he was thinner than she would have liked to see him. Yet, despite the fatigue that seemed to cling to him, his face lit up with a jovial smile the moment he spotted her. With a quick stride, he crossed the room and pulled her into a warm embrace.

"How are you, Princess Feodor?" Alexei teased, his voice light and playful, though his tired eyes told a different story with a shadow of fatigue that even his easy grin couldn't entirely hide.

Irina winced inwardly at the title. It was true, she would soon be addressed as Princess Feodor, as the court minister had so emphatically explained during one of the countless, mind-numbing meetings she and Feodor had been forced to endure since their return to Petrograd. The minister had likely expected her to show more enthusiasm when he informed her that she would be elevated to a Princess of the Blood, a title more prestigious than the one she held now. But at that moment, Irina had been too preoccupied with the realization that marrying Feodor meant relinquishing her name in public ceremonies, a part of herself that felt irreplaceable.

"I'm not sure I have an answer," Irina confessed. "I'm happy, excited, nervous, and overwhelmed, all at the same time."

Alexei's smile softened into something more understanding. "How are the preparations going?" he asked in a gentle tone.

"Good, I think," Irina replied, a bit too quickly, as if trying to convince herself as much as him. "I'm hoping to start university in Yalta by September. I wanted to catch a few lectures before the summer break, but with the honeymoon and all the places I want to visit, I think it's best to save the summer for travelling. Then I can dive into my studies in the autumn."

Alexei's expression shifted, a lopsided grin playing on his lips as he chuckled softly. "I was talking about the wedding, Irishka."

Irina felt a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck, her cheeks warming under his amused gaze. Thankfully, Alexei knew her well enough to understand that she was more excited about her studies than about the wedding, but that it didn't mean she loved Feodor any less, she just didn't care about the ceremonial aspect of it. Still, she realized, with a pang of guilt, that her priorities might be showing too clearly, and she reminded herself that she should always keep her wedding at the forefront of every conversation.

"Oh! Of course!" she blurted out, a grin spreading across her face, though it felt more forced than she intended. "Well, honestly, I'm not really sure. I just spend hours sitting in stuffy rooms, listening to endless explanations of ancient protocols, nodding and saying 'yes' or 'no' when asked. And when someone asks me more detailed questions, like whether I want my veil to be tulle or Honiton lace, I just say, 'Whatever you think is best; I trust your taste more than mine.'"

Alexei laughed with a warm and genuine sound, and Irina couldn't help but join him, both laughing at the earlier misunderstanding.

"And are you determined to have the ceremony at Ai-Todor?" Alexei asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Yes!" Irina replied with evident relief. "Feodor is set on it. The estate means so much to him, and honestly, I'm just glad it means we don't have to invite quite so many people."

Alexei's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Is your mother ever going to recover from the disappointment of not seeing her daughter marry in the Winter Palace?"

Irina laughed. "Never, I think," she said with a playful grin. "I'm pretty sure she'll disown me right after the ceremony. Maybe she'll have better luck with Natasha."

She was still savouring that sense of independence when she caught the look in Alexei's eyes - a brief flash of longing that he couldn't quite hide. She quickly understood that mentioning Natalia and her hypothetical marriage had been thoughtless, especially when they hadn't seen each other in nearly four months.

"How is she, by the way?" Alexei asked, his attempt at sounding casual falling flat.

Irina offered him a gentle smile, hoping to ease the tension. "You know Natasha. She's the most French Russian we know. She couldn't be happier. She's made so many friends, adjusted to the routine better than any of us could have predicted, and spends her weekends roaming about Paris with Tata. Even I'm a bit jealous."

She watched as Alexei's expression softened, a mixture of affection and wistfulness crossing his face. Irina knew how deeply he cared for her sister, and though Natalia was thriving in Paris, it was clear that her absence was making him suffer. Irina's words were meant to reassure him, but they also carried the underlying truth that Natalia was flourishing in a world that was increasingly her own. A world where Alexei was more a cherished memory than a constant presence.

"Are you going to see her soon?" he asked after a brief silence.

"Yes," Irina replied with a hint of weariness in her tone. "We'll be travelling directly from here to Paris to sort out my trousseau." She sighed dramatically, exaggerating her distaste for the whole affair, hoping to lighten the mood. "We'll stay for about two weeks, then return to Petrograd for the final wedding details. By May, we'll be in Crimea."

"She's going to your wedding, isn't she?" Alexei asked.

"I'd fetch her from Paris myself if she didn't," Irina laughed in a light tone, which seemed to reassure Alexei for the moment. But even as she tried to lift his spirits, she couldn't help but notice the lingering sadness in his eyes, a shadow that suggested there was something he wasn't sharing.

"She's been writing to you, hasn't she?" Irina ventured, her voice softening as she probed the tension between them.

The pained expression that flickered across Alexei's face was all the answer she needed.

"She did for a while," Alexei said, trying to keep his tone even. "But her letters have become less frequent. I suppose she's just caught up in everything over there, and to be honest, I've been swamped myself. I haven't even gotten around to answering her last letter. We've both been a bit negligent."

Irina felt a pang of empathy as she listened to his words. The distance between them, both physical and emotional, was more apparent now than ever. Natalia's life in Paris was pulling her further away, and Alexei, despite his best efforts, was feeling the strain. It seemed that Vladimir's plan was working better than anyone had anticipated, though there was no triumph in witnessing two friends drifting apart.

Just as Irina was about to offer Alexei some words of comfort, she noticed his sister, Olga, approaching. She still held her baby close, while little Marie, now more animated, darted around her mother's skirt with boundless energy. Alexei quickly checked himself, obviously not wanting to show his melancholy to his sister, and picked up his little niece off the floor, swinging her around.

"Irina," Olga greeted her, a soft smile playing on her lips. "How good to see you. Congratulations on your engagement with Cousin Feodor."

Irina felt a slight blush rise to her cheeks as she returned Olga's greeting. "Thank you, Olga. It's... it's all still a bit overwhelming, but I'm very happy."

Olga's smile widened as her expression softened with a hint of nostalgia. "I always hoped you and Feodor would find a way to see past your differences and discover common ground. It's wonderful to see that you have."

Irina felt touched by Olga's sincerity and wondered if, under different circumstances, they could even have been friends. From the few letters they had exchanged over the last months, Irina had discovered that they had much in common: their taste for reading and music, their quiet nature. Then again, those had been the very same things that had once drawn her brother Vladimir to her, but she tried to brush the thought out of her mind. 

Instead, she reached out, gently caressing the baby's rosy cheeks, much in the same tone as his sister's, with magnificent oblong curls framing his cherubic face. His darker eyes, more like his mother's, gazed up at Irina with a quiet curiosity. The little one gurgled softly, leaning into her touch. 

"And how is he doing?" Irina asked.

A shadow passed through Olga's eyes at the question and Irina felt her heart sinking. She instantly remembered one of the letters Olga had sent her, about how she didn't want a boy because she was afraid he would inherit Haemophilia. Irina knew it was a real risk, but, somehow, she had always been hopeful that it wouldn't happen, especially as Maria's little boy seemed to have escaped the illness.

"We're not sure yet," Olga answered carefully, measuring every word, but the tremble in her voice was undeniable. "That's why we haven't told anyone outside the family, but..."

She paused for a moment, trying to gather her strength. It was clear she didn't want anyone to see her falter, the see this softer, more fearful side of her. She swallowed and then she turned to Irina with a semblance of a smile. 

"He bruises very easily and I remember seeing those bruises when Alexei was small. I'm trying not to be too anxious about it and wait until we take him to a specialist, but, deep down..." Another pause. "Deep down, I know."

Irina swallowed, feeling her throat tightening at the thought. "I'm so sorry. If there's anything at all I can do to help..." 

Although it was not easy for Irina to show her emotions, she hoped Olga knew how sincere she was.

Her eyes softened at Irina's words and the weight of her earlier tension eased just enough for Irina to see the message had been well received. She reached out and squeezed Irina's hand gently.

"Thank you, Irina," she said quietly, her voice trembling with emotion. "It means more than you know."

Before Irina could respond to Olga's quiet thanks, a burst of vibrant energy interrupted their moment. Queen Marie of Romania swept toward them, her larger-than-life presence filling the room like a sudden gust of wind. Irina braced herself as the queen approached, with her bright and exuberant laugh, almost too much for Irina's more reserved nature.

"Darlings, there you are!" Queen Marie exclaimed, clapping her hands lightly as she closed the distance between them. "What are you two whispering about over here? This is a wedding, after all! No long faces allowed today!"

Olga straightened, quickly recovering her composure. "We were just catching up," she said, her voice lighter than before, though Irina could still see the shadow lingering behind her eyes.

Irina, however, couldn't suppress a flicker of polite annoyance. Loud, overly enthusiastic people had always made her uncomfortable, and the queen's overbearing presence was more than enough to grate on her nerves. Still, she forced a smile.

"Oh, and congratulations on your engagement with dear Feodor," the Queen said, turning towards Irina.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Irina said in a careful tone. "It's very kind of you to remember."

Queen Marie beamed, but her next words made Irina's stomach twitch. "I must admit, I was quite surprised to hear about it," she confessed, lowering her voice just slightly as if she were sharing a delicious bit of gossip. "I was quite certain Feodor had been about to marry Isabelle of Orléans. There were some whispers about it here and there."

The words made Irina grit her teeth, but she tried to hide her annoyance behind another polite smile. "Oh, well," she managed to say. "Things turned out differently."

The queen's grin didn't falter. "Indeed, they did. A shame for Isabelle, but fortunate for you, I suppose," she said with a wink. "But speaking of brides slipping away, it's a pity, truly, that all the good Orthodox girls are being snapped up so quickly."

Irina blinked, unsure of how to respond, but the queen carried on without pause. "You see," she continued, clearly enjoying herself, "I had hoped for you as a potential match for my Nicholas. Such a fine young man, but always away. He's off on that world tour with the British Royal Navy, you know. He's so handsome and charming, my boy. A perfect match, really."

Irina's polite smile remained fixed in place, though inside, she cringed. She had heard this story a dozen times before, the queen's insistence that her absent son would have made the perfect husband for just about anyone above the age of eighteen who had been invited to the wedding. Deep down, Irina was relieved Nicholas hadn't been around, but it didn't make the conversation any less uncomfortable. 

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said quietly. "I remember you mentioned that."

Queen Marie waved a hand as if dismissing the awkwardness of it all. "Oh, well! What's done is done, I suppose. But congratulations again, darling." She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, "You've made quite the catch with Feodor."

Irina could only nod, offering another strained smile. The queen's attention, mercifully, shifted as she turned to Olga. "Now, let's not dawdle! You must give that baby to its nurse! There's dancing and champagne to be had, and I expect you both to enjoy it."

With that, Queen Marie swept them both into the festive atmosphere, leaving Irina to swallow her discomfort and hope the rest of the evening would pass with fewer uncomfortable exchanges.

Chapter Text

April 1923

Natalia

Paris was life. Even four months after her return, Natalia still marvelled at how she had survived so long away from the city where she had been born. Paris had an electric pulse, especially now, in the wake of the war. It was as if the entire city had vowed to live with reckless abandon, to savour every moment of peace before fate could snatch it all away again.

People seemed bolder and more experimental. New art forms were emerging that defied logic and long-standing traditions, while music—wild, untamed rhythms that made the older generation shake their heads in disapproval—set bodies in motion with a kind of frantic release. It was as if the city itself had decided to erase everything that was old and was starting to rewrite itself from scratch, and Natalia, alongside Tata, was right in the middle of it all.

Weekdays meant school, but that was hardly a challenge. After years of enduring strict English governesses and tireless Russian maids, her school teachers seemed almost soft by comparison. Sure, the coursework was more rigorous, but Natalia wasn't there to be at the top of the class. She did just enough to stay afloat, content with mediocrity as long as it kept her free for the weekends.

Ah, the weekends. That was when life truly unfolded.

Though always under the watchful eye of two or three chaperones, Natalia and Tata ventured into the heart of Paris. They attended the theatre and watched avant-garde plays that sometimes made no sense but left them buzzing with excitement. They roamed through art exhibitions, where colours and forms blurred the lines of reality. They saw operas that stirred emotions in ways words couldn't. And when the sun was high, they took leisurely, endless walks through the Bois de Boulogne and the elegant streets of fashionable neighbourhoods.

But it wasn't only the sanctioned adventures that made Natalia feel alive.

Two or three times, she and Tata had slipped out of the house unnoticed in the middle of the night. Careful to avoid waking the servants, they crept down the darkened streets until they could catch a cab to the city's centre and discover the smoky, vibrant world of Paris's underground jazz clubs. There, they saw firsthand the music that had taken the world by storm—wild, syncopated rhythms that made the air feel electric. It was nothing like anything they had ever experienced, and they were entranced by the energy of it all.

One night, Tata bumped into a group of friends already at the club, and before Natalia knew it, they were being pulled onto the dance floor and taught how to move to the infectious beat of the Charleston. At first, Natalia fumbled, laughing at her own clumsiness, but soon she was spinning and kicking with the rest of them, swept up in the exhilaration of the night.

The first time they had escaped, they had barely made it back before dawn, rushing through the back door just moments before the servants got up to start their day's work. With her heart pounding and shoes still dusty from the streets, Natalia collapsed into bed, breathless and giddy from the thrill of having outwitted everyone.

In those moments, as she stood under the Parisian sky, breathing in the city's intoxicating energy, Natalia felt she could never leave again.

But reality always had a way of creeping into her existence. With Irina's wedding to Feodor fast approaching, her family was due to arrive in Paris at any moment. The thought of seeing them again was bittersweet. She missed them, of course she did, but the freedom she had enjoyed over these past months would soon be over. Afterwards, she would have to travel to the Crimea for the wedding and, while she was happy for her sister, it was impossible not to feel a sense of disappointment for everything she was going to miss while she was away.

That morning, the air outside was soft and fresh. The soft breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth which was as clear a sign as any that Spring had fully arrived and was transforming the city. The bare branches of the trees lining the avenue outside their house were now heavy with a delicate canopy of young green leaves. The sunlight, gentle and golden, filtered through them, creating golden patterns and shadows over the gravel in the avenue. Natalia stood by the entrance of the house, resting her gloved hands on the wrought iron railing as she watched for any sign of her family's arrival.

She could hear the occasional chirp of birds and the distant murmur of people going about their day, as the city woke up to the promise of another beautiful April morning and her heart fluttered as she glanced down the avenue again, looking for the car that would bring her parents and sister back into her world.

And then, finally, she heard the soft hum of its engine breaking the stillness. When it drew closer, Natalia stepped forward, feeling the spring sunshine on her cheeks and the soft morning breeze tangling through her air.

The car came to a stop in front of the house. For a moment, there was only the sound of the birds and the rustling leaves, but as the door opened and her mother stepped out, Natalia's hesitations all melted away. Her mother's face, lit with a smile, seemed just as radiant as the spring morning itself. Natalia rushed forward, feeling her heart swelling with emotion as she embraced her mother tightly, her familiar scent immediately comforting her.

"Natasha, my dear," her mother whispered, pulling her close. Natalia breathed in deeply, letting herself sink into the warmth of her presence. 

Her father stepped out next, straightening his coat before making his way over. He smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Natalia greeted him with a kiss on each cheek, feeling a deep sense of peace settle over her.

And then, Irina appeared and, as she stepped out of the car, Natalia marvelled at how beautiful her sister looked. The spring sun caught in her hair, making it shine, and her face was lit with an unmistakable joy. Irina's radiant smile erased any lingering tensions between them. All thoughts of their past misunderstandings seemed insignificant now.

Without hesitation, Natalia enveloped her sister in a tight embrace. "I've missed you so much, Irishka," she whispered into her hair. 

Irina laughed, a light, melodic sound, and returned the embrace just as warmly. "I've missed you too," she said softly and full of affection.

The very next day after their arrival, Natalia was swept up in the flurry of preparations for Irina's wedding. The spring air was crisp as the car made its way through the streets of Paris, carrying Natalia, Irina, their mother, and Tata toward Lucien Lelong's fashion house. All of them shared a sense of deep and joyful anticipation, the kind that could only come from such a momentous occasion—Irina's final fittings and the first look at her wedding dress.

Lucien Lelong's atelier was located in a charming part of the city, nestled among elegant storefronts and the energy of Paris's fashionable crowd. The building was the kind of boutique that offered an understated sense of luxury, with its sleek, minimal façade and large windows that offered glimpses of the beautiful creations inside. A doorman opened the door as they arrived, and they were greeted with the scent of fresh flowers, fabrics and leather and the quiet hum of sowing machines of people walking back and forward behind the scenes.

As they stepped inside, Monsieur Lelong himself was waiting to welcome them. He was a short, charming man who was always impeccably dressed. He smiled broadly as he approached them, reaching out his hand to greet them. He was a family friend, relatively new to the Parisian fashion scene, but already making a name for himself with his innovative designs that managed to retain something of a traditional sense of elegance.

The atmosphere inside was light with chatter, but Natalia could sense that Irina's usual lack of enthusiasm for fashion was ever-present. Her sister had always preferred to let others handle such matters, and today was no different, even if she was the centre of attention. Still, they all knew this visit was important—this would be the day Irina would try on her wedding dress for the first time.

The atelier was as chic as Natalia remembered, with its luxurious fabrics draped across every surface and assistants flitting about like graceful birds. Natalia had always loved the sense of artistry and life that came with visiting such places in Paris. For Irina, however, the occasion seemed more like a duty than a pleasure.

"Ah, Princess Irina, my radiant bride!" Lucien said, pulling her to his side. He kissed her on both cheeks, but her polite smile gave little away of what she was really feeling.

Natalia could tell her sister was going through the motions, waiting for the real highlight of the visit—the wedding dress. Irina stood patiently as assistants brought out delicate lace nightgowns and chic day dresses. Natalia and their mother chimed in with opinions, offering approval or suggesting minor adjustments, but Irina remained quietly composed. She tried on the pieces with little fuss, giving nods of acknowledgement but little more.

Monsieur Lelong, always perceptive, didn't press Irina for reactions, instead focusing on the final presentation of the day. "And now, mademoiselle," he said, his eyes gleaming with pride, "the moment we have all been waiting for—the dress."

Even though this wasn't Natalia's wedding, she felt as fidgety and excited as a bride, knowing that the moment her sister was about to step into the gown was coming. Irina disappeared behind the screen with a seamstress, and for a brief moment, the room remained plunged into deep silence.

When Irina stepped out again, everything changed.

The dress was a masterpiece—an elegant silhouette of ivory silk and lace, intricate without being overwhelming. Natalia watched as Irina stood before the mirror, and for the first time that day, her sister's reserved demeanour slipped. There was a glimmer in her eyes as she took in her reflection. Irina didn't speak at first, but the slight softening of her features said everything.

Natalia shared a look with their mother, knowing they had both noticed the same thing: Irina was impressed, truly moved by what she saw. The dress had done what no other garment could—it had touched her.

As Irina stood before them, Natalia felt a sudden rush of emotion. She had always known this day would come—the fittings, the preparations, the excitement were all leading up to it —but in that moment, it all felt startlingly real. Her sister was getting married. The idea had been just that—an idea—but now, seeing Irina dressed as a bride, it became something tangible, something real.

Natalia's breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight. Irina, the sister who had always been so composed, so pragmatic, was now standing before her transformed. The dress clung to her as if she had been born to wear it. The delicate lace shimmered under the soft light, and for the first time, Natalia could see the enormity of the change that was coming.

Her mother, who had been quietly dabbing at her eyes, suddenly let out a soft sob of joy. "Oh, Irishka," she whispered in a trembling voice as she reached out to gently touch the fabric of the dress. "You look perfect, my darling." 

The words were choked with emotion, and Natalia could see that she was struggling to hold back the flood of tears.

Tata, ever the one to keep her composure, as well as that of all around her, was uncharacteristically quiet. Natalia saw her blinking rapidly, clearly trying to ward off tears. But instead of brushing them away, Tata stepped forward, studying Irina with a critical eye.

"Well," she said, gesturing at the dress, then at Irina, as if trying to make sense of it all, "This is dangerous. You'll have poor Feodor fainting at the altar. He won't know what hit him."

Irina smiled, and Tata's face softened. Her voice grew gentler, though still full of mischief. "I should have prepared myself for this, but seeing you now... my heart's not ready. You're truly stunning, darling."

Natalia's own eyes stung, her throat tightening as she realized she, too, was about to cry. She hadn't expected this, hadn't anticipated the way the sight of Irina in her wedding dress would hit her so deeply. But here it was, a swell of emotion she couldn't contain. She moved closer to Irina, her smile trembling as she whispered, "You're really getting married."

Irina turned toward her, and for the first time, Natalia saw her sister's eyes fill with tears. The wedding had been something Irina had treated like a task to be completed, a way to follow her dreams, but now even she seemed overcome by the weight of the moment. She had always been practical, rarely inclined to show emotion, but seeing herself reflected in the eyes of her family—so full of love and emotion—had cracked something open inside her.

"I am," Irina said softly, her voice catching as a tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She let out a soft, shaky laugh, wiping her eyes. "I didn't think... I didn't expect to feel like this."

Natalia reached out, pulling her sister into a warm embrace. "Neither did I," she admitted, her own tears slipping free. "But you're beautiful, Irina. So beautiful."

Their mother joined them, wrapping both of her daughters in a hug, her tears flowing freely now. Tata stood nearby, wiping her eyes discreetly but unable to hide her emotion.

The moment stretched, tender and full of affection. Irina's wedding had now become something real and breathtaking. This was the beginning of a new era for their family. Irina would soon be a wife, and, with a pang, she tried to hide, Natalia knew that nothing would ever be quite the same again.

It was a bittersweet realization, but in that moment, it felt right. Irina, their steady, reliable Irina, was ready to take this next step, and Natalia couldn't be more proud.

Chapter Text

A few days after the appointment at Lucien Lelong's, Natalia found herself caught in the whirlwind of social events and engagements that now filled her days. There was hardly a moment of peace between the wedding preparations and her parents' eagerness to show Irina off at every possible gathering. It was a parade of luncheons, soirées, and family meetings. She knew it would only intensify in the coming weeks, and while her absence from school was inevitable, she couldn't bring herself to care much about missing the classes.

She sighed when she thought about it, almost laughing at herself. The thought of missing algebra didn't cause her any worry, but the idea of missing out on the vibrant, untamed weekends made her stomach twist with longing.

Every day seemed to bring a new set of guests to their table. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—there was never a quiet moment. People who had hardly cared for them before suddenly found their way into their lives, eager to bask in the glow of Irina's engagement to the Tsar's cousin. Natalia couldn't help but find the whole thing a little absurd. A few months ago, most of these aristocrats wouldn't have bothered to glance their way, but now, they were the centre of attention, invited to every grand house and hosting an endless stream of visitors.

She found most of them dreadfully dull. The conversation at the daytime meals was often lifeless, revolving around old family connections and social niceties that Natalia had no interest in. They were polite, of course, but there was no spark, no intrigue. She would smile, nod along, and try to keep herself entertained without being rude, but the hours dragged on.

It was the soirées that she truly lived for. In the evenings, there was a change in the type of guests they hosted—out went the dull aristocrats and in came artists, writers, and worldly officers with stories of faraway lands and adventures. There was laughter, spirited debate, and an energy that brought joy and life back to the room. These were the people who fascinated Natalia, who made her feel like there was more to the world than society's rigid rules. She felt more like herself among them, as if her mind became more stimulated by their ideas and their boldness. She even found herself craving the freedom they enjoyed.

One afternoon, after sitting through yet another uneventful lunch, in which she had barely paid attention to the murmured conversation around her, she prepared herself for the second part of the day: afternoon tea. She had grown used to tuning out the monotonous hum of the aristocratic chatter. It was all routine by now—a blur of faces, names, and titles that had begun to blend into one another.

But then, the double doors to the sunroom swung open, and the air shifted.

Natalia glanced up, expecting another round of dignitaries or relatives she could barely remember, but instead, her heart came to a sudden, delightful halt. Strolling into the room, with the ease and grace of those who knew they belonged everywhere and nowhere, was none other than Sergei Diaghilev, flanked by a small group of dancers and they brought with them a new energy that made everything feel more vivid, more alive. Natalia's breath hitched.

It was so unexpected, so surreal, she couldn't quite believe her eyes. She leaned slightly forward, unable to hide her surprise. She was used to grand visitors, but this was something entirely different—a group of artists, living legends in the world of ballet, casually entering her home as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And then she saw him.

Amidst the graceful figures surrounding Diaghilev was a face that made the world tilt on its axis. Serge Lifar, with his striking features and presence. He was more handsome than she remembered, and the sight of him standing there, so close, made her question if this was a dream.

She bit down a smile so no one would see how dazzled she was by what was happening, but she felt too buzzing and bubbling and it was impossible for her to control her feet, which she tapped rhythmically under the table. He was here. In her home.

She had thought about Serge Lifar more times than she cared to admit since that night at the ballet. His presence had lingered in her mind with a kind of forbidden fascination, but she had never expected to see him again outside of the theatre. And now, here he was, walking through the door as if conjured from her own thoughts.

For a moment, Natalia felt rooted to her seat, considering whether she wanted to remain hidden or catch Serge's eye. Her stomach fluttered with nerves as Diaghilev's group made their way toward the table, and she couldn't help but glance over at him, hoping (or maybe dreading) that he might notice her.

And then, almost as if he sensed her gaze, his eyes flickered in her direction, meeting hers, and for a heartbeat, everything else in the room faded. The conversation, the rustle of dresses, even the clinking of silverware—gone. There was just that look, those expressive dark eyes, who seemed to notice her for the briefest of moments before glancing around the room again.

The tea proceeded as expected, with her mother leading the conversation in that graceful, expert manner of a hostess who had a natural talent to leave everyone at ease and admired. She complimented Diaghilev on the success of his latest spectacle, praising the rave reviews and offering her heartfelt praise for his vision and artistry. 

"Your productions always transport us, Sergei Pavlovich," she said with just the right touch of flattery. "Paris is fortunate to have you."

Diaghilev responded with his usual grace, though Natalia could tell he was pleased with the recognition. He spoke of future projects, hinting at new collaborations and innovations that were sure to cause a buzz in the city. Natalia tried to focus on the conversation, on the discussion about the art and the future of the ballet, but her mind was elsewhere.

Through it all, she kept stealing glances at Serge. He hadn't said much, content to let Diaghilev and the others do the talking, but he seemed captivated by his surroundings. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the opulent décor, the delicate details of the drapes, the fine porcelain laid out for tea. His gaze moved thoughtfully as if he were studying every corner of the room, and Natalia wondered what he was thinking.

Every time her eyes drifted toward him, she felt a subtle thrill, a heightened awareness of his presence. She noted the way his fingers tapped absently against the arm of his chair, the way he shifted slightly when the conversation grew more animated. He looked intrigued, though perhaps not by the conversation itself but by the room around him, as if absorbing the atmosphere with the same intensity he brought to his performances.

Natalia couldn't help but wonder if he felt out of place here, amidst the stiff formality of their tea, so different from the vibrant, electric world of the stage where he belonged. And yet, there was something in the way he looked at everything, a kind of quiet fascination that made her feel as if, in his eyes, this world was as foreign to him as the one he lived in was to her.

After tea, a few of the dancers, who were feeling restless from the long conversation, excused themselves to take a look at the gardens. Natalia noticed that Serge was one of them, walking toward the French doors and disappearing into the sun-dappled afternoon.

Meanwhile, Natalia's mother was still deep in conversation with Diaghilev, conveying her admiration as they discussed his latest production. In the midst of it, she suddenly remembered something. 

"Oh, Sergei Pavlovich! You must see something," she said with a gleam in her eye. "My Natalia used to be completely in awe of the Ballet Russes when she was a little girl. She had this wonderful scrapbook filled with drawings and photographs from the performances—costumes, dancers, you name it."

Diaghilev's face lit up, genuinely intrigued. "Ah, I would love to see it! It's always fascinating to see how the company inspires young minds."

Natalia, sitting quietly at the table, felt her cheeks burning. She hadn't thought about her old scrapbook in ages, and the idea of showing them to someone like Diaghilev was embarrassing. 

"Mama, they're nothing really," she protested lightly, but her mother waved a hand, brushing off her hesitation.

"Nonsense, Natalia! Go fetch it. I'm sure Monsieur Diaghilev would appreciate seeing it."

Feeling a mixture of pride and reluctance, Natalia stood and excused herself. She made her way upstairs feeling her heart beating a little faster than usual. The old scrapbook had been tucked away in her bedroom for years—it had been something she had cherished in her younger days, but now felt like a relic of her childhood obsession. Still, she couldn't deny that the thought of Diaghilev flipping through it caused some sense of excitement.

As Natalia ascended the stairs, her thoughts raced ahead of her, still swirling with enthusiasm and nerves about showing her old sketchbook. She turned down the corridor leading to her bedroom, her footsteps quiet on the thick carpet when suddenly she nearly bumped into someone at the top of the landing.

Startled, she gasped and took a step back, her heart lurching in her chest. Her hand flew to her mouth, but as her eyes adjusted, she realized with a shock who it was.

Serge. Standing there, close to her room, looking just as surprised as she was.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she took in the unexpected sight of him. He wasn't supposed to be here, not in this part of the house, and her mind raced to make sense of it.

"Monsieur Lifar?" she asked, confused. "What are you doing here?"

For a moment, he looked caught off guard, his dark eyes flicking from her to the closed doors around them, as if weighing his options. But then, his expression softened into a sheepish smile, and he gestured toward the hallway with a casual wave of his hand.

"I was looking for the bathroom," he said, in a low, almost amused voice. "But I seem to have gotten lost."

Natalia raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure if she believed him. "The bathroom?" she repeated, glancing down the corridor. "It's the other way... downstairs."

He ran a hand through his dark hair, letting out a quiet chuckle. "Ah. That explains why I couldn't find it," he said, in a disarmingly light tone, as if this was all just a minor inconvenience. His smile lingered, and despite herself, Natalia felt a smile tugging at the corners of her own lips.

"Well, you're quite far off," she said, crossing her arms. She wasn't sure whether to be suspicious or charmed by his nonchalant explanation. The idea of him wandering around her home, so close to her private space, sent a strange mix of nerves and intrigue shooting through her.

Serge glanced around, his eyes briefly settling on the door to her room before flicking back to her with a playful glint. "It's a big house," he said with an easy shrug. "One could easily get lost."

Natalia laughed softly, though a part of her still felt slightly on edge. This whole situation was unexpected, strange even, and yet she couldn't deny the excitement that came with it—Serge, here, alone, standing in her family's private apartments.

"Well," she said, stepping aside to give him space to retreat, "if you're looking for the bathroom, you're definitely not going to find it up here."

Serge held her gaze for a moment longer, as if he was appraising her, before he nodded, a smile still playing on his lips. "I'll take your word for it."

With a final glance down the hallway, he turned to leave, but not without a lingering look back at her, one that made her blood throb in her veins. She followed his retreat, rooted to the spot, her thoughts a whirl of confusion and something else she couldn't quite name.

Natalia knew she should feel more suspicious, perhaps even a little frightened. He had no reason to be here, so far from where the others were, especially this close to her private rooms. A stranger, wandering in a place where he clearly didn't belong—anyone else might have sent for a servant or demanded a more thorough explanation.

And yet, as she stood there, watching him disappear down the stairs, she felt none of that fear. Serge didn't strike her as dangerous. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was something about his presence that felt almost magnetic, something in the way he moved, the way he spoke to her, that disarmed her completely. Instead of the wariness she should have felt, there was a strange warmth spreading through her chest, an odd flutter in her stomach.

Taking a deep breath, Natalia willed herself to regain control. "Focus, Natalia," she muttered under her breath. "You're stronger than this."

It felt almost ridiculous to be reacting this way—over a look, a smile, offered by someone she barely knew. Her mother was waiting, and Diaghilev, of all people, wanted to see her old scrapbook. She had no time to dwell on confusing emotions or the strange spell Serge seemed to have cast over her.

With a determined exhale, she straightened her shoulders and marched toward her bedroom. "Just find the damn scrapbook," she told herself, pushing open the door, her focus snapping back to the task at hand.

Chapter Text

Paris, April 1923

The rain had abated, leaving the cobblestone streets of Montmartre slick and gleaming under the dim light of gas lamps. Inside a smoky, dimly lit café near the Place Pigalle, a group of Russian exiles sat huddled around a table in the corner, speaking in low, voices filled with anticipation. Grigory Zinoviev, his sharp features illuminated by the faint glow of a single candle, gazed intently at the door. He was waiting for someone – someone very important.

The café was filled with the usual late-night patrons: artists, poets, and the occasional drunk stumbling over poorly articulated manifestos. But Zinoviev and his comrades, blending into the bohemian setting, were far from typical. They spoke in whispers, and their eyes carried the weight of their harsh conditions as exiles. Beside Zinoviev sat Lev Kamenev, a frequent ally in the bitter years they had passed outside of Russia, and a handful of other revolutionaries, each nursing a cheap drink.

"We must be careful with this," Kamenev muttered as he took a sip. "Lifar may be helping us now, but he's no revolutionary. He dances for the aristocrats."

Zinoviev nodded but said nothing. His mind was elsewhere, envisioning the possibilities of their new plan for what felt like the millionth time. It had been Anna Zimina, the sister of another revolutionary, Dmitri Zimina, who had started all this. Anna and Serge Lifar had been friends for a few months, colleagues at the Ballet Russes, where both of their lives revolved around the lavish performances and the elite circles of Parisian society. But behind the scenes, Anna was growing restless. She had long been sympathetic to the revolutionary cause, having been raised in a family that despised the Russian monarchy and its excesses. Her brother had been a revolutionary for years, and his ideals had shaped her thinking. Through quiet, late-night conversations between performances, Anna had begun to speak to Serge about her frustrations with the monarchy and her belief that change was inevitable.

Serge, though far from a revolutionary by nature, had listened with an open mind. At first, Zinoviev hadn't been sure whether he was someone they could truly trust. He had seemed far too entrenched in the opulent world of the aristocracy – performing for the likes of Grand Dukes and Princes, and living under the patronage of men and women who represented everything the revolutionaries sought to overthrow.

But Anna had been persistent, and over time, Serge's curiosity had deepened. He started to see the monarchy in a different light, especially after hearing Anna's stories of Russia's suffering. She spoke of her brother's tireless work for the cause, of the hope that Russia could rise from the ashes of its past and Serge, a man who had lived his life surrounded by beauty and art, began to understand that there could only be a future for Russia if the old structures of power crumbled.

"Relax, Dmitri," Zinoviev whispered. "Anna knows what she's doing. She understands the stakes."

Dmitri nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Zinoviev had little patience for sentimentality, but he trusted Anna's judgment. She had been their eyes and ears inside the Ballet Russes, observing the patrons who fawned over the dancers, and the conversations between Serge Lifar and the aristocrats. Tonight, she would deliver valuable information alongside Lifar.

After a while, the door creaked open, and the café's dull murmur briefly died down as Serge Lifar entered, in his fitted coat and scarf. His features were striking, his hair slicked back, and he moved with the grace of a man who lived in rhythm. He was followed by Anna Zimina, her dark hair pinned neatly in place, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on her brother and Zinoviev.

Zinoviev's lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. He motioned them over, and the pair made their way through the crowded café, drawing curious glances. Lifar sat with effortless confidence, crossing his legs as Anna took the seat beside her brother.

"Comrades," Zinoviev began, his voice soft but commanding, "our friend Serge has graciously agreed to share some... insights into the Paley household. Tell us what you saw."

Lifar sat back in his chair and wasted no time with formalities before he started describing his experience. 

"The Grand Duke and his family are in Paris less frequently now," he said, "and they are preparing to return to Russia soon, for the wedding of their eldest daughter who is marrying one of the Tsar's cousins. Grand Duke Paul seems preoccupied with family matters. There was little activity in the Boulogne-sur-Seine house for the last few years, but that changed a few months ago."

Zinoviev's fingers tapped against the table, considering this information. "In what way?"

Serge glanced at Anna before continuing. "Princess Natalia – the youngest daughter – attends a boarding school just outside of Paris. She stays there during the week, but she visits the house every weekend. It's quiet when she's there, only a handful of servants. She doesn't seem to draw much attention to herself."

Kamenev, who had been listening quietly until now, leaned forward. "A boarding school? And she returns alone?"

Serge nodded. "Usually with a driver or a teacher, but nothing more than that. I've seen her a few times in passing when I've been watching the neighbourhood, though I haven't been formally introduced. She seems... focused on her world. There is another girl living with her, who, most likely, is also an aristocrat. They go out occasionally, but always heavily chaperoned."

Zinoviev exchanged a glance with Kamenev. The opportunity was there. If the family was about to leave Paris and Natalia Paley remained behind, even for just part of the week, this opened a new avenue. She wasn't a direct connection to the Tsar, but as the daughter of Grand Duke Paul and the cousin of the reigning monarch, her ties to the imperial family were undeniable. If Serge could find a way to cultivate a closer connection with her, it could become an invaluable source of information.

"How secure is the house when the family is away?" Zinoviev asked.

"Not very," Serge replied. "There are guards, but they don't patrol too often. It's the isolation of the estate that protects it, more than any heavy security. If you know the family, getting in is easy. Once inside, it's even easier to move around without being noticed. When I last visited, I wandered through some of the private rooms on the upper floor. I wasn't stopped until Princess Natalia found me."

"And she didn't suspect anything?" Kamenev asked, a hint of scepticism in his voice.

Serge shook his head. "No. She thought I was lost, asked if I needed help, and then pointed me back to the main area of the house. She didn't seem concerned."

Zinoviev's mind raced. The presence of Princess Natalia was a new development, and it could prove useful. The Grand Duke and his family might be out of reach for now, but if Serge could continue visiting, and perhaps get closer to the Princess, he could gather insights into the family's movements, their contacts, and eventually, their connections to the Tsar himself.

"We need to be careful," Zinoviev said finally, in a low and deliberate voice. "Don't rush anything, Serge. We can't afford any mistakes. The Grand Duke is connected to the highest levels of power. We can't risk drawing suspicion too soon."

Serge nodded. "I understand. I'll be cautious. But the opportunity is there. They trust me for now. I'll keep attending their gatherings when I'm invited and find a way to get closer."

Anna spoke up in a confident tone. "Serge knows what's at stake. He won't fail."

Zinoviev glanced at her, then at Dmitri, who was watching his sister closely. They had taken a risk in bringing Serge into their circle, but so far, it seemed to be paying off. For now, at least, Serge was proving to be a valuable asset – someone who could walk through the doors they could never enter.

"We'll proceed as planned," Zinoviev said. "Keep close to the Paley family, especially the girl. If we can establish a connection through her, we'll use it. Once they return to Russia, we'll need to know everything we can about their ties to the Tsar."

The meeting wrapped up soon after, with quiet nods and murmured words of agreement. Zinoviev watched as Serge and Anna left the café together, disappearing into the streets of Paris. The revolution was still far from being achieved, but in this quiet corner of Montmartre, Zinoviev felt the stirrings of something new.

The monarchy was vulnerable, more than they had imagined. All they needed was time – and the right connections. And Serge Lifar, the unlikely dancer-turned-revolutionary, was fast becoming their key to unlocking it all.

Chapter Text

Krasnoe Selo, May 1923

Vladimir

Vladimir Paley stepped off the train at Krasnoe Selo, and was greeted immediately by the thunderous rhythm of military drills. Regiments moved in formation across the grounds, their boots striking in unison, while the air was filled with the scents of horses, leather, and churned earth. Officers barked orders, and grooms led sleek, muscular horses to and from the stables. Three years after leaving the army, Vladimir discovered he was no longer used to this environment and wondered how Dmitri managed to stay sane amidst all this noise and chaos.

His brother had invited him here to discuss the details of their journey to the Crimea for Irina's wedding. But Vladimir had a second reason for coming: he needed Dmitri's advice on an issue that had been filling his every thought for months—Tata. 

Their last meeting had ended awkwardly, and though he had started countless letters to her, none had made it past a few sentences. Now, with Irina's wedding unexpectedly bringing them together six months earlier than he'd planned, the problem was hitting him head-on.

Ordinarily, he would have gone to his sister Masha for this kind of advice, but the situation was too delicate and had a hint of scandal attached, so he thought Dmitri might offer a more pragmatic take.

Navigating through clusters of soldiers and ducking past officers in heated conversation, Vladimir made his way to the stables, where Dmitri, unsurprisingly, was brushing down one of his horses.

"Still obsessed with horses, I see," Vladimir called, leaning against the stable door.

Dmitri glanced up, smirking. "Still afraid of them, I see."

"Not afraid—just uninterested," Vladimir shot back. "I prefer things that don't throw you off over the slightest mistake."

Unlike his father and brother, both celebrated cavalry officers, Vladimir had never learnt how to ride. In Paris, it had seemed a pointless skill when transportation was always available at the snap of a finger.

Dmitri chuckled, patting the horse. "I'm glad you were able to come. We've hardly had a decent conversation in ages. But you didn't come here just to watch me groom a horse, did you?"

Vladimir shrugged, lingering at the door. "You invited me, remember? But, yes, I also needed to clear my head."

Dmitri raised an eyebrow. "Ah, so this isn't just a social visit. What's on your mind?"

Vladimir stepped further inside, glancing at the horses. "Irina's wedding, for one. I can't believe she's actually marrying Feodor."

Dmitri groaned, leaning back against the stall. "Don't remind me."

Vladimir's chuckle faded into a more serious expression. "I'm worried. She's so young. Do you think she's ready for all of this?"

Dmitri folded his arms, letting out a sigh. "Ready or not, it's happening. And Irina's never been reckless. If she's decided to go through with it, I'm sure she's thought it through."

"Maybe," Vladimir muttered, though he still had his doubts. "It all feels... rushed."

Dmitri shrugged. "That's life, isn't it? People rush into things all the time. And then they deal with the fallout later."

Vladimir nodded, though Dmitri's words only deepened his unease. He hesitated before diving into the real issue. "Actually, there's something else I've been thinking about... something a bit more complicated. I was hoping to get your advice."

Dmitri's interest piqued. "From me? It must be serious."

Vladimir smiled tightly. "Not serious... just complicated."

Dmitri looked up from the horse at him with an amused expression. "Alright, now I'm curious. What is it?"

"There's a girl."

The brush in Dmitri's hand paused mid-stroke. He turned to Vladimir with mock astonishment. "A girl? You? After all this time? I'm stunned."

Vladimir rolled his eyes. "Is it really that shocking?"

Dmitri straightened up, his grin widening. "Well, you've been living like a monk since... well, you know who, so yes, I'm a little surprised."

Vladimir crossed his arms. "It's not as big a deal as you're making it."

Dmitri tossed the brush aside. "Not a big deal? You haven't looked at another woman since Olga, and now there's someone new, and you come to me for advice? Come on, spill it. What's holding you back?"

Vladimir shifted uncomfortably, unsure how much to reveal. "It's... complicated. We've known each other for a while, but I never saw her that way—until recently. And now, she's teasing me, and I can't tell if she's serious or just... playing."

Dmitri, arms folded, gave him a pointed look. "Right. So what's the actual problem? Is she married?"

"No."

"Engaged to someone else?"

"No," Vladimir said again, the confusion starting to creep into his voice.

Dmitri's brow furrowed. "Alright, then. Does she have some strange body odour? Maybe a little extra hair in places there shouldn't be?"

"What?" Vladimir shot him a look, incredulous. "No, of course not!"

Dmitri raised his eyebrows with a smirk. "How do you know?"

Vladimir rolled his eyes, grunting. "I don't, but she seems well..." He stopped himself, realizing he was already venturing into scandalous territory barely twenty minutes after the conversation started. "It wouldn't matter, anyway."

Dmitri laughed and then threw his hands up in mock disbelief. "Then what on earth is stopping you?"

Vladimir fidgeted, unsure how to explain the knot of emotions tangled up inside him. Dmitri's approach was, as always, painfully simple.

"There's no reason why you shouldn't at least try to pursue her," Dmitri continued. "Unless there's something you're not telling me. If she's free and doesn't smell like a farm animal, you're good to go."

Vladimir hesitated, and that pause didn't go unnoticed. "She's very close to our family. If I move forward, I may find myself in a position where I might damage her reputation and I don't want to do that."

Dmitri narrowed his eyes, intrigued by Vladimir's hesitation. "Very close to the family, is she?" He leaned back, folding his arms with a thoughtful look. "Now you've got me curious. You don't know that many people, so it shouldn't be hard to figure out who she is."

Vladimir's eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head firmly. "You're not going to guess, so don't even try."

Dmitri smirked. "Oh, come on. Give me some credit. How many women are 'very close' to you?"

Vladimir shot him a pointed look, clearly determined to keep the secret. "I'm serious, Dmitri. I don't want to drag her name into this."

Dmitri continued, his voice full of mock suspicion, "It's not one of our cousins, is it?"

Vladimir rolled his eyes. "Of course not!"

Dmitri's eyes suddenly lit up with realization. He leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Wait a minute," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "It's Tata, isn't it?"

Vladimir's expression froze for a split second before he recovered, but that was all Dmitri needed to confirm his suspicion. He stopped to think for a second how disturbing - and even a little sad - it was that his brother got there so fast. Maybe he really needed to improve his social contacts.

"Tata!" Dmitri repeated, his grin widening. "Of course, it makes perfect sense. She's close to the family, and you two have known each other for ages. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner."

Vladimir groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. "I told you not to guess."

"But Tata!" Dmitri continued, practically beaming. "Here I was, thinking you were a monk, all the while you were so very close to engaging in inappropriate behaviour with your former student. This is better than I imagined." He paused, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, Bodia, this is too perfect."

Vladimir shot him a glare. "I didn't engage in anything. Everything is just... complicated," he began. "I've known her since she was a teenager. Never thought much about it—just distant respect. She didn't seem to notice me, either. Until Alexei's ball."

Dmitri raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What happened at the ball, pray tell?"

Vladimir rubbed the back of his neck. How on Earth he had thought it was a good idea to tell Dmitri all this, he had no idea, but now it was too late to back down. 

"That night, she started making insinuations. Subtle at first, but then more obvious. When we were alone, she teased me. But in public, she acted perfectly unaware, as nothing had changed."

Dmitri leant back. "I'm liking this story already."

Vladimir rolled his eyes but kept going. "It wasn't until one day, we ended up alone in the library. That's when she told me—she'd had feelings for me for a long time, but I'd never noticed."

Dmitri whistled. "It's always the library, isn't it?"

"I'm serious, Dmitri," Vladimir said, shaking his head at his brother's antics. "Anyway, we were talking, and suddenly we were standing close—too close."

"Oh, I hate when that happens. One minute you're looking for a good book on topology, and the next you're sharing the space with a beautiful girl, it's one of those inexplicable things that happen in libraries. I blame it on the bookshelves. Sometimes they can be too tall," Dmitri said with an ironic shake of his head, grinning.

"Right," Vladimir continued, ignoring him. "One thing led to another, and we were just about to kiss... or at least I think so. Then, out of nowhere, she pulled away and said something like, 'This is for you to think about while I'm in Paris', and then she walked away."

Dmitri let out a bark of laughter. "Bravo, Tata. She's got you good, doesn't she?"

Vladimir frowned, feeling a bit foolish. "Maybe. But now I don't know what to make of it."

Dmitri finally straightened up, shaking off the last bit of amusement, though a grin still lingered. "Alright, alright," he said, waving his hand. "Let's get serious for a moment. What exactly do you need to know?"

Vladimir took a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "She's coming to Irina's wedding."

Dmitri nodded, his grin fading into genuine curiosity. "And?"

"And I don't know what to do when I see her," Vladimir admitted, feeling the awkwardness settle in again. "Do I bring up what happened in the library? Or just... pretend like nothing happened?"

Dmitri let out a low whistle, his brows raising. "That's tricky. If you bring it up, you're risking some awkwardness. But if you ignore it, you'll probably spend the whole wedding wondering what she's thinking. Either way, you're not exactly in for an easy time."

"Exactly," Vladimir muttered. "That's why I'm stuck. I don't want to make it weird, but I also don't want her to think I've forgotten the whole thing. She left me standing there like an idiot."

Dmitri shook his head, entertained again. "I still can't believe this is coming from you. You've always been the composed one, and now you're caught up in this mess. Well, I guess my advice would be against pretending nothing happened. That never works."

Vladimir sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Dmitri clapped him on the shoulder. "Look, it's Irina's wedding. You'll have enough distractions. Just try to talk to her when the moment's right—somewhere away from the crowd. If you ignore it, you'll regret it. If you bring it up, at least you'll know where you stand."

Vladimir nodded, though he still felt as nervous as when he had first walked into the stables. "I suppose you're right."

"And if things get awkward," Dmitri added with a smirk, "just blame it on the champagne. Weddings are perfect for that."

Vladimir gave him a faint smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

Dmitri studied Vladimir's face for a moment, his grin fading slightly. Something was still bothering him, and Dmitri knew him well enough to know he wasn't being entirely honest. "You're still holding something back," he said, his tone more serious now.

Vladimir hesitated, and the look on his face gave him away. Dmitri sighed, shaking his head. "This is still about Olga, isn't it?"

Vladimir's jaw tightened, and he looked away. 

"I know she's married. I know she has two children. But even now... nothing compares to what I felt for her. Not even this new thing with Tata."

Dmitri threw his head back, crossing his arms as he watched his brother. "Bodia, you've got to let go of that fantasy. Olga's moved on—she's got a family now, a whole life that doesn't include you."

"I know," Vladimir murmured, in a strained tone. "But that doesn't change how I feel. What I had with Olga... it was real. It was deep. I haven't felt anything like that since."

Dmitri sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're not going to feel that way again if you keep comparing every woman to her. You've got to stop holding on to this idea of what could have been."

Vladimir shifted uncomfortably, clearly torn. "It's not that simple."

"I know it's not," Dmitri replied, his voice softening. "But you're never going to move forward if you're always looking back. Tata—whatever's happening with her—is real. It's happening now and there can be something there. Yet, here you are, sabotaging it before it even begins because you're still stuck on someone who's long gone."

Vladimir sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's not that I'm stuck, I just... nothing measures up to it. And I don't know if it ever will."

Dmitri clapped him on the shoulder again, more gently this time. "Maybe it's not supposed to. Maybe what you had with Olga was one thing, and what you could have with Tata is something different. But you won't know unless you let yourself feel it."

Vladimir stayed silent, but Dmitri must have seen the conflict still playing out in his eyes. "You owe it to yourself to at least try, Bodia," Dmitri added quietly. "You deserve to be happy. And you deserve someone who's actually available."

Chapter Text

Yalta, May 1923

Irina

It was Irina's third visit to Crimea, and she believed nothing about the place could surprise her anymore. The rolling hills and sprawling estates had become familiar, as had the warm saltiness of the sea air that hit her the moment the train neared the coast. But she was well aware that this trip was nothing like the others. She arrived with an entourage so large it felt almost absurd—her parents, her siblings (except Alexander, of course, who was still sharing the exile with the former Tsar), and more servants, stylists, and maids than she could count. Her entire trousseau was packed into the compartments behind them, including gowns and the priceless sapphire kokoshnik tiara that had once graced the head of her grandmother, Empress Marie Alexandrovna, at her coronation, and that she would be wearing at the wedding.

She tried not to think too much about that, though. It wasn't real yet—the wedding, the ceremonies, the weight of it all. Right now, the only thing that mattered was reaching Yalta and reuniting with Feodor. It had been more than a month since their last meeting, and she'd missed him terribly through the whirlwind of events—her stop in Paris, the Bulgarian wedding, and now this.

The train hissed and groaned as it slowed into the station. Irina gazed out the window, expecting the familiar sight of a small reception—a few footmen and perhaps Grand Duke Alexander waiting with Feodor. But what she saw made her heart lurch. The platform was packed. Hundreds of people were gathered—some with flowers, others waving small flags. The chaos of the crowd hit her like a tidal wave, and her stomach twisted. She had expected something far more intimate.

As the train jerked to a stop, Irina's hands tightened around her lap. She felt her mother's voice in the background—calm, composed as always—but her pulse began to quicken, rising in her throat. She wasn't used to this kind of attention, at least not like this, not so concentrated on her.

The doors opened, and the sound of cheers flooded in. She swallowed hard, adjusting her hat and stepping out, her chin lifted as she had been trained. But as the noise and attention overwhelmed her senses, a wave of panic started to rise and her breath quickened. She scanned the crowd desperately, searching for a familiar face—until, finally, she spotted him. Feodor, standing tall amid the chaos, his face calm, steady as a rock.

She felt immediately relieved, and without a second thought, she broke through the formalities, making a beeline for him. As soon as she reached him, she pulled him into a tight embrace, holding on to him while her fingers trembled. The crowd might have been watching, but at that moment, she didn't care. The candid gesture only seemed to increase the volume of the cheers.

"Feodor," she whispered, her voice strained but full of warmth. "I wasn't expecting all of this."

Feodor leaned in closer and his calm voice helped her breathe amid the noise around her. "There's never been a royal wedding in Crimea," he explained softly, holding her hand. "That's why they're excited—our wedding is something special."

Irina glanced up at him, trying to steady her breath, though the thought didn't ease her nerves. She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile and nodded. The crowd swelled as they moved toward the waiting car, and the moment they settled inside, she exhaled, feeling a brief moment of quiet.

But as the car rolled through the streets of Yalta, she realized the crowds didn't stop at the station. The streets were lined with people, cheering and waving as they passed by. Irina pressed her lips together, feeling her anxiety mounting again. Even as they left the busier parts of the town and began winding through the country roads, the crowds were still there—villagers standing along the dusty roadside, some holding flowers, others waving scarves and flags.

Feodor, sensing her tension, leaned in closer. "Wave," he whispered gently. "They've been waiting for this. For you."

She hesitated but then raised her gloved hand, offering a small wave to the cheering masses. To her surprise, the people roared even louder in response. Feodor's reassuring presence beside her gave her the courage to continue. The car slowed down as little girls broke from the crowd, running after them holding bouquets in hand. Irina's heart softened at the sight, and before she knew it, the car came to a halt.

One girl, no older than eight, reached up with a handful of wildflowers, her face beaming with excitement. Irina leaned out of the car, accepted the flowers with a warm smile and whispered "Thank you." The girl giggled before darting back to her family, her eyes wide with wonder.

The car stopped several more times along the bumpy country road, each time for another group of eager children holding out blossoms for her. With each stop, Irina felt her heart swell a little more, her nerves slowly replaced by a quiet sense of gratitude. She felt as if these people genuinely cared for her, and that meant something. Feodor's hand remained steady on hers the whole time, reassuring her quietly.

As they approached the grand gates of Ai-Todor, the crowds began to thin, but the lingering echo of cheers followed them to the estate. Irina's grip on Feodor's arm loosened as they entered the grounds. Her gaze softened as she turned to him.

"I don't know how I would've managed this without you," she admitted quietly, glancing down at the bouquet of wildflowers in her lap.

Feodor smiled with a warm expression as he met her eyes. "You're stronger than you think, Irina. You've handled everything beautifully."

She gave a small laugh, though her voice was still trembling. "I think I was just trying to survive."

"You did more than that," he said. "You were shining."

The brief feeling of relief she felt when they had crossed the gates, quickly evaporated when she looked ahead and saw another large gathering in the garden where a group of people stood waiting to greet her—family, friends, and well-wishers, all poised to welcome the bride-to-be.

Her heart sank for a moment, though she knew she had to keep her composure. Feodor, as if sensing her thoughts, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as they stepped out of the car.

The first people Irina spotted were Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich and Grand Duchess Xenia, Feodor's parents. As they approached, the Grand Duke wasted no time. With his broad smile and easy warmth, he pulled Irina into a tight embrace, kissing her on both cheeks. 

"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you're joining the family, my dear. You were already a daughter to me, this just makes it official," he said. "We couldn't be more proud to have you."

Irina, taken by his warmth, felt some of her nervousness dissolve. She managed a genuine smile as she returned his embrace. "Thank you, Your Highness. That means so much to me."

Grand Duke Alexander pulled back from the embrace, his eyes twinkling with affection as he spoke. "No need for formalities, Irina. Call me Uncle Sandro, just like everyone else in the family."

Irina smiled, surprised but touched by his invitation. "Thank you, Uncle Sandro. I'd be honoured."

As she looked at him standing next to Grand Duchess Xenia, a quiet thought crossed her mind. Everyone knew that the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess had been separated for years, living apart and leading their own lives. Yet, looking at them now, standing together so naturally, no one would have guessed. They might have had their differences, but when it came to their children, they always found a way to be united.

Irina found it endearing, this silent agreement between them to be present as a family when it mattered most. It was the kind of quiet resilience that she admired, and something she hadn't fully understood until this moment. Despite everything, they remained parents first—and in this, they were always together.

Grand Duchess Xenia caught her eye, still holding Irina's hands gently. "You're part of this family now," she said softly, her voice steady but kind. "And we're here for you, always."

Irina nodded, warmth spreading through her chest. The simple gesture, the way they stood together for their children, filled her with a sense of belonging she hadn't quite expected.

After exchanging warm words with Feodor's parents, Irina was greeted by the rest of his brothers, each one welcoming her with his own distinct energy. The boisterous laughter of Andrei, the quiet smile of Nikita, and the easy-going charm of Rostislav all brought a sense of familiarity to the overwhelming moment. Despite the whirlwind of faces and voices, their genuine excitement to welcome her into the family was unmistakable.

As Irina was exchanging pleasantries with Nikita, she spotted a familiar face in the crowd—Maria, her former lady-in-waiting, now soon to be Nikita's bride. A wave of fondness and nostalgia washed over her as Maria approached, her eyes alight with joy. "Irina, it feels like a lifetime," Maria said, embracing her tightly.

"It really does," Irina replied, pulling back to take in Maria's radiant smile. "And now we're both about to become sisters-in-law."

Maria laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. "I always knew we'd end up in the same family, one way or another."

Before Irina could respond, the sound of more arriving cars drew her attention. She turned to see the familiar vehicles of her own family pulling through the gates, the arrival of her parents and siblings signalling the next stage of the day's events. Despite the whirl of emotions—excitement, anxiety, the weight of expectations—Irina felt something settle inside her. Being surrounded by family, she took a deep breath and realized that, in some way, she was already home.

But the sense of calm was fleeting, as Grand Duchess Xenia stepped forward, her voice a gentle reminder of the day's relentless pace. "Irina, my dear, there's no time to lose. You need to change for lunch. There are a lot of people who are eager to meet you."

Irina nodded, already aware of the carefully planned schedule awaiting her. She offered Maria one last smile before turning toward the estate, feeling the familiar pull of duty as the day continued to unfold. Though her heart raced at the thought of the formalities ahead, there was also a quiet strength inside her, a feeling that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Chapter Text

During lunch, Irina found herself seated among Crimea's most important diplomats and politicians, a formidable assembly of men and women who held the most influence on the region's politics. She knew the significance of this moment—the first of many such meetings leading up to the wedding and which would, inevitably, be part of her life from now on. With her father's calm presence beside her, she drew on everything she had learned over the years, but especially over the last few months since she had become engaged to Feodor and had immersed herself in every book she could find about the Crimea.

She tried to navigate the conversations as best as she could, engaging in discussions about the current political climate, the local economy, and even Crimea's natural beauty. To her relief, the dignitaries seemed genuinely interested—or at least, they didn't appear bored. She managed to hold her own, offering polite responses and asking thoughtful questions. It was exhausting work, but necessary.

By the end of the meal, Irina felt drained. Her smile was still in place, but the energy it took to maintain the appearance of effortless charm was weighing on her. And this was only the beginning. Five more days of balls, receptions, meetings, and engagements lay ahead before the wedding. If things were this chaotic in Crimea, she could only imagine how overwhelming it would have been in Petrograd. Quietly, she sent a silent thank you to Feodor for choosing Ai-Todor for the wedding. Its relative simplicity, despite the crowds, was a blessing.

On the second day, Irina was finally introduced to Feodor's sister, Irina Alexandrovna, who had an unassuming yet magnetic presence. There was a simplicity to her that Irina hadn't expected, a genuine softness and shyness that made everyone feel immediately at ease around her. She had a warm smile and a light laugh, and, although she was a princess by birth, there was no air of grandeur in her manner.

"You must be overwhelmed," Irina Alexandrovna said as she took Irina's hand, with genuine kindness. "I remember how daunting it was before my own wedding."

Irina smiled, feeling a sense of relief at the understanding in her future sister-in-law's tone. "It's been a whirlwind, but I'm managing," she replied softly, glancing toward Feodor, who was speaking with his father a few feet away.

As they exchanged more pleasantries, Felix Yussupov, her husband, approached. Irina couldn't help but feel a tightening in her chest as he neared. Felix, known for his striking appearance and flamboyant personality, carried himself with a swagger that was hard to ignore. He had once been a great friend of her brother Dmitri, but they had parted ways after the traumatic murder of Rasputin. While Dmitri had vowed never to talk about it again and had been genuinely affected by what he had done, Felix had treated the whole affair as something heroic and was happy to retell the tale countless times to all who cared to listen.

When he greeted her, his eyes sparkled with mischief and he bowed with exaggerated elegance.

"So, you're the young bride," he said in a teasing tone as he straightened, his eyes darting between Irina and Feodor, who had quietly come to her side when he saw she was meeting Felix. "What a prize you are, so young and fresh. Feodor's a lucky man."

Irina stiffened, feeling uncomfortable with his words. There was something in his tone that bothered her, a hint of condescension masked as playfulness. 

"Thank you," she replied, in as controlled a voice as she could manage. "I'm sure Feodor feels as fortunate as I do."

Felix raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by her poised response. "I do hope the Crimean sun isn't too much for you, my dear. It can be quite... overbearing, especially for someone who is not accustomed to the heat."

Irina met his gaze, refusing to let her irritation show. "I've always found that the key to handling any climate is preparation," she replied coolly. "I'm confident I'll adjust."

Felix chuckled, amused by her restraint. He glanced at Feodor as his smirk deepened. "She's clever too. You'll have your hands full, brother."

Feodor, who had sensed the tension, had come over to her side and placed a protective hand on Irina's back, but before he could respond, Irina Alexandrovna cut in with a light touch to her husband's arm. 

"Felix, darling, stop teasing," she said gently, but with a sense of quiet authority. She turned to Irina apologetically. "You'll get used to his sense of humour, eventually."

Irina nodded, though inwardly, she felt her irritation boiling just beneath the surface. Felix, for all his charm, had a way of pushing boundaries that left her unsettled. Still, she took comfort in Irina Alexandrovna's calm presence and the reassuring touch of Feodor by her side.

On the third day, family and international guests began to stream into Ai-Todor, filling the estate with a mix of familiar faces and unfamiliar names. Feodor guided Irina through the throng, introducing her to a long list of relatives and distinguished visitors. Some of the names she recognized from stories or past encounters, but others were entirely new to her. It was at moments like these that she felt more grateful than ever for the photographic memory she had inherited from her mother. Each face, name, and title seemed to lock into place as she met them, ensuring she wouldn't forget anyone in the days to come.

Among the many introductions, Irina was presented to Feodor's uncles. She knew only Grand Duke Nicholas Mikhailovich well, a man she had always found captivating and kind. He was also Natalia's godfather, so he had been a frequent guest in Paris, where he entertained them with his quick wit and charming anecdotes. Seeing him here, in this different context, reminded her of the circles that connected so many of their lives.

Feodor also introduced her to his cousin, Cecile, now Empress of Germany. Cecile had ascended to her position when her father-in-law, Kaiser Wilhelm, abdicated after the war. Irina felt a brief moment of awe, realizing she was speaking to one of the most prominent figures in European royalty. Her regal bearing was immediately evident—tall and composed, Cecile seemed to radiate formality.

"Irina," Cecile greeted her, offering a graceful but restrained nod as they were introduced. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

Irina curtsied slightly, feeling the formality between them. "The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty."

Cecile's eyes swept over Irina with the poised assessment of someone used to sizing up those who entered her sphere. Though her expression remained kind, there was no warmth, just an air of detached courtesy. 

"I trust the preparations for the wedding have been smooth. Feodor has spoken highly of this place—quite secluded."

"Yes," Irina replied, maintaining her composure despite the coolness of the exchange. "Ai-Todor is lovely, and everything has been progressing well, thanks to the care of so many."

Cecile offered a slight smile but did not engage further, keeping the conversation clipped and formal. "I'm glad to hear it. I wish you both happiness."

As more guests came forward to greet her, Irina found herself reflecting on her earlier encounter with Cecile. Though she had found the Empress somewhat cold, the continued flow of greetings made her realize that Cecile had, in fact, been one of the kinder faces in the crowd. The older generation, particularly, seemed reluctant to accept her as one of their own. They offered smiles and polite conversation, but there was an unmistakable reserve, a coolness in their greetings that was nothing like the warmth they extended to Feodor.

Although she tried not to dwell on it, it was impossible not to feel the weight of their judgment. The divide had been clear from the very start, most notably when Feodor's grandmother, the Dowager Empress, had declined to attend the wedding entirely. But standing here, surrounded by figures from a world she was now stepping into, Irina felt the distance more acutely. Every greeting, every glance seemed to highlight the fact that she wasn't yet fully embraced by this elite circle.

Not for the first time in her life, she felt diminished amongst them, uncertain of her own worth, uncertain of her own value despite all she knew and could do. Her interaction with Felix Yussupov, especially, left her wondering if she’d ever learn the subtle game everyone seemed to play around her.

She loved Feodor, of that much she was certain, and she tried to focus on the good things that would come out of this marriage: her education, her independence, but, deep down, there was a shred of doubt whether she would ever truly fit in.

Chapter Text

Vladimir had never felt this anxious at any wedding celebration before, a fact that troubled him as he moved through the grand hall, holding a glass of wine that seemed to empty faster than he could keep track of. He knew he was drinking too much, but it seemed like the only thing that was able to calm his nerves as the guests kept pouring in and he waited for the fateful moment in which Tata would descend the stairs along with the rest of her family.

While he waited, he glanced at his sister, Irina, standing near the room's far end. She had handled the flood of introductions and polite but scrutinizing gazes with remarkable grace, even after the awkwardness of her earlier interaction with the Yussupovs. Watching her now, with her poise and elegance, filled Vladimir with pride. She was carrying herself like a true princess, navigating the stifling atmosphere of royalty with a strength he both admired and envied.

Nearby, Natalia was chatting happily with Irina Alexandrovna, after the two of them had found common ground in their shared love of fashion. It was good to see her so at ease, although it was hardly surprising that her radiant smile lighted up the entire room and drew people to her. There were too few moments like this lately, moments when they all could be in the same room, now that all siblings were more or less scattered around Europe, and Vladimir held onto the sight of it, wishing he could somehow share in their calmness.

But his mind was elsewhere, flickering back to the anticipated arrival of Grand Duke Michael. Any moment now, they would walk into the room. Natalia had travelled with Tata from Paris, but while his sister had continued her journey to Tsarskoe Selo to meet with the rest of the family, Tata had remained in Petrograd at the Winter Palace. It had been months since he'd seen her, and the thought of facing her now, in the middle of this crowd, made his chest tighten.

Despite his conversation with Dmitri, he still wasn't sure what he would do when Tata finally arrived. The kiss they had almost shared had left him more conflicted and confused than ever, and the weight of that memory had followed him ever since. He was no closer to resolving his feelings, no clearer on what to say to her—or if he even should say anything. His grip tightened around the glass as he tried to push the thought away.

Suddenly, the sound of an announcement broke through his thoughts.

"Crown Prince Carol and Crown Princess Olga of Romania!"

Vladimir's stomach dropped instantly. The air seemed to thin as the couple entered the room, and for a moment, everything faded away. He hadn't expected this. For two years, he'd managed to avoid seeing them together. Hearing her name was painful enough, but seeing her now, walking into the room arm-in-arm with her husband was a different kind of torment altogether.

He gripped the glass tighter, his knuckles white against the stem. He could feel bitterness rising in his throat, sharp and raw as if no time had passed since the day she'd chosen Carol. Why him? The question flooded his mind again, even though he had spent countless sleepless nights trying to find an answer that made sense and trying to move on. Now, it all seemed like a waste of time because it only took a glance at them for every old wound to open again, and for the pain to return in full force.

His eyes found Olga almost immediately. She hadn't changed much—still beautiful, her posture as regal as ever—but there was something different about her. She seemed more mature now, more sure of herself, with a quiet confidence that hadn't been there before. Yet, despite that change, the sadness in her eyes—the same sadness that had first drawn him to her years before—was still there, more evident than ever. It was a deep, aching sorrow, one that seemed to have only grown with time, and seeing it again made his heart twist painfully.

And then, just as he was about to look away, he saw it—Olga was searching the room. Her gaze swept over the crowd, pausing here and there as if she was looking for someone. His heart tightened, unwilling to believe she might be looking for him.

He couldn't bear it. He turned abruptly, the weight of everything too much to face, and slipped out into the garden.

***

Vladimir felt like a coward for running, but he needed a moment of solitude to calm the confusion of thoughts running through his mind. He walked for a while, feeling the need to be as far away as possible from the physical space Olga was occupying. The sound of the gravel beneath his boots and the rustling of leaves above him, mixed with the distant sound of the waves helped him steady his breath, grounding him to earth for a moment, but he knew it wouldn't last.

Six years. That's how long it had been since he had last seen Olga, when she turned her back on him by the lake, never to return or say another word again. He shut his eyes against the memory. It was curious how the human mind worked, he thought. If there was any sense at all left in him, if he was able to think with clarity, even for a second, he would be able to tell himself that he hardly even knew her. How many times had they been together? How many times had they talked? Five? Six? How could moments so brief, shared so long ago, leave such a strong impression on his mind?

She had moved on. She was married, she had two children, she was not letting life pass her by the same way as he was. She was not foolish like him. Life kept knocking on his door, some people, like Tata, practically shouted to let them in, and here he was, unable to open it. Unable to open his heart because, like Dmitri had told him, he had built this fantasy around Olga and he didn't have the strength to let himself believe that it was long over.

Vladimir clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back toward the house. The air was cooler here, outside the crowd of laughing, chatting guests. He took solace in the fact that no one could see him like this—lost in a haze of emotions he wasn't ready to face.

After a long time, a soft voice called out behind him, breaking his thoughts. "Bodia?"

He turned to find Irina, her dress catching the last rays of the setting sun. She was biting her lip and looking at him as though she had just discovered the most miserable man on Earth. 

"I didn't know," she began, stepping toward him. "I thought only Carol's parents would come... I had no idea Olga would be here."

Vladimir forced a smile. "Come on, Irishka, what nonsense is this? You don't need to apologize. This is your day. Focus on that, don't worry about your silly old brother."

Irina, however, wasn't convinced. She frowned, her brows knitting together as she placed a gentle hand on his arm. 

"Are you sure? I just... I can't help but feel guilty about this. If you need to take a break or skip some of the events, no one would notice and I wouldn't mind. I know how hard this must be for you."

Vladimir swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and turned his gaze away from her for a moment, focusing on the horizon. What a terrible brother he was. Over the last few months, he had caused Irina so much pain and now he couldn't even keep it together for the most important days of her life. And yet, here she was, serene as ever, trying to calm him down.

"It's difficult," he admitted quietly. "I played this moment in my head so many times, I'll admit that, but seeing her so unexpectedly, it's just... It's hard to... not feel anything."

Irina's eyes softened. "You've been carrying this for a long time, haven't you?"

Vladimir nodded slowly. "I thought I'd moved on. I thought... time would heal things. But seeing her again..." He paused, rubbing a hand over his temple, "It's like no time has passed. Like nothing's changed."

Irina squeezed his arm gently. "I can't imagine what it's like for you, but... if you need to step away for a while, go. You don't have to face her if you're not ready."

Vladimir hesitated, then gave her a grateful nod. "Thank you for understanding. I might need just a few hours to collect my thoughts."

Irina hesitated too, glancing away before speaking again. "There's something else... something you should know." She looked up at him, biting her lip. "Olga's son, Mircea... there's a chance he has haemophilia."

Vladimir's face went still, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. "What?"

Irina nodded. "Olga told me. She's been dealing with it quietly, she didn't want anyone to know. It's not confirmed, but she's been worried about it for a while."

Vladimir stood there, absorbing the weight of what she had told him. He felt deeply for Olga, the struggle she must be facing in silence, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness washed over him. Despite everything that had happened between them, all he wanted was to do something—anything—to help.

"Does anyone else know?" he asked quietly.

Irina shook her head. "Just a few people. She told me in confidence, and I didn't want to tell you... but with her here, and with everything that's happened, I think it's best that you know."

"Thank you for telling me," he said finally.

He took a deep breath, squeezed his sister's hand gently and walked away towards his room, to run away from the commotion, but, most of all, to run away from his past.

Chapter Text

Natalia

Natalia stood at the edge of the grand dining room and immediately drew her eyes to Irina. She was stunning, absolutely radiant in a sparkling grey dress that shimmered like moonlight and crowned with a glittering tiara. It suited her perfectly, emphasizing her grace and poise—so far removed from the shy little girl Natalia used to confide in late at night. There was a dignity about her now, a sense of responsibility and maturity that Natalia admired. It felt as if she had truly been born into the role of a Princess.

How far we've both come, she thought, feeling her chest swelling with pride not just for Irina but also for herself. For the first time, she had been allowed to wear jewellery, and the gentle weight of the gems at her ears and around her neck seemed enough to make her feel more mature, more responsible. She found herself standing a little taller, lifting her chin just slightly as if the pearls themselves were guiding her into a more refined version of herself.

Her dress—a pale pink chiffon that clung to her like a second skin—was a recent acquisition from Paris, and it made her feel confident in a way she had never quite felt before. The fabric flowed around her knees with every movement, light and airy, as if she was walking on a cloud. For the first time, she felt like she truly belonged in this dazzling world of royalty and dignitaries.

Still, despite her excitement, Natalia's eyes scanned the room restlessly. She didn't spot Alexei right away, but she felt her chest grow warmer when she caught sight of Tata. Without a second thought, she made a beeline toward her. It had only been a few days since they had last seen each other, but after sharing their lives and so many different experiences for the past six months, those few days had felt like an eternity. Seeing Tata felt like a reunion of sorts, something familiar and comforting in the middle of the grandeur and formality of the evening.

"Tata!" she exclaimed, pulling her into a tight embrace. Tata laughed softly, returning the hug with equal warmth. It felt like home like everything was back in its place. The two exchanged a few hurried words before Natalia suddenly realized they weren't alone.

She turned and, for the first time that evening, saw Alexei. Her heart gave a small, unexpected jolt and felt a wave of excitement so great it made her toes curl. He looked so different. He hadn't stopped growing in the six months they had been apart and was now almost as tall as his uncle Misha. It was clearer than ever that he had taken more to the Romanov side of his family, full of giant Grand Dukes. She smiled and moved toward him, but a brief pause from him —a second of hesitation—made the moment feel a little strained. His eyes held hers for a long moment, and though she pulled him into an embrace, she sensed that a quiet distance had settled between them like they had forgotten how to act around each other.

"Alexei," she said softly, but he didn't respond immediately. 

She felt the bones sticking out on his back as she embraced him and noticed for the first time that, despite the concealing effect of his uniform, he was much thinner than the last time she had seen him and the lively energy he displayed when they were together seemed muted, replaced by a tiredness that worried her. His eyes, though still warm, looked shadowed and worn.

"Are you all right?" Natalia asked, unable to hide the concern from her voice. For a moment, he didn't answer, just stared up at her as if weighing his response.

"I'm fine," he said eventually, though his voice lacked strength. He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Natalia felt a pang of worry deep in her chest. Something was off, but she knew better than to address it here, under the glittering chandeliers, surrounded by so many watchful eyes. Instead, she gently squeezed his hand, offering him a soft smile in hopes of reassuring him that she was there, no matter what.

"Don't tell me the cabinet meetings have already eaten away your soul," she teased lightly, hoping to lift the cloud that seemed to hang over him.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Alexei's lips. It was subtle, but enough to give her a glimpse of the friend she had missed.

"They're not the most fun I've had," Alexei admitted and his tone warmed for a moment that passed all too quickly, "but they're bearable. I know my duty."

For a brief moment, the familiar spark of the boy she had left behind flickered in his eyes, and Natalia clung to that, hoping it meant he wasn't as far away as she feared. However, before they had a chance to say anything else, she saw a figure approaching them. A tall, middle-aged man with silvering hair and a formal demeanour—a courtier, she guessed—made his way toward Alexei with a respectful bow.

"Your Majesty," the man began, in a low, serious voice, "there are matters I must discuss with you regarding tomorrow's proceedings."

Alexei straightened and he immediately put on the mask of duty and formality she had come to recognize as he slowly took over his role. His hand slipped from hers, and without another word, he turned his attention fully to the man.

Natalia stepped back, sensing it was her cue to leave. She gave Alexei one last glance, but he was already absorbed in the conversation. Quietly, she made her way back to her seat.

Throughout the dinner, Natalia kept stealing glances at Alexei. He was always surrounded by someone —middle-aged men eager to discuss political matters, high-born ladies flattering him with every word, and beautiful young women hoping to catch his attention. It was as if he were the centre of gravity in the room, drawing everyone in with an irresistible pull. To them, Alexei wasn't just any young man—he was the Tsar, a powerful presence they rarely had the chance to bask in here in the Crimea.

It was funny, she thought to herself, watching him nod thoughtfully at something one of the courtiers said. She had known Alexei since they were children, and to her, he had always been a friend first. But now, as she observed him being constantly surrounded, Natalia saw the inevitable shift happening. The boy she had spent hours with playing in gardens, teasing at every opportunity she got, was becoming a monarch, and everyone was trying to claim a piece of his time.

His coronation loomed on the horizon—it was only two years away—but she knew that every moment from now until then would be filled with preparations, moulding him into the leader of a vast, complex nation. The thought made her head spin. It was all so far removed from the carefree, dazzling life she had come to enjoy in Paris, where her only concerns were fashion, art, and, somewhere in there, school.

What a world to be entering, she reflected, glancing down at the fabric of her dress, which seemed to belong to a different reality than the weighty decisions that were being made just across the room. She wondered if Alexei ever longed for simpler days if he missed the freedom they had once shared. But looking at him now—surrounded, regal, and so far away—it was hard to imagine him as anything other than what he was destined to be.

Chapter Text

Irina awoke before dawn when the sky was still dark and the air cool. When she left the bed, her feet touched the cold tile floor, taking away what was left of her drowsiness. The house was still peacefully quiet and she could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below Ai-Todor drifting through the open windows and the salty air filling her lungs. She sat on her bed for a long moment, breathing it in, feeling that it helped to steady her nerves. 

She hadn't slept for more than an hour, even though she had excused herself early from the banquet the night before. She had tossed and turned in bed, playing everything she needed to know in her mind, all the rules, the protocols, the prayers, the rituals, fearing that she would forget something when the time came. The exhaustion from the events of the previous days eventually took over and she fell into a restless sleep, full of vivid dreams. But now, standing by the window, and watching the world slowly coming alive, she felt surprisingly calm and rested, like she could overcome this hurdle and that her life would change for the better afterwards.

Once again, she was glad they were here, near the coast. If they had married in Petrograd, the endless hustle and chaos would have overwhelmed her. She could almost imagine the day unfolding with serenity in this quiet corner of the Crimea.

Everything felt hushed, the world around her bathed in soft, muted tones as if the day hadn't yet decided to fully awaken. Irina stood there, watching as the first slivers of light began to stretch across the horizon, gently coaxing the sky from darkness. The air felt different, almost sacred in its quiet, and for a moment, it was just her and the sound of the distant waves below.

She was well aware this was just a fleeting pause before the rush of the day would sweep her away, she held on to the moment for dear life. Her thoughts flickered to what lay ahead—the ceremony, the sea of faces, the weight of everything about to change. Yet in the stillness of the morning, it all felt far off, as if this time was just hers, untouched by the enormity of what was coming.

A gentle creak startled her, and she turned to see the door connecting her room to Feodor's, which was usually locked, slowly swinging open. To her surprise, Feodor stood there, still in his robe, flashing her a playful grin as he stepped into her bedroom.

"Feodor!" she gasped, trying to suppress a smile. "You're not supposed to open that door! And it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

Feodor shrugged off her playful scolding and walked towards her. "I don't care about any of those silly superstitions. I just had to see you before everything starts."

Irina rolled her eyes but couldn't stop herself from smiling as he approached. He placed his hands on her waist and brushed his lips against hers softly, a simple gesture that made her melt into him. 

"Are you nervous?" he asked, searching her eyes.

Surprisingly, she shook her head. "Not yet, at least. Ai-Todor is working its magic on me. I love it here more and more each day."

Feodor's face lit up at her words. "I'm glad to hear that," he said softly, kissing her again, lingering this time as if committing the moment to memory.

He stepped back slightly, still holding her gaze. "I feel like the luckiest man in the world, Irina. This... all of this still feels like a dream."

Irina's heart swelled, and for a brief second, all the nerves she'd expected to feel melted away. 

"You're not dreaming," she whispered, resting her forehead against his for a moment. "And neither am I."

Feodor kissed her once more, more deeply this time, before reluctantly pulling away. "I suppose I should let you get back to your preparations before I really tempt fate," he teased.

Irina laughed softly, shaking her head. "You better. I have a battalion of maids waiting to descend on me."

He smiled, kissed her forehead one last time, and with a final lingering look, slipped back through the door, closing it quietly behind him. Irina stared at it for a moment longer, feeling like a schoolgirl, feeling a tingling that ran through her entire body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. This was the part she needed to remember, that all this was just a formality and, afterwards, Feodor would become a lifelong companion and the most delightful journey to Italy for their honeymoon was just around the corner. She pulled a silk robe over her shoulders and rang the bell for someone to bring her breakfast. She wanted to take the meal alone, to enjoy her last minutes of solitude to the fullest.

Once she was done, she made her way to the dressing room where a battalion of maids awaited, ready to begin the long process of preparing her for the ceremony. Her mother was already there, overseeing everything, with her calm yet authoritative presence. Irina's half-sisters—Marie, Olga, and Marianne—were also gathered, chatting among themselves.

"You're up early," Marie said with a smile.

"I don't think I slept more than a few minutes tonight," Irina confessed, looking around the room. "Where's Natasha?"

Next to Marie, Marianne, who had her eyes closed and was nestling a cup of coffee in her hands, turned to her. "It seems that it was a struggle to wake her up after yesterday's dance. I cannot say that I blame her."

Irina laughed softly. It felt good to hear something so ordinary on a day that was otherwise anything but. She took her place in front of the large vanity, and the maids began working on her hair with their expert hands, trying to pin it into place.

As they worked, Natalia and Tata entered the room, both looking sleepier than ever, but their faces lit up when they saw Irina.

"What is it with brides that makes them look this radiant when the sun is barely out?" Tata teased, stretching her arms and yawning as she approached.

Natalia, still half-asleep, wrapped Irina in a gentle hug. "I can't believe it's today," she murmured, in a mix of wonder and exhaustion. She stepped back, blinking to fully wake up. "How are you feeling?"

Irina smiled at her sister's familiar sleepy face. "Surprisingly calm, actually," she admitted. "Or at least... I was until all this started," she added, gesturing to the bustle of activity around her.

Natalia and Tata found seats near the dressing table, both now more awake and visibly excited. It did help that there were servants constantly walking into the room to serve tea, coffee, biscuits and, to Marianne's great delight, even champagne.

"It's going to be perfect," Natalia said in a reassuring tone. "You'll be the most beautiful bride the Crimea has ever seen."

The preparations continued with a steady rhythm, and as Irina sat in front of the mirror, she watched her reflection transform. The maids twisted her hair into a soft, elegant updo that would complement the tiara awaiting its turn. Occasionally, she glanced at the dress behind her, shimmering in the soft morning light that filtered through the tall windows. The thought of finally wearing it sent a small thrill through her.

Her mother oversaw the proceedings with calm authority, making sure everything was in place without a single moment of wasted effort. The light clinking of coffee cups, the occasional stifled yawn from Natalia or Tata, and the soft chatter between her half-sisters added comforting background noise and it distracted her from the enormous day that lay ahead.

Marianne sighed contentedly, sipping her champagne. "This is all reminding me of the first time I got married," she teased. "It was only too bad that it didn't last. But the dress was a dream."

"Come now, Marianne," Olga said, giving her a look. "Let's not talk about those things, this is a happy occasion."

Irina smiled at the banter around her, but she couldn't help feeling like she was suspended in time—everything seemed so surreal. The quiet of the early morning, the steady hum of the preparations, and the knowledge that in just a few hours, she would walk down the aisle.

"Are you nervous yet?" Tata asked, glancing up from her seat.

Irina shook her head, though she wasn't sure if it was entirely true. "Not really. I think Ai-Todor is keeping me calm," she admitted, flicking her gaze briefly towards the window. "It's strange, but I feel at peace here."

Her mother, standing by the window now, nodded in agreement. "There's something about the sea that soothes the soul."

As the final touches to her hair were made, the maids moved to help Irina into her gown. The room quieted for a moment, and her sisters and friends exchanged glances of anticipation. Irina stood, and with the assistance of the maids, stepped into the gown. The fabric slid over her skin like water, cool and smooth, as they fastened the intricate buttons and laced up the back.

When she turned to look in the mirror, the transformation was complete. Her breath caught in her throat. She had never dreamed of this moment as a little girl, but still, it was an overwhelming sight to see herself as a bride. It was incredible how a piece of fabric could represent such a degree of change in one's life.

Before she could fully take it all in, the door creaked open again, and Grand Duchess Xenia, her soon-to-be mother-in-law, walked in with her daughter, Irina Alexandrovna by her side. Both women stopped in their tracks as they caught sight of her. There was a brief moment of silence, one of those delicate, almost shy moments of acknowledgement between people who were not yet entirely familiar with one another.

Grand Duchess Xenia offered a small, restrained smile while her eyes scanned Irina from head to toe. "You look... wonderful," she said, in a sincere yet measured compliment as if she didn't want to overstep.

Irina Alexandrovna, more reserved still, gave a subtle nod of approval. "Very beautiful," she added softly in a kind, polite tone.

Irina felt her nerves ease slightly at their reactions. She knew that their relationship was still growing, but their words, though simple, felt genuine.

Her mother stepped forward with the sapphire kokoshnik tiara, pausing for a moment before asking, "Are you ready, my dear?"

Irina nodded, feeling the weight of the tiara settle onto her head. She glanced at her reflection one last time, feeling the support, however subtle, from the women around her. It was all falling into place, piece by piece, just as it should.

Chapter Text

After leaving the dressing room, Irina felt like she was being swept up in a tidal wave, barely able to catch her breath from the moment she stepped outside. More servants awaited her, guiding her into another room—a grand hall, really—where the rest of her family stood assembled. Her father, towering above them all, immediately drew her attention. His presence always seemed to fill any space, but his strong facade crumbled when his eyes landed on her and tears silently rolled down his cheeks.

Irina ran into his arms without hesitation, tucking herself against his chest. His embrace was firm, and protective, as he held her close.

"How is it possible that just yesterday you could fit in the palm of my hand, and now you're getting married?" he whispered into her hair.

Irina smiled, though her eyes burned with the threat of tears. She didn't want to upset him; she wanted to show him that she was ready and strong.

"I haven't been a little girl for a long time, Papa," she replied softly. "It's time for me to fly away."

He squeezed her tighter for a moment before releasing her, and just as she took a breath, Dmitri's familiar voice interrupted the tender moment.

"You still look like a little girl to me," he teased, grinning as he approached, his lighthearted comment breaking the tension. He made a goofy face, crossing his eyes slightly, clearly trying to make her laugh.

Irina chuckled, swatting at him playfully. "Always so serious," she joked back, shaking her head.

Then, from behind Dmitri, Vladimir emerged, his face less animated but filled with affection as he stepped forward. Irina's heart swelled with warmth seeing her brother, but there was also a pang of realization. The last two days had been a whirlwind, and she was just now realizing that the 'few hours' he had asked for had turned into two days where she hadn't seen him.

"Bodia," she said quietly as they embraced, her tone more serious. "How are you? Are you feeling better?"

Vladimir's expression hardened for a brief second, his body tensing slightly. He shook his head, and whispered, "It doesn't matter, Irina. Not today."

She frowned, sensing there was more to the story. "Vladimir—"

But he cut her off, squeezing her hand gently. "This is your day," he said, forcing a smile he didn't mean. "Nothing else matters right now."

Irina wanted to push further, but the look he gave her told her it wasn't the time. She nodded, letting it go for now. Whatever it was, she hoped it wasn't as bad as she feared.

As they stepped out of the embrace, she glanced around the room. The weight of the moment, the finality of it all, began to press on her. She was about to embark on a new life, and yet, there were so many threads from the past still dangling around her. The thought made her chest tighten.

But Dmitri's voice broke through the haze and his usual goofy charm lifted her spirits. "You ready for this, Irina? Last chance to run."

"Never," she replied, her smile more confident this time.

As they prepared to move on, Irina couldn't shake the feeling that something was still unresolved, particularly with Vladimir. But for now, she had to focus on the day ahead, the future waiting just beyond the doors of this hall.

When Irina entered the small Orthodox chapel, her nerves were palpable. Led by her father, she trully felt the weight of the moment. The soft light of the candles flickered against the gilded icons, creating a serene and solemn atmosphere that seemed almost overwhelming. Her steps were careful, her grip on her father's arm tight, as her mind raced with thoughts of the ceremony ahead and the watchful eyes of those gathered.

But then, as she neared the altar, her gaze caught Feodor's. His face was filled with pride and emotion, his eyes locked on her with a tenderness that made the world around them fade. At that moment, Irina's anxiety began to ease. The knot in her stomach loosened, her hands relaxed, and she could suddenly breathe more easily.

Feodor's expression, so full of love and anticipation, calmed her in a way nothing else could. With each step, her focus narrowed solely on him, and the nervousness that had gripped her gave way to a sense of calm. Irina's mind quieted, and all she could think of now was Feodor, standing before her, waiting.

As Irina reached the altar, the Russian Orthodox wedding ceremony began, and Feodor, standing proudly at her side, gently took her hand. The priest, robed in rich vestments, intoned the prayers, invoking blessings upon the couple. The scent of incense filled the small chapel, mingling with the soft chanting of hymns.

Although Irina had sometimes questioned her motives to marry Feodor, she felt a calm certainty settle over her. Each time she glanced at him, her love deepened. Feodor's quiet confidence reassured her, and with every small squeeze of her hand, she knew—now more than ever—that he would make her happy.

The crowning, a pivotal moment in the ceremony, followed. Feodor's younger brothers held the crowns for him, while Irina's brothers, Vladimir and Dmitri, along with Alexei, lifted the crowns for her. As the priest placed the gleaming, jewel-encrusted crowns upon their heads, Irina and Feodor were symbolically united as rulers of their own household, the weight of the crowns reminding them of the honour and responsibility they now shared.

Afterwards, they shared the common cup, sipping wine together to signify the joys and sorrows ahead. Finally, they were led in a procession around the altar, a symbolic journey hand in hand. The rhythmic steps felt light as if all the burdens of the day had lifted. Every moment—the blessings, the hymns, the sacred rituals—brought them closer together.

As the moment for the kiss arrived, Feodor pulled Irina close. Instead of a brief peck, he kissed her deeply, playfully bending her backwards. The guests broke into cheers, though her father shook his head in mild disapproval. Irina smiled, surprised her heart hadn't leapt from her chest.

She had never pictured herself in this moment. Her mind had always been filled by other ambitions, and if things hadn't changed so much in the last few months—her father denying her wish to attend university while allowing Natalia to go to Paris—she doubted she would have reconsidered Feodor's proposal. In fact, she knew that, under different circumstances, it would likely be Isabelle of Órleans standing here in her place. Yet Irina felt grateful for the strange turns that had led her to this day.

It all felt almost too good to be true. She had Feodor, three months of travel for their extended honeymoon, and afterwards, Yalta University awaited her. That perfect combination made her smile with true happiness as they walked back up the aisle, arm in arm with her husband.

Chapter Text

Vladimir stood at the church's steps, blending into the line of guests as they filtered out into the afternoon sun. The ceremony had been beautiful and he couldn't remember the last time he had seen his sister so radiant. Despite his reservations about the haste into which she had delved into this marriage, the look of pure happiness in her eyes eased his mind. As for Feodor, anyone with two functioning eyes - or maybe just one - could see how smitten he was with Irina.

Yet, despite all the happiness and emotion around him, his mind had been elsewhere, haunted by the thought of eventually crossing paths with Olga. He knew she was here—he'd caught a quick glimpse of her in the crowd—but they hadn't spoken, hadn't even exchanged a look. Until now.

As he shifted his gaze from Irina for a moment, his eyes locked on her. Olga was descending the steps with Carol at her side, her hand resting lightly on his arm. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. Time seemed to slow, his breath catching in his chest. The years fell away in that instant, all the unresolved feelings and words left unspoken crashing down on him.

But then, she looked away, her face blank as if he were a stranger. Without hesitation, Olga turned her head, keeping her focus ahead, and continued walking with Carol, her posture elegant, poised, and distant. She hadn't acknowledged him—not a flicker of recognition.

Vladimir stood frozen for a moment, his heart sinking. What had he expected? That she would stop? That she would speak to him? He clenched his jaw, forcing the thoughts aside. It was pointless. This was how it would be—her pretending as though nothing had ever happened between them. And maybe, he thought bitterly, that was how it had always been.

As the guests flowed toward the reception, Vladimir reluctantly followed. The long tables were set for the celebration, and to his dismay, it took him not long to realize that, not only was he seated near Olga and Carol, but none other than Tata was close by as well. Directly across from him, his brother Dmitri was already sitting, a grin tugging at his lips as he watched Vladimir approach. It was as if fate had conspired against him.

Tata, sitting just a few chairs down from Olga, was unmistakably in his line of sight. Their last interaction had been an awkward one, and the memory of the kiss they had almost shared haunted him almost every night. Now, seeing her again, those memories returned with vivid clarity, sharper than he could have anticipated.

She wore a pale yellow dress that barely covered her knees, the soft fabric hugging her form in a way that left little to the imagination. Her slender legs, exposed just enough to make his pulse quicken, crossed elegantly beneath the table, while her short, dark hair framed her face neatly and stopped just above her shoulders, bare beneath the dress's delicate straps.

Vladimir found himself swallowing hard. Seeing her reminded him how close they had been that day in the library. He could still picture the way her lips had almost touched his, the warmth of her presence, the softness of her skin, and how suddenly she had pulled away. Those were memories that had lingered long after and not even Olga's presence, just a few feet away, could dull the impact Tata had on him now. It hit him with an intensity that left him momentarily breathless.

Taking his seat, Vladimir felt the weight of both Olga and Tata's presence more acutely than ever. Olga sat a few chairs down, her attention firmly on Carol and the guests directly next to them. She didn't glance his way, and yet her proximity made it impossible for him to forget she was there, a ghost from the past. Meanwhile, Tata, her public persona polite as ever, offered him a smile that gave no hint of what had passed between them.

He let out a silent breath of relief for that. He was not in the mood or anywhere near ready to deal with her more provocative side and he turned toward her gratefully, deciding to focus on anything—anything—other than the complicated mess swirling around him. But still, every time he looked up, there was Dmitri across the table, waggling his eyebrows and making a subtle, teasing face that said, "Good luck. You'll need it."

Vladimir resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but couldn't help a faint smile. Leave it to Dmitri to find humour in his predicament.

Later, in the evening, when the music began and the guests moved over to the dancefloor, Irina and Feodor made the honours of opening the dancing, gliding gracefully under the soft lights. Irina looked more mature than her nineteen years, more poised and self-assured than Vladimir had ever realized. He blinked, taken aback by how grown-up she seemed. In that moment, in the back of his mind, he saw her not as the young bride everyone was admiring, but as the quiet little girl who used to follow him around with wide-eyed curiosity, asking about the most complex subjects and strange words she had found in the books she devoured. A deep emotion welled up in him—pride, nostalgia, and something bittersweet.

As the music shifted into a softer waltz, Vladimir instinctively found his way to Irina. She smiled up at him as they slid down the dance floor, her face flushed with the joy of the evening. He felt a wave of pride again, seeing his little sister all grown up, twirling in her bridal gown, radiant with happiness. For a moment, as they danced, it felt like it was just the two of them in the world, the shared history of childhood warming the space between them.

"You've made a beautiful bride," Vladimir said in a tender tone of voice.

Irina blushed. "Thank you, Bodia. I still can't believe this is all real."

He chuckled softly, leading her through the steps. "Neither can I. Seems like yesterday you were asking me what 'existential' meant."

She laughed at that, her eyes twinkling with a mix of nostalgia and joy. "I still don't know."

As Vladimir spun Irina gracefully around the dance floor, a rare sense of peace settled over him. His sister looked radiant, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed between them. He could almost forget the complexities of the evening, the tension simmering just below the surface with both Tata and Olga nearby. But the peace didn't last long.

Carol appeared beside them, his presence so commanding that Vladimir felt Irina stiffen slightly in his arms before smiling politely.

"May I cut in?" Carol asked, his voice friendly but firm, making it clear that he wasn't really asking. "I would very much like to dance with the bride."

Vladimir hesitated for a split second, glancing at Irina, who gave him a small nod of reassurance. "Of course," he said in a measured tone.

With a formal smile, Carol took Irina's hand and whisked her away, leaving Vladimir standing awkwardly in the middle of the dance floor. He was about to retreat, hoping to find a quiet corner, when he realized who Carol had left behind for his moment in the spotlight with the bride.

Olga.

Her expression was unreadable, but there was a slight hesitation in her posture as if she, too, was uncertain about what to do next. Vladimir's heart skipped a beat, a flood of emotions crashing into him all at once. It was as if fate had conspired to push them together again, whether he liked it or not.

Without a word, she stepped forward, and he instinctively took her hand. It was all happening too fast—he didn't have time to think, didn't have time to prepare for what he was about to face. Six years of silence, of unresolved feelings, were suddenly condensed into the span of a waltz.

They moved together, their steps in perfect sync, but Vladimir's mind was racing. What was he supposed to say? How could he even begin to express everything that had built up inside him over the years? Every time he glanced at her, memories flashed through his mind—her laughter when they had played the piano, the way she had looked at him that last time before walking away without a word.

Olga, for her part, kept her eyes mostly lowered, only meeting his gaze briefly. Her face remained calm, almost too composed. He could tell she wasn't going to make this any easier.

He cleared his throat, trying to find something, anything to break the silence. But the words caught in his throat. How could he sum up six years of heartache and confusion in a single dance?

He met her eyes and she didn't look away. There was a softness there, a crack in the facade she usually wore that reminded him of their very last encounter. The beginning and the end of everything. However, before he could press further, Vladimir shifted, struggling to find a way to lessen the intensity that had built between them.

"How is your son?" he asked quietly, in a gentle tone.

Olga's expression softened. "He's well," she replied in a whisper.

Vladimir hesitated for a moment. "I'm sorry to hear about his illness. I hope—"

She shook her head, cutting him off gently. "Nothing's confirmed yet," she said quickly, as though she couldn't bear to think about it for too long. "We're hopeful."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, and Vladimir could feel the emotions swirling beneath the surface—his own and hers.

"Olga..." he began, but even that felt hollow, insufficient.

She looked up at him then, just for a moment, her eyes meeting his. There was something there—something buried deep beneath the surface—but she didn't give him time to explore it.

"Not here, Vladimir," she said quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the music.

His hand tightened around hers, frustration rising in his chest. "If not here, then when?" he hissed, his voice low but urgent. "When will we be able to talk this through?"

Olga kept her gaze steady, her lips pressed into a thin line. "There's nothing to talk about," she replied softly, her tone cool, as if they were discussing the weather.

Vladimir shook his head, disbelief flooding him. "Nothing?" he echoed. "You think there's nothing to talk about after all this time?"

Olga didn't answer immediately, her silence weighing heavily between them.

"I never forgot about you," Vladimir said in a quiet but intense tone. "No matter how much I tried to move on, I couldn't. Because whatever happened between us... it was too deep, it was..." He shut his eyes, trying to pull himself together and clear the images of the past from his mind. "It never felt like it ended. There was no closure, Olga. I never understood if you had any feelings for me or not."

Her eyes flickered. For a moment, Vladimir could see the vulnerability she was so desperately trying to hide. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, before Olga finally spoke.

"You should've moved on by now, Vladimir," she said, her voice quieter than before but far from indifferent. "I made my choice a long time ago. We both did."

Her words hit him hard, but it wasn't the cold dismissal he had expected. There was pain there, regret—feelings that echoed his own. He couldn't help but ask, "Are you happy?"

Olga scoffed softly, the sound more bitter than amused. "Happy? What does happiness have to do with anything?" She shook her head, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I'm content. I have my children, and that's enough. That's all I need."

Vladimir stared at her in disbelief. "Is Carol good to you?"

Olga faltered, her face dropped, and there was a long pause before she answered. "He's not a bad man," she said, but the words rang hollow, as though she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

Vladimir's frustration boiled over. "Then why did you choose this life, Olga? Why do you bear it?"

Olga's eyes burned with defiance as she held his gaze, her chin lifting as if daring him to challenge her. "It's my duty," she said, her voice low but resolute. There was no wavering, no crack in her resolve—just pure conviction.

Vladimir hesitated, words failing him. This wasn't a decision she had been forced into; it was something she believed in with her whole being. She had chosen this life, this sacrifice, because she thought it was right. Irina had hinted at this years ago, how deeply rooted Olga's sense of duty was, but he hadn't wanted to believe it then.

This was the world Olga had been raised in, the belief system ingrained in her since birth. Even after her family had lost everything, after the old order had crumbled, she still clung to it. When she could have chosen a different path, she hadn't. Her sister Maria had, breaking free from the weight of expectations and following her heart. It took a special kind of courage to do that, Vladimir realized now—more courage than he had credited her for.

Alexei was much the same. Duty-bound, unwavering in his belief that he must follow the path set before him. Vladimir had often wondered whether his family's unyielding dedication to duty was more a curse than a blessing. And as the final notes of the waltz drifted away, he knew he had made the right choice with Natalia, pulling her away from that suffocating world. It would have crushed her.

"I wish you all the best, Olga," Vladimir said, in all sincerity. He gave her hand one last, lingering squeeze.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and Vladimir felt a deep sense of finality settle over him. This was it—this was the closure he had been searching for all these years. He wished he could free Olga from the burden of her own beliefs, but he couldn't. If this was what she wanted, if this was the life she had chosen to fight for, then there was nothing left for him to do.

As they parted, Vladimir turned, scanning the crowded ballroom. His eyes moved over the dancers until they landed on Tata, just as she was finishing a dance with someone else. Something shifted within him, a renewed determination. He stepped forward, making his way through the throng of guests, until he reached her.

"Tata," he said, his voice steady but quiet, "may I have a word with you? Outside?"

Chapter Text

Vladimir had never felt so bold before, so he wasn't sure what would be the answer to his question. Tata looked around her and then at him and kept him waiting for what seemed like an eternity but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. When she finally nodded, he felt a deep wave of relief flooding his chest.

He made a head gesture, which told her to follow him and, to his surprise, she promptly did. He made the way through the guests, out of the ballroom and into the garden feeling her presence behind her, smelling her perfume, deeply conscious of the sound of her dress rustling as she walked behind him.

He was intoxicated, in a mixture of feelings that made his head spin. A part of him still felt sadness for Olga, but he mostly felt like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time after years of staring at stone walls. As he ventured deeper into the garden, the sea breeze and the smell of roses made his head spin. He had no idea what he was doing, he just knew he had to find a place where no one would see them.

He finally discovered a secluded corner, surrounded by imposing oak trees, with a fountain in the centre. The sound of the water gently cascading drowned the sounds coming from the house. He stopped for a moment to make sure they were really alone and then turned around to look at Tata.

She had her arms crossed around her chest, trying to warm herself up from the night chill. She was wearing a golden dress, embroidered with pink flowers that clung to her figure like a second skin. Her dark eyes were wide with confusion and curiosity as the moonbeams reflected on her tanned skin. She seemed more breathtaking than ever before.

"So... what was it you-"

Vladimir didn't let her finish. If there was one thing he had learnt over the last few months playing her game, was that Tata liked decisiveness and so, this time, he would not let words get in the way of what he needed to show her.

He pulled towards him and then pressed her back against one of the oak trees. The boldness of the move made her gasp and he was now close enough to feel her chest rising and falling in quick succession against his own. This time he had caught her before she could put on her mask of teasing coquette.

He took a long, deep look at her, taking her all in, every inch of her body, from her feet to her eyes and he made sure she knew what he was doing. Then, he very slowly and deliberately ran his fingers up her arm, and he could swear she stopped breathing for a moment.

He then leaned in, ever so slowly, until his mouth reached her ear and he asked in a low, rough voice: "Are your feelings still the same as they were six months ago?"

Tata had her eyes closed and she was digging her nails against his shoulders, holding on to him as if he was a rock in the middle of an ocean into which she was about to sink.

"For someone who seems so sure of himself, you're surprisingly bad at asking what you want." She told him in a shaky voice.

He felt a smile forming in the corner of his lips. He liked that she was still able to keep her witty remarks, even when she was about to lose her grip on reality.

"Oh, I know what I want," Vladimir said as he tilted her chin towards him. "I'm just making sure we're on the same page."

For the first time since they knew each other, Tata was left speechless. She looked at him with hazy eyes and ragged breaths. He could tell she was thinking of a retort, something that would show him she was still in control, but nothing came. After a moment, she simply nodded, slowly, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He took her face in both his hands and, without any further hesitation, pressed his mouth hard against hers. Her lips were already parted and they felt soft and warm against his. She tasted like champagne and, for a moment, he wondered if that was the reason why his head felt so light.

He took her all in, pouring out all the pent-up desire from the last few months, pulling her closer and closer until they were a single mass of tangled flesh and soft gasps. There was no tenderness, not yet. Just when he tried to pull away to catch his breath, Tata would bury her hands deep into his hair, pulling it, as if punishing him for making her feel so deeply that she had lost all control.

In response, he ran his hands down her back, feeling that the buttons of her dress were too feeble of a barrier for the need he was trying to suppress to feel her skin against his fingertips.

When he felt he was about to lose his last threats of composure, he slowly, painfully pulled away and stared, mesmerized, at Tata's reaction. She was leaning against the tree, eyes closed, her hair a tangled mess and her red, swollen lips parted as she tried to steady her breath. He had to bite his lip and lean against the tree to stop himself from kissing her again.

After a beat, she opened one eye, lazily, and smiled at him.

"You're surprisingly good at this," she whispered.

Vladimir chuckled softly at her remark. He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued as he leaned a little closer, his lips still hovering near hers.

"Did you doubt it?" he asked, in a low whisper.

Tata's smile widened, her eyes glinting with mischief as she tilted her head slightly, pretending to consider her answer.

"Well," she said, drawing out the word, "considering you live like a monk, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect."

Vladimir's grin deepened, and without another word, he closed the small gap between them, capturing her lips again. This kiss was different—playful, almost challenging, but still charged with the same intensity. He didn't give her time to continue her teasing, pouring his response into the kiss itself, tasting the smile on her lips as he pulled her even closer.

Whatever doubts she might have had, he intended to erase them with every breath, every touch.

As Tata's hands slid down Vladimir's back, his breath hitched, and a low gasp escaped his lips. The intensity of the moment caught him off guard, and he pulled back slightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes locked on hers, now clouded with heat, but something flickered behind them - a brief hesitation.

"Tata," he murmured, struggling to catch his breath, "this might be going too fast."

Tata grunted in frustration and leaned her head back against the tree, taking a deep breath as if trying to gather patience. "You're probably right," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance, "but only because there are a hundred people standing not too far from us."

Vladimir laughed softly at her reaction. He stepped closer, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Not that I would mind kissing you all night," he murmured, his voice warm and affectionate, "but we should take this slowly."

Tata's eyes flickered open, and she raised an eyebrow. "Slowly?" she echoed with a hint of scepticism. "Even slower than what we've been taking this so far?"

Vladimir smiled, but there was a seriousness in his gaze as he met hers. "I don't want to rush this. I want to do it right."

As they lingered in the quiet of the garden, Vladimir pulled Tata close for one last, intense kiss, pouring every bit of longing into it. Their lips moved together slowly as if trying to stretch out every moment. But just as the heat began to rise again, Vladimir broke it off with a soft chuckle, resting his forehead against hers.

"You'd better go," he murmured, in a low and playful tone, though his breath was still uneven, "before I change my mind."

Tata smiled, but there was a glint of frustration in her eyes. She turned slowly, throwing him one last mischievous look over her shoulder. "I'm not sure that would be such a bad thing," she teased her voice light but filled with temptation, before she walked away, the sound of her dress rustling against the grass as she disappeared back toward the ballroom.

Vladimir stood watching her for a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of his line still feeling her presence on his skin.

***

Later that night, as Vladimir sat at his desk, his pen scratching feverishly across the paper, he tried to pour the storm of emotions from the day onto the page. The words just seemed to flow out of him. He wasn't sure any of it would make sense by the morning, but he was determined to register all of his feelings. He was lost in this task when a soft, hesitant knock echoed through the room. His hand froze mid-sentence. Slowly, he rose, a mix of curiosity and apprehension tightening his chest.

When he opened the door, his breath caught in his throat. Tata was there, in nothing but a delicate nightgown, her wide eyes glinting with something he couldn't quite place—desire, vulnerability, or maybe both. He had to blink to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

"Tata..." he whispered, eyes darting around the hallway, feeling the panic rising in his chest at the thought of someone seeing her there. Without thinking, he reached out and gently but firmly pulled her into the room, shutting the door behind them.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a low voice, almost a rasp, as he searched her face for an explanation.

Tata hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering with uncertainty before she whispered to him.

"I can't sleep," she began, her hands wringing together nervously.

The intense gaze she gave him after the words left his lips let Vladimir know that he was the reason why she was still awake and the thought sent a thrill through him that was too strong for him to contain. He suddenly became acutely aware of her proximity, of his coat, laying carelessly on top of his chair, his boots disregarded at a corner and the soft, tantalizing bed just beside them.

"It's not a good idea for you to be h-", he started saying, but cut him off with a hand gesture.

"I'm leaving for Paris in two days, Vladimir. And don't get me wrong, I really want to go. I'm having the time of my life, but..." Her voice trailed off, and she took a deep breath, meeting his eyes with an intensity that made his chest tighten. "I just can't sleep knowing you're this close to me, and all we'll have for the next six months are a few kisses in a dark corner of a garden."

Vladimir blinked. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to think of something to say, but he was unable to find the right words to respond. The worst part of it all was that he wasn't feeling nearly as shocked at her boldness as he should have. In fact, there was a tickling sensation in his fingers, as if they longed to cut the short distance between him and Tata and touch the exposed collarbone just above her nightgown. He had to shake himself awake however and he took a step back.

"Tata, I don't..." he murmured, ashamed at his inability to form a full sentence. "I don't think this is a good idea. You being here."

Tata raised an eyebrow and took a step forward, ignoring his attempt to put some distance between them.

"Really?" Tata asked playfully. "I think it's the best idea I've had in a long time."

The moonlight coming from the window lit her face just then and he could see her pulse, throbbing ever so slightly in the hollow of her throat. It took all of his restraint not to run his fingers through it.

As he battled with his own thoughts, Tata came closer and closer and now she was standing right in front of him, her perfume making him dizzy. He had to shut his eyes to try to regain some self-control. "Tata, I'm serious. Those kisses were wonderful, I feel deeply attracted to you, but I'm not ready to take things further, I'm not ready for marriage."

She scoffed, as she touched his cheek with her fingertips. "Vladimir, marriage is the last thing on my mind at this moment."

Her fingers made their way down his neck until they reached his collar. Two buttons of his shirt were already undone and she opened the third. Vladimir felt as if her fingers were burning his exposed skin and gasped at the intimacy of the touch. The room around him was already blurring and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his resolve for much longer.

"Tata, we don't need to do this, I can wait for you. I can wait for you to return from Paris and then we can see where this goes, like you said, I'm a monk, I wouldn't see other..."

His trail of thought was interrupted when Tata captured his lips on her own and pressed her tiny, warm body against his own. Whatever restraint was left in him, evaporated when he savoured her intoxicating taste. She didn't break the kiss while her fingers expertly undid the rest of the buttons of his shirt and, this time, he helped her, discarding the piece of fabric onto the floor. She stopped then for a moment, breathing in small gasps as she looked at him through hazy eyes.

"No, I could not wait another six months to see that," she said, kissing him again, as her hands moved over his chest, feeling every line, every muscle.

There was no point in pretending that he would be able to resist anymore, so Vladimir simply traced the line of her back and quickly realized that she wasn't wearing anything beneath the flimsy fabric, which was the only barrier between her skin and his fingertips. He made his way down, to the hem and, in a quick movement took it out through her head.

The sight of her took all the breath out of his lungs. She was even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. She didn't let him stare for long, however. She pressed her warm body against his and the sensation of her bare skin against him was intoxicating. He kissed her again, long, hard, as if he would run out of oxygen if he didn't, and led her to his bed.

Chapter Text

When Vladimir awoke the next morning, he felt lighter than he had in years, a blissful calm settling over him. But as he reached out, the cold, empty space beside him reminded him that Tata was no longer there. He let out a soft grunt of disappointment, feeling her absence in the sheets that had cooled without her warmth. A flicker of regret passed briefly through his mind, but it was fleeting, quickly replaced by the memory of the night they had shared.

The flutter of excitement in his chest, the vivid recall of Tata's touch, her skin against his, made it impossible to dwell on anything negative. Whatever the future held, it couldn't change how special that night had been. He allowed himself to bask in that happiness for a moment longer, feeling a level of joy he hadn't allowed himself in a long time.

With a lazy stretch, he rolled out of bed and moved toward the window, gazing at the lush gardens below, bathed in the golden light of late spring. There was a feeling of anticipation over the coming summer and the longer days in the air, and a few early risers were already wandering through the grounds, savouring the salty breeze.

His gaze shifted to the desk in the corner, cluttered with the mess of papers he had left the night before. One sheet caught his eye as he walked over—the poem he had started writing about Tata the night before. But there was something different. At the bottom of the page, in her neat, flowing handwriting were a few added lines:

"Just a little something to remember me while I'm in Paris.

I'll see you at breakfast. Anonymously.

Try your best to pretend like nothing's happened.

If the tides run in our favour, I'll meet you again tonight.

A tender kiss,

Tata."

Vladimir smiled, his heart fluttering as he read the note. Her playful tone was unmistakable, and he could almost picture her writing it in the early hours before slipping away. But now, breakfast awaited, and he had to face her again—along with everyone else.

As he dressed and went to the dining room, he could already sense the emotional weight in the air. The table was smaller this morning, set for only the most intimate guests—those closest to Irina and Feodor. This was their last meal together before the couple departed for their honeymoon, and the mood was bittersweet.

Vladimir entered quietly, joining the others already seated. The conversation was subdued, filled with fond memories and well-wishes for the newlyweds. Irina and Feodor, sitting at the head of the table, were the centre of attention, their love radiating as they exchanged smiles and soft words. Irina looked radiant, her eyes glowing with happiness, though a hint of nervousness lingered around the edges. Feodor, ever attentive, held her hand tightly, offering silent reassurance.

He stole a glance at Tata, seated a few places down from him, next to his sister Natalia. She caught his eye for just a second, but her expression remained perfectly composed, betraying nothing of the night before.

He felt a surge of admiration for her—at how easily she slipped back into the familiar rhythm of their social circle as if nothing had changed. But beneath the surface, Vladimir knew. He could feel the electricity between them, the secret they now shared.

When Vladimir turned back around, he found Dmitri, of all people, looking directly at him with an amused, knowing smile. Vladimir froze for a second, unsure if he was going to say something or even if he had truly noticed the brief exchange between him and Tata. But Dmitri, true to his mischievous self, simply smiled to himself and turned his attention back to his plate, offering no comment.

Later, as they were leaving the room and heading into the garden to bid farewell to the newlyweds, Dmitri walked up beside him and gave him a hearty pat on the back.

"Good for you," he whispered with a playful wink before casually strolling ahead as if the comment had never been uttered at all.

As Irina and Feodor stepped out of the house, laughter rippled through the gathered guests. Feodor's brothers had outdone themselves, decorating the car in a playful, gaudy fashion—cans rattling on strings and phrases like "Just Married" painted across the back in vibrant, mismatched colours. The whole scene was cheerful and lighthearted, unlike the bittersweetness Vladimir felt at that moment.

He watched from the edge of the crowd, his heart swelling with pride and a touch of sadness. His little sister, the girl he had teased and protected all these years, was stepping into a new life. It felt surreal to see Irina now, radiant with happiness, waving to their family and friends, her hand tightly intertwined with Feodor's. The reality of it hit Vladimir—this was the beginning of her journey, the start of something he couldn't be a part of in the same way anymore.

As Irina hugged each guest and accepted heartfelt congratulations, Vladimir saw the mixture of excitement and nerves on her face. Her smile was bright, but there was a fleeting glance toward him—one that held a thousand memories of their childhood, of the bond that now had to loosen. 

When it was his turn to embrace her, the emotions overwhelmed him. "Take care of her," he whispered to Feodor, who nodded with a soft smile.

However, her composure slowly began to crack. When she reached Tata, the first tears welled up in her eyes. Tata, always so composed, pulled Irina into a warm embrace, whispering something that made them both laugh softly despite the emotion of the moment. But the laughter quickly faded, and as they parted, a tear slipped down Irina's cheek. She wiped it away, trying to keep herself together.

But when Irina reached Natalia, the thin thread of control snapped entirely. The two sisters stood there for a moment, staring at each other before Irina broke down, sobbing. Natalia, tears streaming down her own face, rushed to embrace her, and they clung to each other as if they couldn't bear to let go. The crowd around them fell silent, all eyes on the tender, emotional farewell between the sisters.

Vladimir watched the scene with a lump in his throat, feeling the weight of the moment. Irina had always been the calming, grounding force of the family, and seeing her like this—caught between the excitement of her new life and the pain of leaving behind the world she knew—tugged at his heart in a way he hadn't expected.

They held on for what seemed like an eternity, neither wanting to be the first to pull away. Feodor, standing patiently by, finally leaned in and whispered gently to Irina that they had to go or they would miss the train. His voice was soft but firm, and slowly, with one last tight squeeze, Irina let go of Natalia. Her face was wet with tears, but there was a bittersweet smile on her lips as she took Feodor's hand.

Finally, with a last wave, Irina and Feodor stepped into the car, the cans clattering noisily as the engine roared to life. Vladimir's throat tightened as he watched the car pull away, disappearing down the long driveway. It was a joyful farewell for everyone around him, but for Vladimir, it was the poignant realization that Irina was truly grown now —she was a wife, beginning her own path, and all he could do was watch from a distance.

Chapter Text

Later that night, the tide did turn in their favour. Vladimir sat hunched over his desk, trying to catch up on his correspondence, but his eyes kept drifting to the clock, watching the minutes crawl by. His mind was elsewhere, the words on the page blending into meaningless lines. He couldn't stop wondering if Tata would be able to come, if she could slip away unnoticed like before. Each tick of the clock only heightened his anticipation, making it harder to focus.

When the soft knock finally came at his door, he dropped everything, his heart pounding. He opened the door quickly, finding Tata standing there, a shadow in the dim light of the hallway. Resisting the urge to pull her into his arms right there, he ushered her inside. The door clicked shut, and in an instant, the space between them disappeared. His lips met hers as fervently as they did the day before.

As they stumbled toward the bed, Vladimir's hands moved instinctively, unbuttoning her dress with the same urgency with which she undressed him. The room was filled with the rustle of fabric and the quiet, breathless sounds between them. But this time, something was different. Vladimir was more intentional, his touch lingering on her skin, as though he was committing every inch of her to memory. He traced the curve of her collarbone, the warmth of her olive skin beneath his lips, savouring every second.

He didn't rush, knowing how fleeting this could be. Who knew when they would have another moment like this? He took his time, letting the intensity build between them, making sure no detail of her escaped his attention. When they finally collapsed into bed, their bodies entwined, the world outside ceased to exist, and at that moment, nothing mattered but the two of them.

Afterwards, they lay in the quiet, Tata resting her head on Vladimir's chest, tracing lazy circles on his skin, while he ran his fingers through her hair. The room was still, save for the sound of their steady breathing.

Something had been on Vladimir's mind since the previous night. He wasn't sure if he should bring it up, doubted if it was his place, but the intimacy of the moment they were now sharing made the question slip out in a cautious whisper.

"This isn't the first time you've snuck into someone's room like this, is it?"

Tata paused, her expression shifting from playful to thoughtful. She lifted her head, studying his face in the dim light. "Are you shocked?" she asked quietly and gently.

Vladimir hesitated. He had been shocked at first. He thought he knew everything about Tata, believed she existed in the same sheltered world as his sisters, where they were surrounded by people who made sure such intimacies were almost impossible. But he didn't want her to see that in his reaction, so instead, he smiled and kissed the top of her head.

"Not shocked, just... surprised," he admitted, though his tone wasn't entirely sincere. "Maybe I'm being hypocritical, but I thought there were governesses and ladies-in-waiting, all making things like this nearly impossible. And I can't help but wonder if I'm missing something with Irina and Natalia... since you're their best friend."

Tata chuckled softly and pressed a light kiss to his chest, momentarily throwing off his thoughts. "That does sound a little hypocritical," she teased, "coming from someone who is fully enjoying the benefits of my sneaking skills."

Vladimir couldn't help but laugh quietly, but his curiosity remained.

Tata leaned back slightly, her gaze serious now. "Irina and Natalia know nothing about this part of my life," she said. "I've been careful to keep it hidden from them. They're both well-protected—your family takes care of that. My situation is... different."

She paused for a moment before continuing. "My mother isn't exactly diligent with the people she chooses to watch over me. To be honest, I think she doesn't care what I do when she's not looking." There was no bitterness in her voice, only a matter-of-fact resignation. "It's given me more freedom than Irina or Natalia would ever have."

Vladimir pulled Tata closer, his arm tightening around her as if to shield her from the dismissive way she had spoken about her mother. "You deserve more than that," he murmured, his voice filled with quiet concern. "To have someone who really cares about where you are, who's looking out for you."

But Tata shook her head, her expression unwavering. "Don't comfort me like I'm some victim, Vladimir. I'm not." She looked up at him, a glimmer of confidence in her eyes. "I don't need anyone to pity me. I have a lust for life, a curiosity for it. I haven't been with many people, but the ones I've chosen to be intimate with walked into my life because I wanted them to, not because I was pushed or abandoned or left to my own devices. It's all because I wanted it."

Her words were firm, almost defiant, and Vladimir fell silent for a moment, realizing she had never seen herself as someone in need of protection. Before he could respond, Tata tilted her head, a playful gleam returning to her eyes. 

"Was I your first?" she teased, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

Vladimir flushed, feeling heat creeping into his cheeks as he fumbled for a response. "Well, I..."

But Tata cut in, her tone turning mischievous. "Why is it that you men get to taste life in all its fullness, choose whoever you want to sleep with, but we don't get the same privilege? Why should it be different for me?"

Her question caught him off guard, and he found himself searching for an answer he wasn't sure he had. 

"It shouldn't be different," he muttered, feeling suddenly inadequate. 

Tata's confidence, her sense of agency in her choices, only made his own experience feel smaller somehow, and the fact that she had turned the tables on him left him without much to say.

She smiled at him as if understanding his silence. "Exactly," she said softly, resting her head against his chest. "We deserve the same freedom. The same right to choose."

Vladimir was quiet for a moment, his fingers gently tracing patterns on Tata's back as they lay together. The weight of their conversation hung between them, and he struggled to find the right words.

"So, what are we? I mean... I'm not exactly... experienced with this sort of thing," he admitted after a long pause, in a whisper. "I've never been in a situation like this, and definitely not with someone so close to my family."

Tata tilted her head, looking up at him with a soft, understanding expression. "I'm not asking for anything serious, Vladimir," she said gently, brushing her fingers against his arm. "I know this is complicated. I don't want anyone, but especially not Natasha to know about us. It would give her false hopes that this might go somewhere, that we might be in the same family. It would make everything... messy. But I don't think we need to figure it all out right now."

He met her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. "So, what do we do?" he asked, unsure of where this left them.

Tata smiled with a playful glint in her eyes again. "We continue as we are," she said in a light tone as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "I'm not looking for anything more. But I'd like to be with you again if that's something you want too."

Vladimir didn't hesitate this time. "I can't imagine not being with you again," he confessed, his voice suddenly filled with a certainty that surprised even him. "I don't think I could stop it now even if I tried."

Tata's smile softened, and she leaned in to press her warm lips against his. "Then don't try," she whispered against his mouth.

Her kiss lingered, her lips soft and warm against Vladimir's. He felt her fingertips trace along his jawline, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as she shifted her weight, settling herself on top of him. His pulse quickened instantly at the closeness, the way her body pressed so effortlessly against his. He could feel her breath against his skin, her scent filling his senses, heady and intoxicating.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, as if they both knew exactly where this would lead and were in no rush to get there. His hands slid along her back, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath his fingertips, every touch making him gasp.

Between kisses, he managed to murmur, "I'm going to miss you when you go to Paris."

Tata smiled against his lips, her breath warm as she whispered, "Maybe you shouldn't have sent me there in the first place."

He chuckled softly, already losing track of his thoughts, as her hands roamed his chest. "I've regretted it many times," he admitted, his voice husky.

"You shouldn't," she breathed, her fingers teasing his hair as her lips pressed against his neck, sending a ripple of sensation through his body, leaving him breathless. "I'm loving it."

Vladimir could barely register her words. The sensation of her soft lips grazing his skin, her weight pressing down on him, had already blurred the edges of his thoughts. His mind was slipping away, leaving only the dizzying pleasure of her touch and the inevitable realization that rational thinking would not return anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Natalia

After months of planning and weeks of anticipation, the wedding had come and gone. Irina was already en route to Vienna for the first part of her honeymoon, which would take her through Italy, and a brief stop in Paris in early August. That would be when Natalia would see her again, and they would travel together to Biarritz for their usual summer vacation with the family.

The wedding and the events leading up to it had been beautiful, and Natalia's feet still ached from all the dancing. It had been better than she expected, and it was wonderful to reunite with her family. But she couldn't deny that she was eager to return to Paris. It was already late May, which meant she only had two months left before her summer break, and after that, just three more before she had to return to Russia. She was determined to make the most of it.

It was late morning, and Tata was beside her as the servants loaded their luggage into the car. As usual, Tata's mother hadn't bothered to get out of bed, not even to say goodbye, though they wouldn't see each other for another two months. But at least Grand Duke Michael and her brother George were there. Grand Duke Michael, always a fatherly figure to Tata, whispered some careful advice, while George clung to her waist. The time they had spent apart seemed to have strengthened their bond.

Natalia felt her chest ache at the fact that the duties of the Regency kept the Grand Duke so busy. Tata would never admit it, but Natalia knew she needed more of his steady, reassuring presence. She could tell by the way Tata's eyes shimmered as she listened to him, holding back tears—something rare for her.

As for Natalia, her whole family was around for the final farewells. Her parents and siblings each took turns offering their their advice—some helpful, some less so. Dmitri leaned in with a grin, telling her to enjoy Paris to the fullest, but not to the point where the police would need to get involved. Then her sister Marianne whispered, "You're living the best years of your life. Pretend Petrograd doesn't exist and live it up."

After Dmitri's playful remark and Marianne's advice, Vladimir, always the most sensible and practical of the siblings, stepped forward. 

"Just be careful," he said, in a tone that was more serious than the others. "And try to pay at least a little attention to your classes."

Then, to Natalia's surprise, he added, "And keep an eye on Tata. She looks like she could use a sensible sister."

Natalia laughed and shook her head. "The sensible sister is already on her way to Austria, I'm afraid."

After laughing off Vladimir's comment, Natalia walked toward her parents, ready to say her goodbyes. But Vladimir's words about Tata echoed in her mind. Why would he be concerned about her all of a sudden? He was usually the reserved, distant one. Did he notice something she had missed? Tata had always been strong-willed and independent, hardly someone who needed looking after. But maybe there was more going on than Natalia realized.

As she mulled it over, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of movement from the corner of her eye. Someone was dashing toward them, and for a brief moment, her heart raced. Then she realized who it was—Alexei, barreling through the crowd with his usual exuberance, his coat flapping behind him like a cape.

"Alexei!" Natalia called out, her voice a mix of affection and gentle warning. "Be careful! Don't run!"

Alexei skidded to a halt, grinning up at her, his cheeks flushed from the sprint. He was still catching his breath as he spoke, "Sorry! I was afraid I'd miss you. I just had to say goodbye to my sister Olga."

Natalia smiled warmly, pulling him into a tight embrace. She hadn't seen much of him over the past few days. Alexei had been constantly surrounded by people—diplomats, family, and officials, all vying for his attention. It seemed everyone wanted a moment with him, a word, a favour. Each time she saw him, he was engaged in some serious conversation or surrounded by imposing figures. She hadn't dared interrupt.

She felt a pang of guilt. Their correspondence had dwindled in the last few weeks, especially since she had thrown herself into her busy Parisian life. There had been barely any time to write him, and when she did, it was often brief. She had hoped they could catch up here, but even at the wedding, they seemed to be moving in different circles.

"I've missed you," she said, holding him at arm's length, looking him over with sisterly affection. "We've barely had a chance to talk."

Alexei laughed softly. "I know. I'm sorry I haven't been writing. It feels like I can hardly get a free moment these days."

Natalia shook her head, brushing it off with a smile. "It's okay. I've hardly been an example myself."

She shook her head slowly, brushing it off with a soft smile. She looked at Alexei for a moment, her gaze lingering on his face. She couldn't help but think back to their last conversation when she had told him how important it was for her to know that he was alright. The worry she felt for him then still lingered. Finally, she exhaled, her voice quieter but filled with meaning.

"But, Alexei," she began, her tone gentler now, "I want you to know—even if I'm not writing as often as I should, I'm always thinking of you. And if you ever need anything, or if something happens, I want to be the first to know. Promise me that."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said quietly, nodding as if a weight had been lifted. "I wasn't sure if... with everything going on, with how much better Paris is than boring, old Russia, you still thought about me."

Natalia gave him a fond smile, a little sheepish. "There's not one thing in Paris, even the most wild and interesting ones, that would ever make me forget about you, Alexei. You're my dearest friend in this world."

His expression warmed even further, and after a brief pause, he added in a lighter tone, "You know, I'm always thinking about what you'd say in every situation. Like when I'm stuck in those endless meetings or classes—especially the boring ones where everyone's droning on about politics or finances—I imagine the jokes you'd make, the way you'd roll your eyes or come up with some clever comment to break the tension. It always makes me smile, even when I'm trying not to."

Natalia chuckled, squeezing his hand. "Well, I'm glad I can at least keep you entertained in spirit."

Finally, the time came to say goodbye. Natalia still had to bid farewell to her parents, so she turned to embrace them one last time. Alexei, taking the opportunity, walked over to Tata for his own goodbyes. They exchanged a few quiet words, and soon enough, it was time to leave.

Natalia and Tata climbed into the car, waving one last time to everyone gathered around. There was a hint of melancholy in the air, the weight of parting, the finality of the moment. But as the car pulled away, the mood began to lift. The familiar comfort of being together, away from all the farewells, helped shake off the sadness.

Before long, they started to laugh, chatting excitedly as they made plans for Paris—what they would do, where they would go, and all the adventures awaiting them in the city they both loved.

Chapter Text

Florence, July 1923

Irina

Irina had always dreamt about Italy, and now that she was there, she could hardly believe it was real. After weeks spent travelling through Milan, Venice, and Bologna, she found each city more beautiful than the last, but Florence captured her in a way she hadn't expected. It was the cradle of the Renaissance, where most paintings and works of art she had admired since she was a child had been created.

She had watched and studied them so many times that, as she strolled through its narrow streets, lined with centuries-old palazzi, buzzing with life, she felt as if she knew them as if she had been there before. And yet, at the same time, the smells, the warmth of the people who crossed their path, were a completely new experience that delighted her and made her feel as if she was stepping into a completely different world.

Everything was made even more extraordinary by the fact that she was travelling without her family for the first time, having Feodor as her only companion.

During the mornings, they would visit galleries—Irina particularly marvelled at Botticelli works, whose beauty had always stirred something deep within her. They wandered the Boboli Gardens, getting lost among the manicured hedges and fountains, pausing to admire the stunning views of the city. Their afternoons were spent in quieter, more intimate pursuits, like sitting in small cafés in Piazza della Signoria, sipping coffee, eating pastries, and watching the world go by.

The evenings, however, were the most magical for her. As the golden light of sunset bathed the Ponte Vecchio and the surrounding hills, they would cross the bridge to the Oltrarno quarter for dinner, sharing dishes of fresh pasta, grilled meats, and wines that made her cheeks flush with warmth.

Though they were wrapped up in the romance of the city, there was still a sense of unfamiliarity between them, a soft boundary they hadn't yet crossed. It was strange but also comforting. Irina felt at ease with Feodor, but there was still a certain shyness between them. They had never spent this much time together before, and the novelty of it was both exciting and, at times, overwhelming. Neither had felt compelled to take the next step into their marriage yet—neither had been bold enough to take the initiative and the fact that they were still sleeping in different bedrooms made the arrangement even more complicated. For Irina, it was wonderful. She was grateful for the slow pace, enjoying their time together without the pressure to rush into family life.

Before the wedding, she had a conversation with Marianne which had reassured her a little in that regard. Marianne, being more experienced and unafraid of tackling such issues, had provided her with a list of methods to avoid pregnancy—everything from reliable suggestions to slightly humorous ones. But, in the end, the method that worked best for Irina and Feodor so far was simply refraining from intimacy altogether. It gave them space to focus on the newness of their relationship and enjoy their honeymoon without added expectations. Irina was happy to let things unfold naturally, appreciating this quiet period of discovery.

At that particular moment, they were seated at a charming restaurant perched along the Arno, listening to the soft ripple of the river as they enjoyed their dinner. The heat of the day hadn't fully subsided, and the evening air was still warm, but that only seemed to enhance the atmosphere. Feodor looked particularly handsome, his shirt sleeves rolled up, collar undone, trying to fend off the lingering heat. Irina admired how relaxed he appeared, how effortlessly he carried himself in this unfamiliar but beautiful city. She, too, had dressed lightly, in a flowing summer dress that caught the occasional breeze.

The wine had been flowing freely throughout the meal, helping them unwind after a day filled with sightseeing. They had hired an elderly tour guide earlier in the day—an experience that turned out to be more of an adventure than they had expected. The guide only spoke rapid Italian, and despite their best efforts to communicate in French, Russian, and English, none of their words seemed to get through. Now, sitting together under the fading light, they found themselves laughing at the absurdity of the situation, exchanging playful remarks as they recounted how the man had eagerly shown them around, oblivious to their confusion.

As they laughed, Irina felt an overwhelming sense of lightness, like the world was opening up to them at this moment. It was as though Florence itself was encouraging them to let go, to enjoy the simplicity of being together in a place so steeped in art and romance.

Later that evening, after they had finished their dinner, Irina and Feodor took a leisurely stroll along the river. The night was warm and serene, with a gentle breeze brushing past them, carrying the scent of the water and the soft hum of the city. Irina's head was still a little light from the wine, a pleasant warmth coursing through her as they walked past other couples, hand in hand, some even stopping to kiss beneath the dim glow of street lamps.

She glanced at Feodor, noticing how he looked at her differently tonight. Perhaps it was the wine or the way the moonlight played over his features, casting shadows that made his sharp cheekbones even more pronounced. Or maybe it was something deeper, a quiet shift between them that she couldn't quite name. He had never looked so dashing to her, his composed expression softened by the night, and she couldn't help but feel a new wave of affection and attraction rise in her chest.

Irina stepped in front of him, bringing them both to a gentle halt. Without a word, she rose on her toes and stole a kiss from him—quick, but full of meaning. The surprise flickered in his eyes for a moment before he smiled, and in that instant, she knew that whatever hesitations had been between them were starting to melt away.

"How very daring of you, Irina Pavlovna," he whispered softly, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

"You looked too handsome not to be kissed," Irina whispered back, surprised at her own words. She hadn't planned on being so forward, but something about the night, the wine, and the intimacy of their walk had made her bold.

Something shifted in Feodor's expression then. His eyes darkened, filled with a new intensity as he took a long, deliberate look at her. Slowly, he leaned down and captured her lips again. This time, his kiss was different—unhurried, purposeful, as if savouring each moment, each breath, like she was a particularly delicious desert he was savouring in small bites to last longer.

Irina felt the change in her body immediately, a warmth spreading through her, tingling in places she hadn't thought a simple kiss could reach. It reminded her of the moment she had seen him return from a fishing trip with his brother, how his mere presence had left her breathless. But this was different—more potent, more overwhelming. Being near him now, being kissed by him like this, multiplied that sensation tenfold. She felt as if the world had tilted, and all that existed was this kiss, this closeness. It took her a long time to remember that they were still by the riverside, surrounded by passersby who were watching every second of it.

Irina let out a soft, nervous laugh as Feodor slowly pulled back. Her heart raced, her body still buzzing from the intensity of the kiss. She stepped back into place by his side, her fingers slipping naturally into his. She tried to steady herself, to pull back into the reality of the moment—the peaceful stroll along the river, the gentle hum of the city around them—but it was as if something had shifted between them, something irreversible.

The way his hand covered hers, firm and warm, sent a new wave of heat through her, and she found it difficult to focus on anything else. The air felt thicker, charged, and the simple contact of their hands felt like it was pulling her back toward him, tempting her to kiss him again. Every glance they exchanged carried a new weight, a new understanding, as if they had crossed an invisible threshold they hadn't even realized was there before.

When they arrived back at their hotel, Feodor turned to her, ready to say goodnight and head to his own room. But before he could speak, Irina caught his arm gently. "Would you like to stay a little longer?" she asked. "We could order something from the bar. It's too hot, and I don't think I can sleep just yet."

Feodor's smile was immediate, his eyes lighting up with surprise and anticipation. "I'd love to," he replied warmly. Without another word, he turned and made his way down to the bar while Irina headed to her room.

Minutes later, he returned with a bottle of wine, and they opened it together on the terrace of Irina's room. The night stretched out before them, the view from the terrace breathtaking. The soft glow of the city's lights shimmered in the distance, the river winding far ahead like a ribbon of silver under the moonlight.

They poured the wine and settled into comfortable chairs, the quiet sounds of the city below making the atmosphere feel intimate. As they drank, they reminisced about old stories, trading memories that spanned their childhoods, their families, and the early days of their courtship. Laughter filled the air, light and carefree, as the conversation flowed easily, fueled by the wine and the quiet thrill of the evening.

Irina's head began to feel light but in a pleasant way. The wine and the warm air made everything seem dreamlike. She lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke and watching it curl into the night sky. Feodor did the same, his eyes soft with a familiar warmth as they talked deep into the night. The ease between them was palpable now and what little shyness was left was quickly melting away. Time seemed to slow, and as they sat there, side by side, overlooking Florence.

Irina couldn't quite remember who had made the first move—whether it had been her or Feodor who left their chair and crossed the small distance between them. It was a hazy blur, the effects of the wine muddling the memory, but now it didn't matter. What was clear, undeniably vivid, was the feel of Feodor's full lips capturing hers, the heat between their bodies as they pressed tightly together, as if they were clinging to one another for dear life.

She didn't feel nervous—at first. But when she reached to unbutton the last few buttons of Feodor's shirt, her fingers began trembling, frustratingly clumsy. She let out a nervous laugh, trying to shrug off the growing tension. Feodor noticed immediately, giving her a crooked smile before gently taking over, unbuttoning the rest himself. He fumbled for a moment too, and they both burst into laughter, the awkwardness breaking the tension rather than building it.

As Feodor's shirt finally slipped off, Irina felt her breath catch at the sight of him. Yet, even then, something in her mind faltered. She stared for a moment too long, unsure what to do next, feeling the weight of her own stillness. When he leaned in, she realized she hadn't moved, her body stiff as if awaiting instructions it didn't know how to follow.

Feodor hesitated for a second, probably unsure whether he was going too fast or too slow. His hand brushed her shoulder, but it was a little too firm, a little awkward like he wasn't sure where to place it. The heat from his touch made her flinch involuntarily, though she quickly tried to mask it with a smile. "Sorry," she muttered, her voice coming out more like a squeak than she intended.

They both laughed again, the sound a bit strained as he gently guided her onto the bed. His large frame lowered onto her, but not without a miscalculated bump of knees, which made them both pause. Feodor stammered out an apology, and Irina felt a giggle bubbling up inside her, though she tried to hold it back.

As Feodor inelegantly tried to ease the straps of her dress down, it caught on something—her bracelet? Her hair? She wasn't sure, but it took longer than either of them expected. Then, as he finally slid her dress down, exposing her, he stopped. Completely. His hands, which had been so fidgety and awkward, froze.

Feodor's eyes widened, his breath visibly hitched in his chest, and he just... stared. Mesmerized. It wasn't like anything Irina had seen in him before—his playful expression was replaced with pure awe. He seemed hypnotized, utterly taken by her, and for a moment, he did nothing but gaze at her as if she were the only thing in the world. His fingers, still resting on the fabric, were motionless, as if he had forgotten what he was doing entirely.

At first, Irina was flattered, her cheeks flushing, but as the seconds ticked by and he continued staring, she felt her heartbeat quicken for a different reason. The silence stretched clumsily, and she shifted slightly under his gaze, feeling more exposed by the second. "Um... Feodor?" she whispered, trying to prompt him into action.

Feodor blinked rapidly as if coming out of a trance. "Oh, sorry!" he stammered, his face flushing a deep red as he shook his head, finally moving again. "I—uh—sorry," he repeated, fumbling with her dress as he continued to pull it down, clearly flustered by his momentary lapse.

Irina laughed softly, both touched and amused by his reaction. The tension broke again, and as Feodor finally finished undressing her, his eyes softened, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

As his bare skin met hers, the awkwardness faded once more, and suddenly, amidst the fumbling, Irina felt something else—something warm and tingling in the pit of her stomach. It was a soft kind of awakening, a discovery that despite the lack of grace of it all, this was also...pleasant.

Feodor's hand moved across her arm, tentative but tender, and Irina felt a shiver run through her that had nothing to do with nerves. As he kissed her neck, a little too hastily at first, she closed her eyes and felt the fluttering sensation spread. Her heart raced, not just with embarrassment, but with the realization that she wanted more of this. Despite the clumsy missteps, her body was responding, leaning into the closeness, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers.

She had worried endlessly about this moment, wondering how she would ever find the courage to let herself be so vulnerable, to allow another person to see her in such an intimate way. But now that it was happening, it felt effortless—almost as though her body already knew what to do.

They moved together, but it wasn't exactly graceful. A kiss landed too close to her ear, her hand brushed the wrong part of his back, and when Feodor shifted his weight, Irina felt a burst of giggles escape her. Feodor froze, a confused grin spreading across his face. "What?" he asked, and she had no answer—just more laughter, this time contagious.

"Nothing, I'm sorry," she gasped, trying to catch her breath. Feodor smiled, shaking his head, and leaned in again, his lips brushing hers—this time in the right spot. His kiss was firmer now, more confident, and Irina felt that same heat rising again. Something was intoxicating in the way their bodies fit together, even with all the little stumbles.

As Feodor's hands roamed, not quite sure where to linger, Irina found herself melting into his touch. Her nervousness wasn't disappearing completely, but there was a thrill in that uncertainty. Every awkward movement was mixed with moments of surprise—like when his fingers grazed her waist, sending a small, unexpected jolt through her, or when his breath on her skin made her heart skip a beat.

Not everything was smooth or seamless, but there were moments when Irina forgot to care about the clumsiness. She was discovering the pleasure in those small touches, in the warmth of Feodor's body pressed against hers, in the soft sighs and quiet laughter that filled the room. Every misstep was followed by a glance, a quiet laugh, and a soft touch to reassure them that they were in this together. And despite the awkwardness, or maybe because of it, Irina realized this was more thrilling, more intimate, than anything she had ever imagined.

The next morning, Irina awoke to the warm sunshine streaming directly over her eyes. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, her mind struggling to piece together her surroundings. The sunlight felt overwhelmingly bright, and her head throbbed in protest, a sharp reminder of the wine they had shared the night before. It took her a moment, but gradually, she located herself: Italy. Florence. Hotel room. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the memories came flooding back, filling her with a sense of warmth.

However, that sensation of comfort quickly faded when she heard the heavy breathing coming from her side. Startled, she muffled a scream with her hand as she turned to see Feodor, sprawled across her bed in all his glory, blissfully asleep. The sight was breathtaking, and in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but think he looked like something out of a Caravaggio painting—striking and ethereal, with the soft light accentuating his features.

Yet, as the reality of the late morning set in, and the sunlight bathed him in stark detail, Irina felt an unexpected wave of self-consciousness wash over her. She pulled the sheets a little tighter around her, suddenly aware of her own vulnerability in the bright morning light. The memories of the night before felt raw and fresh, and the intimacy they had shared seemed daunting in the clarity of day.

As she took in the sight of him, she felt a mixture of awe and uncertainty. She marvelled at the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell with each deep breath, and the soft curve of his lips, which still bore the remnants of their passionate night. All of it was so real, and yet, the reality of their closeness brought an unfamiliar flutter to her stomach.

She had thrown all precaution to the wind, foolishly letting herself flow with the moment. This was so unlike her! Every second of her life had been meticulously planned, each decision weighed carefully, and now, on the verge of the most important chapter of her life—with the university so close she could almost grasp it—she had made the most basic and foolish mistake a woman with ambition could make.

Irina tried to steady herself, searching for reason amidst the jumbled thoughts racing through her mind. She prided herself on being knowledgeable about many things, but this felt like uncharted territory. The only guidance she had was the brief talk she'd had with Marianne on the evening of her wedding. Yet, now, faced with the reality of their intimacy, she realized how much she hadn't asked—how much she still didn't understand.

Could one be with child after just one night? That was the most pressing question swirling in her mind, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. The thought made her heart race, and she couldn't shake the feeling of panic that gripped her. What if this moment changed everything? What if her plans, her dreams, everything she had worked for, came crashing down because of a single lapse in judgment?

Irina's mind raced with anxious thoughts, spiralling deeper into uncertainty. The weight of her worries felt too heavy to bear alone. She couldn't remain here, trapped in her swirling fears. So, with a soft sigh, she gently nudged Feodor awake.

He stirred, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the window, and a lazy smile spread across his face as he focused on her. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Before she knew it, he had pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in warmth and comfort. The familiar scent of him washed over her, and she was momentarily swept away, taken back to the moments they had shared the previous night. When he kissed the top of her head, holding her close to him, she felt her nerves soothing just enough to ease her into a state of contentment.

But as quickly as that feeling came, she pulled herself out of it, remembering the seriousness of her concerns. She needed to address what was weighing on her heart.

"Feodor," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "may I ask you something... intimate?"

He pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing with curiosity. "Of course. You can ask me anything."

She took a deep breath, summoning the courage to voice her thoughts. "Last night... it was wonderful, but I'm worried. What if... what if I could be—?"

Feodor chuckled softly. "You worry too much," he said, his voice still sleepy. But as he took in the genuine concern on her face, his demeanour shifted. "Really, though," he continued, "it would take some extraordinary skill for me to get you with child on the very first try."

Irina's heart sank a little at his teasing, though his tone was reassuring. "You promise?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I mean, really? Is there a way to prevent it?"

Feodor shifted, leaning closer, his body warm against hers as he positioned himself above her, his playful smile never leaving his lips. "Don't fret," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I remember the promise I made to you. I'll be more careful next time." He paused, the teasing glint returning to his eyes. "Or the times after that. It's really up to you to decide."

Irina bit her lip, torn between laughter and worry. "You say that so lightly," she replied, trying to maintain her serious expression, though the flutter in her stomach betrayed her.

Feodor took that moment to close the distance between them, his lips brushing against hers in a slow, lingering kiss that made her heart race with anticipation. "Trust me," he whispered against her lips, "it is possible to prevent it. I promise."

The warmth of his body, combined with his gentle reassurances, melted some of the tension inside her. As the kiss deepened, she found herself momentarily lost in the sensation, the worries of the world outside fading into a distant hum.

Author's note: Dear reader, I hope it's abundantly clear that Feodor has no idea what he's talking about.

Chapter Text

Paris, July 1923

Serge

The evening in Boulogne-sur-Seine was quiet. Most of the homes in the neighbourhood were empty, most likely because their owners had already left for their summer retreats—likely along the Côte d'Azur or in Italy, where the wealthy preferred to spend the season.

Under normal circumstances, Serge would have gone there as well. Since Sergei Diaghilev had discovered him two years before, he had spent his summers refining his dancing technique in Milan. But now, he was caught up in this far-fetched scheme that Anna and her brother concocted—the ambitious plan to somehow reach the Tsar of Russia through distant family connections living in Paris.

The whole thing felt overly complicated, and he doubted it would lead anywhere. The Tsar was a distant, heavily guarded figure in Petrograd, and the idea that they could get close to him from a bench in this posh Parisian neighbourhood seemed almost absurd. Serge hadn't joined the plan because he believed in it. He was looking for something different to distract him, something exciting. Besides, he liked Anna and would do anything she asked.

For the past few weeks, they had come to this bench, with its clear view of Grand Duke Paul's mansion, two or three times a week, depending on their workload with the Ballet Russes. They watched the comings and goings around the house, though it was rare for something to happen. Princess Natalia was only there on weekends, and the friend staying with her—whose identity they still hadn't figured out—remained during the week, but she only left for French lessons or shopping trips in town. When Princess Natalia returned on the weekends, she and her group of ladies-in-waiting and servants would go to the theatre, opera, or some new exhibition, but mostly kept to themselves. No one of significance visited the house, and Serge doubted they even knew the Tsar personally.

"I thought the life of a spy would be more interesting," he commented, stretching his arms lazily.

Anna shot him a stern look. "We are not spies, Serge. We're looking for an opportunity to change Russia, and right now, this is the best chance we have without spilling blood."

Serge straightened up, feeling slightly intimidated by her words. He knew bits and pieces of her story, but she went out of her way to keep most details hidden. He knew she was Jewish, and that her family had a hard time of it during the last Tsar's reign. Sitting next to her with nothing better to do, he decided to push his luck and try to learn more.

"You really don't like these people, do you?" he asked cautiously, keeping his tone as light as possible.

Something flickered in her eyes, a coldness rooted deep within. "They didn't like us in the first place," she mumbled, almost under her breath.

Serge waited for her to say more, but she remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line, gaze fixed on the mansion.

"What does that mean?" he asked, still curious.

Anna glanced at him briefly, then returned her focus to the house. "Do you know why I came to Paris as a child?" she asked.

Serge shook his head while Anna took a deep breath before continuing, "We had to flee our home in Kyiv during the Pogrom of 1905. An angry mob destroyed... everything. Our house and the homes of all our friends and family."

Her voice was firm, but the weight of those words made the mood between them heavy and cold. Serge didn't know what to say. He had never heard her talk about her past so openly.

Despite the look of pure hatred in her eyes, Anna continued without a flinch. "We weren't rich in Kyiv, but we were relatively well off. My father had a business—enough to keep us comfortable. When the pogrom happened, we used the last of our savings to secure a passage to Paris because my father didn't want us to live in fear for the rest of our lives. But when we arrived... we had nothing. No home, no money, and no connections. Just the clothes we managed to carry."

Serge listened, trying to imagine what that must have been like. He came from Kyiv as well but from a wealthy and proper Orthodox family. His father was a civil servant and his mother's family owned a considerable number of properties in the region. He had never felt insecure or hungry. He'd known Anna was strong, but this was a glimpse of a side of her he hadn't seen before.

"My parents tried to find work," Anna went on. "But the city was overcrowded with Jewish refugees. No one wanted to hire us. They could only get menial jobs. My father ended up cleaning the sewage. It was hard for him. He had been a respected man back in Kyiv, and now... this."

She paused for a moment, her voice growing more subdued. "He started drinking to cope with it all. It didn't take long before he couldn't live without it. Between the drink and the awful conditions of his job, his health deteriorated fast. He died three years after we arrived here."

"Fortunately, I had an aunt," Anna continued, in a more vigorous tone. "She had connections in Paris, and knew some people of importance. She had managed better than we did in the city. After my father died, she took my brother Dmitri and me into her home—we were the youngest. The rest of my brothers and sisters had to find work to survive."

She paused as if remembering all the hardships in her life. "It was my aunt who taught me how to dance. When she realized I had talent, she paid for my schooling and made sure I had the opportunities my parents couldn't provide. Everything I have now... it's because of her."

Anna's expression shifted, her eyes darkening with a fierce intensity. "For years, I couldn't understand why people had done that to us," she said, unable to suppress her anger. "What had we done to deserve such cruelty? Such heartlessness? I searched for answers everywhere."

She stopped for a moment as if gathering her strength, before continuing. "Then, three years ago, my brother joined the Bolshevik party. He heard hundreds of stories just like ours—families torn apart, lives destroyed. He asked me to come with him to the meetings, and that's when I learned the truth. Those pogroms... they were organized by monarchists. People who blamed the Jews for everything—for the assassination of Tsar Alexander II, for the Revolution of 1905, for every evil that had ever touched Russia."

Her words burned with fury, and Serge could feel the deep resentment that had built up inside her over the years. This wasn't just about politics for her. It was personal.

Anna turned to Serge with an intense gaze. "Instead of dealing with the riots, discouraging them, the Tsar quietly supported it all. He believed the same lies—that the Jews were responsible for his grandfather's assassination, for every hardship the Empire faced."

She pointed to the mansion across the street, her voice low but seething with contempt. "And the man who lives in that luxurious home, enjoying every possible comfort, living a carefree life, and providing everything to his children, is none other than Tsar Alexander's only living son."

Serge followed her gaze, realizing just how deep Anna's resentment ran. For her, this was about justice for her family and countless others like them. He could see that clearly now.

Anna's expression hardened further. "I have nothing against him personally," she admitted coldly. "I don't even know what he does or what role he played in all of this. But I wouldn't mind seeing him and his family suffer. It would be a small price for everything they've done to us."

The mood between them grew heavy and silent after Anna's words. Serge understood her deep hurt and her thirst for vengeance, but he still felt a deep and unsettling discomfort about the idea of hurting anyone, even those tied to the system that had wronged her.

The silence stretched until, after a while, they heard a rustling sound coming from the mansion. They turned their heads, and in the far corner of the garden wall, they saw a figure appear. It didn't take long for them to realize that this was none other than Princess Natalia, clinging to the ivy on the wall as she climbed down. Moments later, she jumped lightly onto the sidewalk.

Before Serge could fully process what was happening, another figure emerged at the top of the wall. The friend they had been watching threw two pairs of shoes down to Natalia, who caught them with surprising ease. Then, she waited as her friend climbed down to join her.

Still barefoot, the two young women giggled and dashed up the street, disappearing into the night.

Serge and Anna sat in stunned silence for a moment, neither of them quite believing what they had just seen. Then, despite himself, Serge felt the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. The sight of Princess Natalia, barefoot and sneaking out like some mischievous schoolgirl, was more amusing than he cared to admit.

Anna, however, was not in the least entertained. "What in the world are they doing?" she asked, confused and appalled.

Serge chuckled softly. "Looks like they're sneaking away to some place they shouldn't be," he replied.

Anna shot Serge a stern look. "Nothing those girls do should amuse you," she reminded him sharply. "We need to figure out where they're headed."

She glanced back down the street where Princess Natalia and her friend had disappeared. "Going out without a chaperone makes them vulnerable. It'll be much easier to get close to them than I had anticipated."

Serge's smile faded at Anna's seriousness. She was already plotting, thinking of how to use this unexpected opportunity to their advantage. But Serge was still lost in the innocence of what he had just seen and couldn't bring himself to focus on schemes and plans. The scene had been so simple, so full of life—two young women sneaking away from the restrictions of their home to experience the thrill of freedom, giggling as they ran barefoot into the night.

Serge had forgotten what that felt like. He had once known that kind of carefree joy, but it had slipped away from him long ago. Ballet had entered his life when he was fifteen, and with it came an all-consuming passion. He loved it—needed it, even. But ballet also demanded sacrifice. The discipline, the hard work, the long hours spent in front of mirrors, pushing himself to keep up with dancers who had been perfecting their craft since well before he had even started. Every day was a test of resistance, of pushing his body beyond its limits, of striving to be better, faster, more graceful.

There was little time for anything else—no time to sneak away, no time to laugh like Natalia and her friend had done. His world had become a rigid, structured schedule around rehearsals, performances, and now, this secret mission with Anna. And while he never regretted the path he had chosen, moments like these reminded him of what he had left behind: the freedom to live without responsibilities, to make mistakes, and to experience life outside the confines of his dedication to ballet. He envied them, even if just for a second—their ability to embrace the night without a care in the world.

Chapter Text

Yalta, November 1923

Irina

The summer had flown by in the blink of an eye, and Irina had savoured every moment of it. The past three months were a whirlwind of experiences she would hold forever dearly in her heart, but none had left a mark on her quite like Italy. The culture, the art, the sheer beauty of every corner she turned was unlike anything she had ever known. Italy had opened her eyes to a different world, refined, filled with history and charm, and so far from the one she had grown up in. She had always yearned to travel, but she hadn't expected it to shape her so deeply, to spark such a deep sense of wonder and change her perspective on life.

Walking through the ancient streets and standing before centuries-old masterpieces made her realize that her life had shifted in ways she hadn't fully grasped until then. The experiences of that summer were made even better by the joy of having Feodor by her side, but they also pushed her to think about the world differently and stoked the desire to discover more about herself, about what made her happy because she had the feeling she was beginning to find that out after years of sheltered protection under her parent's roof. The things and places she knew before seemed to have lost at least a bit of their charm and she was already longing for the next time they would discover a new destination, the next time she would feel the thrill of exploring a new place.

Now, as she walked through the bustling streets of Yalta, on her way to university, clutching her books close to her chest, she still found it hard to believe that she was really there. It had been three weeks since the lectures had started and the process of adapting had been more challenging than she had expected. She had dreamt about the moment she would sit in her chair so many times in the past that, to a degree, she had romanticized the experience in her mind.

She had expected to find quiet respect, a place where students who were eager to be there sat and listened attentively to the wisdom of the best minds in the country, but the reality was far more chaotic. History lectures, for instance, particularly those that veered into political discussions, could quickly become charged. There were always different factions that clashed openly on various topics and each was as determined as the others to make their opinion heard. The constant back-and-forth made Irina feel lost, swept up in debates she wasn't prepared for.

Adding to the challenge was her recent wedding to Feodor, which had turned into a much larger event in the city than she had anticipated. Over the summer, postcards of their formal photographs after the ceremony had circulated widely while she had been away on her honeymoon. When she first walked through the university corridors, she could feel people staring at him. Some did it with awe, others with clear disapproval, and very few seemed to hold no opinion at all. It was an isolating feeling, especially given her natural shyness.

Striking up conversations in the first few days had been nearly impossible. The assumptions people made about her—based on her title and the spectacle of her wedding—had created a barrier between her and her colleagues she wasn't sure how to break through. Thankfully, over time, the novelty of it all began to wear off. People got to know her and they soon realized that she wasn't the high-maintenance princess they had imagined. Slowly, she was finding her footing and even making friends.

It wasn't perfect yet, but things were starting to feel more comfortable. She wasn't quite where she wanted to be, but she was confident that she was on a good path to get there.

However, on that particular day, everything was being particularly challenging. Irina was late and she hated being late. As she rushed toward the university building, she could feel the familiar anxiety creeping in. The thought of walking into a lecture hall full of people and having everyone turn to look at her made her heart race even faster than usual. She hated being the centre of attention, especially in those moments. Normally, it wasn't difficult for her to stick to her schedule, but today was different. Her legs felt heavy, and despite her best efforts to speed up, she was winded and struggling to keep her pace.

The morning had been dreadful. She was sure that something in her breakfast had disagreed with her. Her stomach had been unsettled from the start, and during the bumpy, winding ride from Ai-Todor to the city, she had felt increasingly nauseous. She had to ask the driver to pull over twice, so she could step out of the car, catch some air and steady her spinning head. By the time they reached the city, she was already late and feeling much worse than when she had entered the car.

When she finally got to class and slipped into her seat, hoping to draw as little attention as possible, the discomfort didn't fade. Her stomach churned, and the dizziness that had started earlier wasn't going away. She leaned back in her chair, trying to breathe deeply, trying to settle down. It had to be from rushing—she was sure of it. The combination of running and the stress of being late was overwhelming her, but it would pass soon.

Irina wasn't sure how she managed to get through the class. There were moments when the nausea became so overwhelming, that she thought she might faint right there at her desk. A strange hissing sound filled her ears, drowning out the lecture, and she felt as though she was on the verge of losing consciousness. Several times, she considered packing up and going home, but she quickly pushed the thought away. She was determined not to give in so easily—she didn't want to be seen as delicate or weak, the kind of person who would call in sick barely a month into the semester.

As soon as the lecture ended, she gathered her things slowly, her hands shaking and her brow swearing. Her last thought before standing was that she needed to find the bathroom, splash cold water on her face and steady herself. But as she took the first step, her vision blurred and her legs buckled beneath her. Everything went blank.

When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor. A book was tucked under her head like a makeshift pillow, and her professor was crouched beside her, looking down with concern. 

"Irina? Can you hear me?" His voice was gentle but filled with worry. Disoriented, she blinked up at him while her mind was still trying to catch up to what had happened. She could feel the coolness of the floor beneath her and the distant hum of voices around them, but everything else was a blur.

She was so overwhelmed by how sick she felt that the embarrassment of lying on the floor in front of everyone didn't hit her right away. But when it did, the wave of shame made her cheeks flush. She tried to sit up, determined to salvage some dignity, but her head spun the moment she moved, and her professor quickly pressed her shoulder, urging her to lie back down.

"Just rest for a moment, Irina," he said gently, though his tone was firm. "You fainted. We've already called for a doctor, and the palace has been notified."

Hearing that, Irina's heart sank. She shook her head weakly. "No... I don't want Feodor to worry," she whispered, feeling a rising sense of panic at the thought of him being pulled into this. The last thing she needed was for him to rush over, alarmed, when she was sure it was just a passing illness.

"You need to rest," her professor insisted. "Let them take care of you."

Just as Irina tried to protest further, a nurse and a doctor arrived. Without a word, they gently helped her to her feet, each slipping an arm around her shoulders to support her as they led her out of the lecture hall and toward the infirmary. The hallways blurred past her as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, feeling both relieved and embarrassed by the attention.

Once inside the infirmary, they eased her onto a cot and handed her a glass of water with sugar dissolved in it. 

"Drink this slowly," the nurse said softly. Irina took a cautious sip, the sweetness calming her slightly, but the dizziness lingered.

The doctor pulled up a chair beside her, with a calm but serious face. "Your Highness, we're going to ask you a few questions, just to make sure we understand what's happening.

Irina nodded absentmindedly, still focused on the task of drinking her water in small sips.

"Have you had any unusual fatigue lately?" he asked, in a light but attentive tone.

"Not... really," Irina replied, though she hesitated. There had been moments of exhaustion lately, but she had chalked it up to her busy schedule.

The nurse stepped in. "Any changes in your appetite or any foods making you feel unwell?"

Irina thought for a moment. "Well, this morning my breakfast made me feel sick, but I thought it was just something off with the food."

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "And how about nausea? Has this been happening often?"

Irina blinked, starting to feel confused by the line of questioning. "No... just today."

"Any other changes in how you've been feeling? Dizziness, headaches, or anything else that seems out of the ordinary?" the nurse added.

Irina felt herself growing more uncomfortable with the questions. "I've been a bit dizzy here and there, but I've just assumed it's from the heat or feeling tired."

The nurse and doctor exchanged a brief glance, their questions becoming clearer to Irina, though they hadn't said it outright. She shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to make of their subtle probing. 

"It's just the heat," she insisted quietly, taking another sip of the water.

The doctor seemed to sense Irina's discomfort and offered a reassuring smile. "It's alright if you don't want to answer any more questions right now. Just rest. We've called your husband, and he's on his way. We'll continue once he arrives."

Irina's frustration flared again. "But I told you, it's nothing! Feodor shouldn't be bothered over this."

The nurse gave her an apologetic look. "It's already done. He'll be here soon."

Irina sighed heavily, feeling her frustration mounting as she leaned back into the pillows. The room, though cool, felt stifling with the weight of the situation pressing down on her. The last thing she wanted was for Feodor to see her like this—so vulnerable and helpless over what she still believed was just a minor illness. But despite her worries, the exhaustion took over. Slowly, the tension in her body eased, and she drifted into a light sleep, the gentle hum of the infirmary fading into the background.

After what felt like hours later, Irina stirred at the sound of hushed voices nearby. Blinking groggily, she opened her eyes to see Feodor standing beside the doctor, speaking in low tones. The moment he noticed she was awake, he rushed to her side.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly, kneeling beside her and taking her hand gently in his. "Do you feel any better?"

Irina managed a small smile, though she felt embarrassed all over again. "I'm fine, really," she said, her voice a bit stronger now. "This is all nonsense. I just ate something that didn't sit well with me, that's all. There's no need for all this fuss."

The doctor shifted slightly, glancing at Feodor before turning his attention back to Irina. His expression was calm, but there was a certain seriousness in his tone when he spoke next.

"Your Highness," he began gently, "I'd like to ask you a delicate question. I've already spoken to your husband about it."

Irina's brow furrowed in confusion. She exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Feodor, who offered her a small, reassuring nod. After a moment, she gave a hesitant nod to the doctor.

The doctor cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. "When was the last time you had your...monthly cycle?"

Irina's face immediately flushed with embarrassment at the question. She hadn't been expecting anything like this. Her initial reaction was to look away, her cheeks burning with shame. She tried to remember if her family doctor had ever dared to ask such an intimate question, but she could not remember anything nearly as bold. However, once the initial embarrassment passed and the doctor's words sank in, an uneasy sensation began to churn in her stomach, and she felt that familiar wave of dizziness creeping back in. For a brief moment, she thought she might faint again.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think. So much had happened recently—her whirlwind honeymoon, the move to the Crimea, starting university, the stress of trying to find her footing. She had been so caught up in the constant changes that it hadn't even occurred to her to keep track of something so routine. Her mind raced as she tried to recall the last time she had it. But the more she thought about it, the more unsure she became. Had it come at all since they arrived in the Crimea?

Her throat felt tight as she glanced up at Feodor, her eyes wide with sudden realization and confusion. "I... I don't remember," she admitted.

The doctor smiled gently at both Irina and Feodor, a knowing look in his eyes. "I believe it would be best to have a proper examination in town," he said, in a warm and reassuring tone. "But from what I can tell, Your Highness, it seems quite certain—you're with child."

Irina's world tilted again, the doctor's words seeming to echo in her mind without fully sinking in. 

"With child?" she repeated, the phrase feeling distant and almost foreign. The room seemed to blur around her, and for a moment, she felt like she was floating, disconnected from reality.

Beside her, Feodor's face broke into a broad, uncontainable smile. He took her into his arms, his voice full of joy. "Did you hear that? Did you hear that? A child!" He kissed the top of her head, his voice bubbling with excitement. "We're going to have a baby!"

But Irina could hardly process the news. The words felt unreal like they were being said to someone else. This wasn't supposed to happen, not yet—not when she was just finding her way. She had only just started university. She was barely getting used to their new life in the Crimea. A baby now?

Her thoughts spiralled as she remembered the quiet conversations she and Feodor had had about delaying this very moment. Hadn't he told her there were ways to avoid it? Hadn't they both agreed that they would wait—wait until they were more settled until she was more ready? Hadn't he been careful?

Irina looked up at Feodor and, as she saw his face glowing with happiness, felt a rising sense of panic. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to react. The thought of a child felt too overwhelming. Her stomach churned again, but this time it wasn't just the nausea from earlier—it was the weight of her entire world shifting beneath her feet.

Chapter Text

Paris, November 1923

Natalia

Natalia tucked the scarf tighter around her neck as she stepped out of her dorm room and made her way to the school dining hall. The weather had turned nasty over the last few days, with pouring rain and biting winds that seemed to cut through her clothing, leaving her shivering to the bone. It was curious how the cold felt sharper here in France than it ever did in Russia. One of her teachers had mentioned something about the humidity, but Natalia hadn't paid much attention at the time. Now, as the icy wind wrapped around her, she wished she had.

Boarding school in Paris had been a world she hadn't expected to love so much. She had known from the start that she would enjoy life in France—she had never gotten over the feeling that Paris was her true home, where she felt most comfortable and able to be herself. But what had taken her by surprise was just how deeply she had grown attached to the routine, the friendships, and the sense of independence she had found here. The thought of returning to Russia was an unwelcome shadow looming over her final weeks. Her reluctance came not only from leaving Paris, but, above all from the fact that she was stepping away from the freedom she had carved out for herself, the autonomy that came from living in a city where her family name didn't carry as much weight and where no one had any expectations for her. Here, she was just another student navigating the ups and downs of adolescence.

The idea of returning to Tsarskoe Selo, especially now that Irina had moved to the Crimea, filled her with a deep unease. Everything in Russia would be different, and the comfort she had built in Paris would be stripped away. She imagined the landscapes of what was supposed to be her homeland, the endless expanse of snow, and the palaces that felt more like cages than homes. But even that vision seemed distant now. Russia had become a place tied to her past, while Paris represented the present—the person she was becoming.

As she walked through the rain-soaked courtyard, she reflected on how much she had changed since arriving here. She had been so unsure of herself before, nervous about fitting in and worried about how she would manage without the familiar structure of her home. Now, she moved through her days with a new confidence, a sense of purpose that had grown within her as the months passed. But this newfound confidence also made the thought of leaving harder. She would miss the late-night conversations in the dorms, the way the city lights flickered in the distance as she sat by her window and even the annoying rain that seemed to have settled permanently over Paris in recent days.

But most of all, Natalia would miss her escapades into Paris's nightclubs with Tata. How could she return to the stifling atmosphere of the Russian court after experiencing something so vivid, so alive? She and Tata had danced until their feet ached and laughed until their sides hurt as if they were part of this joyful mass of people who were determined to enjoy life to the fullest, after the nightmare of war. It was during those nights that Natalia had felt most free as if nothing could touch her or pull her back to the rigid expectations of her old life. The music, the dancing, the uninhibited conversations with strangers—it had been intoxicating.

She was still lost in the memories of their escapades when she entered the dining hall to have her breakfast, but she was immediately struck by an unusual level of chatter, far louder than the usual background noise of conversation she had grown accustomed to during her time at the school. For a moment, she paused in the doorway, wondering if she had accidentally walked into the wrong room or if she had somehow missed an important announcement about an event.

Her eyes scanned the room, but the rows of tables and chairs were mostly empty, except for a large group of students clustered at the far end of the hall. There was a palpable energy in the room that let her know at once that something different was happening. She tucked her books under her arm and stepped further in, her mind slowly detaching from thoughts of Parisian nights and slipping back into the present. Whatever had captured everyone's attention must have been important enough to draw most of the students together. The sound of voices rose and fell in excited bursts, but from where she stood, Natalia couldn't make out any details.

She debated whether she should join the crowd and investigate or simply retreat to one of the empty tables where she could sit in peace and continue daydreaming about the life she was soon to leave behind. After all, nothing happening at school seemed to matter much anymore—not when she was on the verge of returning to a life far more complicated and suffocating than this one.

Still, curiosity got the better of her. Something about the scene felt too unusual to ignore. Reluctantly, she made her way toward the group, wondering what all this commotion could be about. Maybe someone had been expelled?

Natalia edged closer to the group with growing curiosity. She tapped the shoulder of a nearby classmate, a girl with wide eyes who seemed just as caught up in the excitement as the rest.

 "What's going on?" Natalia asked, keeping her voice low.

The girl turned to her, eyes sparkling with excitement. "You haven't heard? The Queen of Romania and Prince Nicholas are here! They've come to visit Princess Ileana!" she whispered eagerly.

Natalia immediately stepped back. That was her cue to leave the group behind and eat her breakfast as usual. She still kept a hint of her earlier admiration for the Queen and had always found her wonderfully eccentric and nice on the few occasions they had met, but this was not the setting in which she would like to run into her. Most people at the school had no idea Natalia had close ties to most royal families in Europe and she liked to keep it that way. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn into the centre of attention, especially on a day when she was feeling so melancholic.

Natalia quietly made her way to the buffet table, trying to keep as low a profile as possible. She selected a simple breakfast, though she barely registered what she was putting on her plate. With her tray in hand, she found an empty table by the window and sat down, placing a book she needed to read for her French Literature class on her lap, though the words danced around her eyes without making any sense.

The earlier commotion gradually subsided when the schoolmaster intervened, restoring some order. One by one, the girls drifted back to their tables, but the buzz of conversation lingered. No one seemed able to talk about anything other than the royal visitors and their whispers filled the room as Natalia quietly ate, lost in her own thoughts.

From her vantage point, she could see the Queen, seated beside Princess Ileana, talking animatedly with her daughter and a few of her classmates. The scene was warm and lively, but one thing struck Natalia—Prince Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he seemed to have disappeared entirely, and she could hardly blame him. The room had been swarmed with girls loudly vying for his attention, each of them hoping to make a memorable impression on the young prince. It was easy to imagine him retreating for a moment of peace.

For a brief moment, Natalia considered whether she should approach the Queen. After all, it had thanks to her that Natalia had secured her place at the school, which had been an act of kindness she had never forgotten. It seemed only right to greet her and express her thanks. But now wasn't the time—certainly not in the middle of a hall filled with whispering, eager students. She decided that a more private, discreet location would be better.

Finishing her breakfast quickly, Natalia had no desire to linger any longer in the presence of the royal guests or the buzzing excitement that filled the room. She picked up her books, slipped them under her arm, and quietly made her way out. The moment she stepped into the courtyard, she was greeted by the cold, steady rain still falling hard, its chill cutting through her coat.

She had barely stepped into the courtyard when a sharp whistle cut through the sound of the rain. Startled, she paused, turning around to see where it had come from. Her eyes widened when she spotted Prince Nicholas, leaning casually against a wall with a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the damp air.

She squinted, confused, unsure if the whistle had been meant for her or if she was misreading the situation. Before she could gather her thoughts or say anything, Prince Nicholas smirked and, in a low, teasing voice, said, "Oui, très jolie."

Natalia blinked, trying to process his words. After a brief pause, she managed to respond in a calm, but slightly indignant tone. "Pardon?"

Prince Nicholas laughed, the sound light and unbothered by her formal tone. "Je pense que... tu es très belle," he replied in awkward and broken French, so bad, that Natalia had to suppress a small smile despite herself. He took a drag from his cigarette, clearly unfazed by his clumsy attempt at the language.

"Je... comment dire... je te vois... quand tu... entre dans la salle à manger." His words stumbled out, clunky and ungrammatical, but he didn't seem to care. The mischief in his eyes only grew as he continued, "Je ne peux pas... résister... de dire quelque chose."

Natalia watched with amusement, as the young man before her stumbled through his fractured French. It took a moment for her to realize that he didn't recognize her at all. Prince Nicholas, her distant cousin, whom she'd encountered numerous times at family gatherings, had completely forgotten who she was. A touch of annoyance pricked at her, but it quickly gave way to a playful desire to tease him.

"Perhaps you should stop murdering my language," she interjected, switching to fluent English.

A wave of relief washed over Prince Nicholas's features, and he chuckled. "Oh, thank goodness! You speak English. It's a rare treat around here. I do my best with the French, but it seems to be rather poorly received."

"I can't imagine why," Natalia retorted with a hint of sarcasm, turning to disappear back into the rain-swept courtyard.

But it seemed that Prince Nicholas wasn't about to let her slip away so easily. He tossed his cigarette aside and closed the distance between them, stepping into her side. This close, she could tell that he was undeniably handsome, though not as imposing as her brother or the towering Grand Dukes she was accustomed to. His features weren't particularly striking – in fact, his ears were comically oversized – but he had an athletic build that his crisp British Royal Navy uniform accentuated perfectly. And then there were his eyes – the most captivating Natalia had ever seen. Large, expressive, and such a deep shade of grey that they almost looked violet. He wasn't classically handsome, but she could certainly understand his appeal.

"Were you planning on leaving without even telling me your name?" he asked in a low, flirtatious purr.

Natalia had to bite back a laugh. Somehow, even now she was still entertaining the possibility that he might be faking his complete aloofness, playing around with her, pretending he didn't know her. But, as their interaction continued, it was abundantly clear that he genuinely had no idea who she was.

"I'm Natalia," she replied, wondering if her name would spark any recognition.

It didn't.

"Oh," he responded, oblivious. "How unusual. That doesn't sound French at all."

"My parents are Russian," Natalia explained, struggling to suppress a grin.

"Russian? What a coincidence! My grandmother is Russian, you know," Nicholas said, flashing her a roguish smile as though he'd just revealed something thrilling to her.

Yes, Natalia thought to herself with barely concealed amusement, your Russian grandmother is my Aunt Marie. But she didn't say it. Instead, she tilted her head, pretending to play along.

"Really? How fascinating," she replied, her tone just teasing enough to keep him guessing.

Nicholas seemed pleased with himself, mistaking her playful tone for genuine interest. "It is, isn't it?" He leaned in slightly as if to share some great secret. "I must say, I've always found Russian women to be... captivating."

Natalia had to suppress a laugh. He really didn't remember her. Not even a flicker of recognition.

"Is that so?" she replied, raising an eyebrow, still playing along. "And do you make a habit of... captivating Russian women yourself?"

Nicholas grinned, clearly enjoying the banter. "Well, I do try," he said with a wink. "Do you think it's working?"

Before Natalia could respond with another retort, the sound of commotion echoed from the dining hall behind them. Both of them turned instinctively toward the noise, and within moments, the heavy doors swung open. A small group of students poured out, still flushed with excitement, and behind them, none other than Queen Marie of Romania emerged.

"Ah, there you are, Nicky!" the Queen's voice rang out, clear and commanding. Her sharp eyes quickly landed on her son, who looked like he had been caught in the middle of one of his mischiefs. Nicholas straightened up almost instantly, the teasing grin slipping slightly from his face as he turned to face his mother.

Queen Marie's gaze initially swept over Natalia without recognition. It was only after a brief moment that her eyes widened in realization, and her expression softened with warmth.

"Natalia, my dear!" the Queen exclaimed, moving toward her with a welcoming smile. "How wonderful to see you. I was just asking Ileana if she had ever seen you around here. How are you getting along here?"

Natalia, still composed, smiled back graciously. "I'm enjoying it very much, Your Majesty. Thank you for helping me secure a place here. It's been... an experience."

Queen Marie's eyes sparkled with pride as she gently touched Natalia's arm. "I'm so pleased to hear that. Uncle Pasha always said you were such a bright girl—I had no doubt you would thrive here."

"Nicky," she said, turning to her son, "I see you were the first to find our dear Natalia."

The colour had drained from Nicholas's face as soon as he had seen the familiarity with which his mother was addressing her, but now he blinked rapidly, finally connecting the dots. "Natalia?" he asked, his voice full of disbelief, and Natalia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing outright.

"Yes, Nicky," the Queen continued smoothly, "your cousin. You remember her, don't you?"

Nicholas looked from his mother to Natalia, completely mortified, his confidence crumbling in an instant. "Of course... Natalia," he stammered, as though the name had only just clicked. "I—um—of course I remember you."

Natalia couldn't resist. She smiled sweetly and bowed her head just a little lower than she needed. "It's alright, Your Highness. I'm sure I've changed since we last met."

Nicholas ran a hand through his hair, laughing awkwardly. "Yes, quite a bit," he muttered, finally realizing just how foolish he'd been.

Queen Marie, with a smile tugging at her lips, simply said, "Come along, Nicky. We have other matters to attend to." Then, turning to Natalia with a warm smile, she added, "It was lovely to see you, my dear. I trust we'll speak again soon."

Natalia curtsied respectfully, though her eyes flicked teasingly toward Nicholas, who was still recovering from his embarrassment.

As the Queen led Nicholas away, he glanced back at Natalia with a red face, but now lit with a sheepish grin. "You'll never let me live this down, will you?"

"Not in a million years," Natalia whispered, laughing softly to herself as they disappeared back inside.

Chapter Text

On the Saturday following the awkward encounter with Nicholas and his mother, Natalia and Tata, as they often did, slipped away from the house to lose themselves in the lively atmosphere of their favourite Parisian nightclub. Their escapes had become something of a ritual—the only moment of their otherwise busy and formal lives when they could truly unwind and be themselves—and this particular spot, right in the heart of Montmartre, had captured their hearts almost immediately. Though they had tried out a few other places over the last few months, they both agreed that this one was ideal for what they were looking for. It was large enough to allow them to blend into the crowd using false names and exclusive enough to keep out any unsavoury company. They could dance, laugh, and let go without fear of being recognized or judged.

As they entered the club, they were welcomed by the familiar sounds of the jazz notes, filling the air with energy and rhythm. The room was dimly lit but it was alive with movement—couples were twirling under the soft glow of chandeliers, groups huddled around tables, drinks in hand, and the band on stage played with wild abandon as the trumpet's brassy tones cut through the conversations.

Natalia and Tata found their usual table, a cosy spot near the edge of the dance floor where they could see everything but remain inconspicuous. A waiter quickly appeared, and without needing to speak, as he already knew them so well, they asked for their favourite drinks—a glass of champagne for Natalia and a gin fizz for Tata.

The evening began as it always did, with the two of them exchanging mischievous glances and scanning the room for familiar faces or interesting strangers. But it didn't take long for the pull of the music to make Tata stand up and grab Natalia's hand, dragging her to the dance floor.

"Come on, darling! Let's show these Parisians how it's done," Tata laughed, and Natalia could barely hear her over the sound of the music.

Though more reserved, she simply couldn't resist Tata's infectious enthusiasm. They began to dance in a fluid, carefree way, spinning and swaying to the beat. The whole room was buzzing with life over the fast-paced jazz numbers and Natalia let herself go with the mood. The smoky atmosphere of the club, paired with the music and Tata's company was an intoxicating mix.

At that moment, the worries of school, the looming return to Russia, and even the awkwardness with Nicholas all faded into the background. Here, she was free. She laughed as Tata made a grand, exaggerated twirl, nearly bumping into another couple, and the two of them dissolved into giggles.

After a few songs, breathless and exhilarated, they returned to their table. Their drinks had arrived, and they sipped them slowly, watching the crowd. Natalia leaned back letting her fingers tap lightly to the rhythm of the band.

"Can you imagine doing this back in Russia?" Tata asked with a grin, glancing around the club.

Natalia shook her head, smiling wistfully. "Not a chance. I'm sure my father would find a way to send me to a convent," She paused and tried to laugh, but her gaze drifted toward the stage. "I'll miss this," she admitted in a soft voice. "The freedom. The music. Feeling like we can do what we want."

Tata, sensing the shift in her mood, nudged her playfully. "I'm sure we'll find new ways to have fun, Natasha. Even in Russia."

Natalia squeezed Tata's hand and forced a smile, but she knew it would be hard to shake off the melancholy over the last weeks they had left. She went back to sipping her drink and watching the crowd when Tata suddenly gasped and grabbed her arm.

"Natasha, look over there!"

Natalia blinked for a moment over the foggy cloud of smoke that hovered in the air and followed her friend's gaze toward the far corner of the room. In the dim light, partially concealed by shadows, she could just make out a tall young man leaning over a girl. They were kissing passionately, pressing their bodies close, oblivious to the world around them. The intensity of the scene made Natalia squint, both in amusement and mild disbelief.

Tata stifled a giggle. "Goodness, they're really going for it."

Natalia let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "At least someone's having a memorable night," she said, still watching. But then, just as she was about to look away, the man pulled back, and Natalia caught a glimpse of his face. Her smile vanished instantly and her chin dropped in disbelief.

"No," she muttered under her breath, blinking fast to clear her vision. It couldn't be—there was no way.

But it was.

Nicholas of Romania.

Tata, still giggling, still hadn't noticed either the young man or the sudden panic rising over Natalia's chest. "What? Did you see his face or something? Who's the poor girl—"

Natalia grabbed her arm, eyes wide, and leaned in close. "Tata," she whispered urgently, "That's Prince Nicholas. Nicholas of Romania."

Tata's laughter died instantly, her eyes widening in shock as she looked back at the couple in the corner. "You're joking."

"I wish I was," Natalia replied, in a hurried, urgent tone. "But that's him."

They exchanged stunned glances, unsure whether to burst into laughter or be mortified.

"Well," Tata finally whispered, shaking her head in disbelief, "I've heard that he is the true definition of a playboy. Do you have any idea how many princesses and aristocrats he's flirted with? Both in Romania and England? He's practically a legend in the gossip circles."

Natalia's expression turned grim as Tata continued in a low voice, loaded with sarcasm. "Not to mention he's with the British Royal Navy. Can you even imagine the adventures he must have had around the world? I wouldn't be surprised if half the women in Europe have a story about Nicholas of Romania."

Natalia pressed her friend's wrist a little tighter, trying to snap her out of it. "Tata, I couldn't care less about what he's doing," she said urgently. "He can't see us here! If he so much as hints at it to his mother, I have no doubt she'll run to my father to tell him what we've been up to. We have to go!"

Tata nodded in agreement, her playful poise evaporating as she understood the reality of the situation. They downed their drinks in a few hurried gulps and, abandoning any pretence of calmness made a beeline towards the exit. They weaved through the throng of dancers with their heads down, hoping to melt into the night before Nicholas even noticed them.

But it seemed that luck did not want to be on their side for the night. As they were navigating through the crowded dance floor, Tata bumped into a man with a flourish, sending his drink sloshing down his partner's elegant dress. The woman shrieked in a high-pitched sound that cut through the music. Heads turned, eyes followed them, and the spotlight they desperately wanted to avoid landed squarely upon them.

And within that spotlight, across the room, stood Nicholas. His eyes met Natalia's, widening in recognition. There was a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and a slight hint of defiance in the air. Natalia, caught in the act, felt a surge of adrenaline, her mind trying to think of an escape route, a clever quip, anything that could break the tension. Nicholas, his arm still instinctively wrapped around his female friend, looked like a child who had just been caught stealing candy. He quickly withdrew his arm and, even from a distance and in a room filled with smoke, Natalia could swear she saw his face turning a deep shade of red.

In a gesture of pure theatricality, Natalia offered him a mock curtsy, acknowledging that she had seen what he had been doing and then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she grabbed Tata's hand and bolted towards the exit, their laughter echoing through the stunned silence that followed.

But Nicholas didn't seem willing to let them disappear into the night again. He whispered something in her ear, probably some lame excuse about needing some air or how his mother needed him and followed the two fleeing girls.

Natalia, sensing his pursuit, pulled Tata through the maze of tables and dancers, but this was one of the busiest times at the club, which made their escape slightly more difficult. To make matters worse, Nicholas seemed to be in optimal shape, as he was quickly catching up to them, even though they had had a good head start. They dodged past startled couples, narrowly avoiding collisions, but the thrill of the chase propelled them forward.

"He's following us!" Tata exclaimed, breathlessly, glancing over her shoulder.

"I know!" Natalia replied. "I can't imagine why! This is insane!"

They burst through the main doors of the club, spilling out onto the cobblestone street. The cool night air hit them at once, momentarily clearing their heads. But there was no time to pause. Nicholas was right behind them.

"Natalia! Wait!" they heard him call, slightly confused at their unwillingness to stop.

Natalia, fueled by a heady mix of adrenaline and a desire to tease him, probably due to some left-over frustration about their meeting earlier in the week, didn't slow down. She risked a glance back at him and gave him a smirk.

"Catch me if you can, cousin!" she shouted, her voice ringing out in the night.

The chase was on. They raced through the narrow, winding streets of Montmartre, their laughter blending with the hum of the city – the muffled growl of distant cars, fragments of conversation drifting from shadowed cafes, and the sudden notes of music spilling from open doors. Natalia, familiar with every twist and turn, darted ahead with surprising speed, leaving Nicholas stumbling to match her pace.

They finally reached the base of the Sacré-Coeur's steps, where the basilica's illuminated form stood against the dark sky. Panting slightly, Natalia paused and threw a playful glance back at Nicholas.

"Already out of breath, Nicholas?" she asked with a playful smile.

Nicholas, bent over and breathing heavily, shot her a look that mingled frustration with respect. He hadn't expected this chase—or her quickness.

"Hardly," he replied, a grin breaking through.

Straightening, he turned to Tata, who was watching quietly from behind Natalia. He extended a hand, his smile warm.

"My apologies," he said, his tone sincere, "for the hasty exit before. And for not introducing myself properly. I'm Nicholas."

Tata hesitantly shook his hand. "Natalia Mamontova," she replied with a hint of amusement. "But please, call me Tata."

"Tata," Nicholas repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He turned back to Natalia, his smile widening. "Although I must confess, I wasn't expecting to find you both... there." He gestured vaguely towards the nightclub they had just fled.

Natalia shrugged playfully. "We could say the same thing about you," she retorted, raising an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be charming debutantes at some embassy ball instead of... canoodling with French girls in dark corners?"

Nicholas chuckled, tipping his head in agreement. "Perhaps I should. My mother would be horrified," he said with a mock whisper. He glanced at her with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Looks like we both have a taste for adventure."

Natalia stared at him, not entirely sure if she could trust him. Now he was talking to them with a hint of that irresistible charm she had seen in him the other day, but it was hard to forget the way he had always ignored her and her family when they were children and his smugness when he dragged Alexei away from her to see a car when they had just met after six months apart. Until now, she had had so little importance to him, in fact, that he hadn't even recognized her earlier, at the school.

She was not worldly, but she was no fool either. The pieces she had gathered so far about Nicholas didn't seem to fit.

Tata, however, seemed uncomfortable with the silence and decided to break it. "Well," she declared, with a playful grin, "now that we've all been properly introduced, perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere a little less... exposed?"

Nicholas, catching the underlying meaning in her words, readily agreed. "I believe there's a charming little café just around the corner. May I offer you both a drink?"

Tata nodded her assent. "I believe we could be persuaded."

Chapter Text

Nicholas led the way through Montmartre's winding streets in a more relaxed mood than their previous chase, as they approached a hidden bar tucked away in an alley. From the moment they walked in, it was clear that this was an exceedingly luxurious place with velvet curtains, dim lighting over dark wood, and plush seating. Unlike the upbeats from the previous nightclub they had visited, soft jazz floated through the air, setting a mellow and more intimate atmosphere.

They were escorted to a private corner, nestled in an alcove overlooking the room. With a confident gesture, Nicholas waved to the bartender, ordering champagne and cocktails, as though this was a familiar routine.

When the drinks arrived, they settled in and the earlier tension faded slowly away as they sipped from their glasses. Nicholas leaned back, his eyes flicking between Natalia and Tata, curious about their dynamic. 

"So," he began with a sly grin, "what brought you to that place? I can't imagine this outing was sanctioned by your governesses."

Both girls gasped at the comment. Tata had turned twenty over the Summer and she looked every bit like it and, while Natalia was two years younger, she was fairly certain she didn't look like someone who still needed a governess. 

"Please tell me that's just some lost-in-translation Romanian phrase," Natalia replied dryly, rolling her eyes. "And that you didn't just call us children."

Nicholas laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough, I can see how that came across. How about this—I'm just saying this doesn't look like the kind of evening the Russian Court would officially condone."

Tata smirked, leaning back slightly. "Well, even 'good little debutantes' need a break sometimes," she said.

That raised another chuckle from Nicholas. "Seems like we have more in common than I thought," he said, lingering his gaze on Natalia.

Again, she found herself thinking that she could see why he was appealing—he was charming, confident, and able to steer a conversation effortlessly. But the image of him earlier, wrapped around another girl at the nightclub, flashed through her mind and it was enough to ground her back to reality.

"I highly doubt that," she said coolly, taking another sip.

As Natalia refused to speak after that, it was Tata who took over the conversation, animatedly chatting about how Nicholas was in town for only a week before heading to Southampton to join his colleagues in the navy, where he would board a ship bound for a six-month commission in Malta. Against her better judgment, Natalia found herself listening intently, imagining the thrill of constant travel and meeting new people. She felt a flicker of envy stirring somewhere deep within her, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

"Is travelling all around the world as exciting as it sounds?" Tata asked, as though voicing Natalia's own thoughts.

Nicholas's face lit up. "It's the best life I could ever ask for," he replied with a hint of pride in his tone. "I hope it lasts for many years. My grandfather was a sailor too, so I suppose you could say it's in my blood. I'd like to follow in his footsteps."

Natalia arched an eyebrow. "You do realize that sailors don't have the best reputations," she teased. "A girl in every port, and all that."

Nicholas chuckled, lifting his drink. "Well," he said, eyes twinkling, "I can neither confirm nor deny that." 

He took a sip, leaving them to guess.

Just then, a lively group entered the bar, drawing Tata's attention. Her eyes lit up when she recognized them. 

"That's my group from French tutoring!" she whispered excitedly. Before Natalia could respond, Tata was already up, heading toward them with a smile.

Left alone with Nicholas, Natalia felt the air grow heavy with awkward silence. After a beat, Nicholas cleared his throat. 

"I owe you an apology," he said, his tone more sincere than she'd expected. "For not recognizing you earlier. But, in my defence," he added with a smile, "you've changed a lot since the last time I saw you."

Natalia gave him a low, ironic laugh. "Or maybe you just didn't think I was important enough to notice back then."

Nicholas paused before grinning, taking her jab in stride. "To be completely honest, back then, I was more interested in cars than girls," he said with a shrug. "But that's changed."

His casual charm and honesty caught her off guard, and despite herself, Natalia felt a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I suppose that's some progress."

Nicholas leaned back, his grin widening, but Natalia's expression suddenly hardened. 

"Just so you know," she said coolly, "if you think that charm is going to work on me, I must remind you that I saw you practically swallowing someone else's face less than an hour ago. Not exactly the best first impression."

He blinked, a bit thrown, then let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, fair enough. But for the record, that was... more of an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Was it?" she shot back, a mocking smile tugging at her lips. "You just slipped and happened to land directly on the poor girl's mouth? I hate when that happens."

Nicholas's grin turned mischievous. "Well, well. Look who's hiding a sense of humour under all that sharpness."

Natalia didn't want to roll her eyes again, but it was impossible to help it. It seemed he had a retort for every accusation she was trying to throw his way. He was trying to disarm her with his easygoing nature and she was starting to think that it might actually work.

"I'm hilarious," she said. "For people who deserve it."

Nicholas tilted his head, studying her with that same playful glint in his eyes. "Well, I'm honoured," he replied smoothly. "I'll keep working to earn your approval."

Natalia scoffed, though her lips curved slightly. "I wouldn't get your hopes up. I'm not exactly an easy audience."

"Clearly," he said, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. "You know, so far you seem to be the only person in Paris who is not completely charmed by me. It's refreshing."

"Maybe I have higher standards than most," she replied flatly.

Nicholas chuckled. "And what might those be? Is there a manual I can study to win you over?"

"You can't," she said, taking a sip from her drink. "But if you're determined to try, maybe start by not kissing random girls in bars."

Nicholas tilted his head, pretending to think deeply. "No kissing random girls—got it. Does that mean I'm allowed to kiss non-random ones? Like girls I've known since childhood?"

"You didn't even remember who I was," Natalia pointed out. "So technically, I was just another random girl to you."

He shook his head. "You were far from random. Among that sea of giggling girls in the dining hall, my eyes went straight to you."

Even though she had heard all about Nicholas' reputation as a seducer, she still felt her skin prickling and her heart skipping a beat at his words, and she hated the way they affected her. She quickly took another sip of her drink, trying to calm the sudden flutter in her chest, all the while thinking why he had to be so damn charming.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "So, that didn't do anything for you?" he asked, clearly picking up on her reaction.

"Nope," Natalia replied, though her voice wavered slightly.

He chuckled, leaning in a little. "Sure about that? Because I'm starting to think you're not as immune to my charm as you'd like to be."

"And here I was thinking that, after reading so many maps, sailors would be more apt at reading a situation," she muttered, though she couldn't hide her smile.

As they finished their drinks, Nicholas signalled for another round, his playful energy still in full force. 

"Let's keep this going, shall we?" he said with a wink.

Natalia glanced over her shoulder, hoping Tata would return soon, but she was still engrossed in conversation with her friends. Resigned, she turned back to Nicholas, who raised his glass toward her.

"You're stuck with me a little longer," he teased.

After a moment of quiet, Nicholas broke the silence. 

"What brings a girl like you to sneak out to jazz bars in the middle of the night? Seems a little out of character."

Natalia raised an eyebrow. "A girl like me?"

"You don't strike me as the rebellious type," he said, his tone more serious now. "So, what's your story?"

She glanced away, scoffing lightly. "First of all, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and, secondly, I'm not hiding out. I'm just... enjoying myself. We go out to dance and maybe have a drink or two. It's what every girl our age is doing nowadays, but somehow we can't do the same because of some archaic notion that, because of the family we belong to, we have to be locked away in our golden cages."

Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. "I understand that. Everyone needs a bit of freedom, especially when you're expected to fit into certain roles all the time. I know how exhausting that can be, feeling like you can't really be yourself."

She tilted her head, surprised by his understanding.

He leaned back in his seat, an easy smile on his lips. "But I have to ask, purely out of curiosity—while you're out dancing and enjoying yourself, do you ever... flirt with anyone? Or is it all just fun and games?"

The question was light, but it caught her off guard. She straightened in her seat, meeting his gaze with a hint of defensiveness. "That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

Nicholas chuckled, unphased. "Maybe. But we've already covered my questionable life choices. Seems only fair to explore yours, too. Do you ever flirt, Natalia Paley?"

Natalia gave a small smirk and shook her head. "That's an easy one to answer—no, I don't flirt. Never have."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Really? I find that hard to believe."

She shrugged and answered in a casual but firm tone. "I don't see the point in it. I'm not looking for attention or trying to play games. I just want to dance and have fun."

Nicholas tilted his head, still intrigued. "And no one's ever flirted with you? It seems impossible that no one has noticed how stunning you are."

Natalia drained her glass, feeling a rush of warmth—both from the alcohol and from the way Nicholas's casual words seemed to make her flustered. It was maddening how easily he could unsettle her with just a few well-placed comments. She could definitely see how he had earned his reputation as a charmer; he knew exactly how to play the game.

"Even if someone has flirted with me, I've never let it go far," Natalia said, her voice growing a touch bolder now, spurred on by the drink.

Nicholas leaned in slightly, intrigued. "So, no one's ever managed to catch your attention?"

She shook her head with a small smile. "No, not really. It's never been serious enough."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "So, you've never... been involved with anyone at all?"

Natalia hesitated for a moment, then set her glass down with a quiet thud. "I've never even kissed anyone."

Nicholas blinked, taken aback. "Not even once?"

"Nope," she said with a slight laugh, shaking her head. "Not once."

Nicholas grinned, intrigued. "Alright. But you've not even felt attracted to anyone?"

For a brief moment, an image of Serge flashed through her mind. She hesitated, tracing the rim of her glass. Finally, she relented. "A few months back, I was attracted to a ballet dancer. But we only talked once."

Nicholas leaned in. "A ballet dancer? Now that's interesting. How'd you meet him?"

Natalia immediately regretted sharing. She shook her head. "He was just someone I met once. That's all there is to it."

Nicholas didn't seem convinced, but before he could press further, Natalia sighed and added, "I feel like I've already shared too much. So let's just leave it at that."

She quickly turned her focus back to her empty glass, determined to keep the rest of her thoughts—and feelings—to herself.

Just as Natalia was about to retreat further into her thoughts, Tata appeared beside them, her cheeks flushed from excitement. "We should go if we want to make it back before the servants wake up," she said with a playful grin. Nicholas perked up at the mention of leaving.

"I can drive you both home," he offered, already standing up.

Tata, without hesitation, accepted the offer. "That would be perfect!"

Chapter Text

Natalia felt a pang of reluctance at the offer put forward by Nicholas but didn't argue. A ride home would indeed make things easier for their return, even if she was reluctant about accepting any favours from this particular person. 

Outside, the cool night air hit her, offering a brief sense of clarity. As they waited for Tata, who had disappeared once more to say goodbye to her friends, Natalia found herself alone with him again. The silence stretched between them until Nicholas broke it, in a low and teasing voice. 

"Aren't you the least bit curious?"

Natalia frowned, not entirely following what he was trying to say. 

"Curious about what?"

Nicholas turned to face her with a playful gaze that was not without its seriousness. 

"About what it's like to be kissed."

Natalia felt her legs wobbling slightly at his question and hated how easily he could fluster her. Of course, she was curious. In a couple of weeks, she would turn eighteen, and by that time, Irina had already received a marriage proposal from Feodor. Even Tata, with her discreet manner about such things, had almost certainly kissed someone by now. It wasn't something at the forefront of her thoughts on a daily basis, but it did cross her mind from time to time.

As teenagers, she and Tata had read a fair amount of French novels they weren't, theoretically, allowed even to come close to in her mother's library. Those might have ignited their imaginations a little too strongly, but they led them to imagine all sorts of perfect scenarios where their first kiss would happen. The fantasies had changed over time, but, somehow, they always included cliffs, the wind sweeping over their hair - even though they had already cur theirs into bobs by then - and a rough looking, yet gentle man who would anticipate their every desire and make them feel like the most important person in the face of the Earth.

Over the years, after rejecting various suitors who had come her way, some more appropriate than others, Natalia began to consider whether she was expecting too much of her love life because of that old fantasy. She looked at Irina and Feodor and they seemed perfectly contented, even though their romance was nothing like the dazzling stories she had read in those books. Over the last few months, it had sometimes crossed her mind that, maybe, she should lower her standards, but she wasn't about to let Nicholas, of all people, know that.

"Not really," she replied with forced indifference, her gaze sliding away from him as she tried to push down the warmth rising in her chest.

Nicholas tilted his head slightly, his gaze intent on her in a way that made Natalia's pulse quicken despite herself. The air between them felt charged after the question, as if he was testing the waters, pushing boundaries without ever explicitly saying so. 

He leaned in just a little and lowered his voice. 

"Are you sure? Because I think you might be... just a little bit curious."

After that, the air between them seemed to thrum, as the strange build-up of energy between them was reaching a new level that was making her feel hyper-focused on his presence, aware of his every movement, of the pleasant musky scent of his cologne, mixed with the grassy smell of his wool coat. She forced herself to meet his eyes, though she hated how vulnerable she suddenly felt under his violet and oddly intense gaze. He kept getting closer as if testing the waters, and though he hadn't made any overt move, she knew exactly what he was trying to do.

"You know, this is the sort of thing you have to see from a practical point of view," he said, in a low voice, which somehow managed to make the moment even more intimate.

She swallowed, determined to keep her composure, though her voice came out more unsteady than she'd have liked. 

"Is there really a practical side to this? I thought it was one of those rare things that requires a bit more feeling than reason."

Nicholas gave a low chortle that made her stomach flip in the most pleasant way possible. 

"Of course there is. Why don't we think this through for a second? If you want your first kiss to be memorable, then what you should do is pick someone with vast experience who you know is going to make things right. Someone with less... let's say, technique might butcher the whole thing."

Somehow, Natalia still managed to scoff, even though a very small part of her brain was beginning to find some logic in his arguments. 

"And I suppose you think yourself a cut above the rest in this?" 

Nicholas's grin deepened. 

"Well, I wouldn't put it so bluntly," he said, clearly pleased with himself. "But let's just say I have... confidence in my abilities. I'd hate to see you disappointed by some well-meaning amateur. And as it happens..."

He paused, pulling out a pocket watch and glancing at it with exaggerated interest, a move that made Natalia's lips twitch despite herself.

"Looks like I'm free right now. And I'm not sure if I've made this clear enough, but I'd very much like to kiss you."

The practical side of her mind kicked in. If she really was curious about a kiss, maybe Nicholas—experienced, self-assured, maddeningly charming Nicholas—wasn't the worst option. He clearly knew what he was doing, and it wasn't as if she'd let herself fall for him. This was about curiosity, pure and simple.

Still, it was difficult to be sure. He was the last person she wanted to give that power to, and yet the thought of experiencing it, just once, was tempting.

She swallowed hard and, after a long pause, said, 

"And what if I was, just slightly curious? What makes you think I would choose you and this very inappropriate moment to find out?" 

Her tone was more composed than she felt, testing him to see how far he would take this game.

Nicholas took another half step closer, his eyes still fixed on hers, but a playful glint flickered in his gaze. 

"You know," he said softly, teasing her, "I can't help but notice that, for someone who claims to have such high standards, you're not exactly running away even though I've spent a good part of the last few minutes telling you very inappropriate things."

Natalia's lips twitched, but she held his gaze. 

"Maybe you're not as good as you claim and I'm just curious to prove it."

He chuckled, the sound low and smooth, his fingers lightly grazing her wrist as he leaned in a fraction more. 

"That sounds like a challenge," he murmured, his tone full of amusement. "And I don't back down from those."

The banter should have kept her grounded, given her an out, but instead, Natalia felt herself teetering on the edge of giving in. His face was so close now, and as much as her mind wanted to dismiss it as just another one of his games, the truth was that the warmth between them at that moment was intoxicating, and the world around them seemed to blur, leaving only the two of them standing there.

She tilted her chin up slightly, her voice quieter this time, almost daring. 

"I doubt you're going to impress me..."

"You do seem a hard customer to please," Nicholas whispered as he stepped just a little closer, his hand gently grazing her arm. His eyes remained fixed on hers, and with each passing moment, the space between them seemed to shrink. "But you have no idea how much I want to try."

His hand slid up to cup her cheek, his thumb lightly brushing her jaw. His touch was soft, patient, and his smile, though teasing, held a sincerity she hadn't noticed before. He leaned in, the warmth of his breath grazing her skin, but still, he didn't rush. It was as though he was waiting for her to give him a sign, waiting to see if she would pull away.

She didn't move. Her heart pounded, her breath catching as the warmth of his closeness seemed to charge the air. Frozen in the moment, she watched as he slowly leaned in, bridging the last inches between them.

Then, his lips met hers.

It was... strange. Soft and warm, yet oddly ticklish, and before she could even think about it, a giggle bubbled up, and she pulled back, unable to hold back a laugh.

"What?" Nicholas asked, grinning, clearly amused rather than annoyed.

"It tickles!" she replied, still laughing. "This is so awkward—I mean, we barely know each other!"

Nicholas shook his head, his smile never faltering. 

"That shouldn't matter. I'm obviously doing this the wrong way. Let's do something different..."

And, as he said it, he cupped her face between his hands and the intimacy of the gesture made her body turn into liquid the very second he touched her. He was focusing those irresistible eyes on her and, in the exact second when there was no more air left in her lungs from the sight, he kissed her again. 

He moved with patience this time. His touch remained gentle, steady, as though he was waiting for her to catch up. His hands, warm against her cheeks, didn't rush her. Instead, he slowed the kiss, guiding her with subtle, experienced movements. His lips moved with a calm assurance, giving her the time she needed to adjust.

Gradually, Natalia found herself relaxing, her awkwardness melting away as the warmth of his lips began to sink in. She mimicked his pace, following his lead, and it suddenly became easier. Her heart still pounded, but now it wasn't from nerves—it was from the heat building between them. The kiss deepened, but it remained tender, as Nicholas coaxed her into the moment with surprising care.

As his hand slid further along her jaw, pulling her in a little closer, that initial awkwardness was replaced by something more instinctive. The softness of his lips, the warmth of his breath—it all started to feel more natural, like she was discovering a part of herself she hadn't known existed. Nicholas, for all his teasing, was slow and considerate, and with every passing second, she felt herself responding more freely.

The world around them faded, her body tingled with the electricity of it, every touch sparking something new inside her. There was a tenderness there that she hadn't expected from him—a depth she hadn't imagined. And despite herself, Natalia felt... good. More than good. It was better than she had ever imagined it could be.

When they finally broke apart, her head was spinning, her lips still tingling from the warmth of his. She opened her eyes to find Nicholas watching her with a soft, knowing smile—still teasing, but now with a depth that made her pulse quicken.

"Better?" Nicholas asked, his voice low, still close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek.

Natalia blinked, her practical side scrambling for control, but it was no use—she was overwhelmed, flustered by how much she had liked it. Instead of answering, she simply stepped back, unsure of how to respond to everything she was feeling.

Her senses slowly returned, her pulse still erratic. The world around her came back into focus—the distant hum of the street, the soft breeze of the Parisian night, and the undeniable fact that she had just kissed Prince Nicholas of Romania, in the middle of a crowded street.

Her heart was still racing, but her mind quickly caught up with reality. She took a sharp breath, trying to steady herself as the reality of the situation hit her like a wave. She stared at Nicholas, the weight of what had just happened sinking in fast.

"I kissed you," she blurted, her voice filled with disbelief. "I kissed you."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, his easy smile still in place. 

"Yes, you did."

She shook her head, feeling the flush of embarrassment rising up her neck. 

"What in the world was I thinking?" she muttered, more to herself, but loud enough for Nicholas to hear.

He leaned back slightly, his expression softening but still playful. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"That's not the point!" she exclaimed, her voice rising. "You were kissing some other girl a few hours ago, and now... I—what am I doing?"

Nicholas chuckled, clearly amused by her spiralling reaction. "You wanted to know what a kiss was like," he said smoothly, but there was a gentleness in his tone. "And, well... now you know."

She crossed her arms tightly, still feeling flustered. "That's not an excuse," she huffed, trying to regain some control. "I should have known better. I... I wasn't thinking."

Nicholas leaned in a little, his voice low but teasing. "Maybe not thinking is what made it so good."

Natalia opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She couldn't deny that the kiss had been far better than she had imagined—but admitting that to him was not happening. Instead, she shot him a look that was half frustrated, half embarrassed.

Before she could say anything else, she glanced over her shoulder and froze. Tata was standing just a short distance away, her mouth agape, staring at them with wide eyes.

Natalia's stomach dropped. The embarrassment she had felt moments ago was now magnified tenfold. "Oh God," she muttered under her breath, turning away from Nicholas.

Tata swooped in without missing a beat, grabbing Natalia firmly by the arm. Her expression was a mixture of shock and mild outrage, though she was clearly doing her best to stay composed.

"We won't need that ride after all," Tata said, her voice clipped and direct as she glared at Nicholas. She gave Natalia's arm a subtle tug, signalling her to step away from him.

Nicholas frowned, the playful glint in his eyes fading as the reality of the situation began to settle in. "I'd feel more at ease if I took you home," he insisted, his voice firm but not unkind. He took a small step forward, trying to maintain control over the suddenly awkward atmosphere.

Tata didn't back down. "We're perfectly able to take care of ourselves," she shot back in a sharp tone. "Besides, we know this city better than you do."

Natalia stood frozen between them, still processing everything—the kiss, Tata's sudden appearance, and now the argument between the two. She wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.

Nicholas hesitated for a moment, glancing between the two girls. "I'm just trying to be a gentleman here," he said, his voice softer now as if trying to defuse the tension.

Tata's lips thinned into a tight smile. "That's very kind of you, Your Highness, but we're quite fine."

The title wasn't lost on anyone. Nicholas's brow furrowed slightly as if the weight of who he was suddenly complicated things even more. For a moment, there was a tense silence, and then he sighed, relenting.

"All right," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "If you're sure..."

"We are," Tata said firmly, already pulling Natalia away from him.

Natalia glanced over her shoulder at Nicholas as Tata led her down the street, still feeling the ghost of his kiss on her lips. She opened her mouth, unsure of what she wanted to say, but no words came out. Nicholas met her gaze for a second, his expression unreadable, before he finally gave a small, knowing nod.

As they walked away, Tata finally broke the silence with a sharp, incredulous tone. 

"Would you care to explain to me what succession of events led to you kissing Prince Nicholas of Romania in the middle of the street?" She glanced at Natalia, her eyes wide, clearly expecting some logical explanation.

Natalia still felt dazed, like she had just stepped out of a strange dream. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then let out a small, bewildered laugh. 

"I... I don't know," she admitted, shaking her head. "It just... happened."

Tata stopped walking and turned fully toward her, hands on her hips. 

"Just happened?" she repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. "Natalia, you don't just end up kissing someone like that."

Natalia bit her lip, trying to piece together how she could explain what she didn't fully understand herself. 

"I guess I was... curious," she said quietly, almost as if testing out the words herself. "I've never kissed anyone before, and he... well, he was very persuasive in his arguments."

Tata's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Persuasive in his arguments?" she repeated. "You sound like you were doing a scientific experiment, not kissing a prince!"

Natalia couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all, though her face flushed with embarrassment. 

"I don't know, Tata. I wasn't really thinking. I—" she hesitated, rubbing her forehead. "I just... wanted to know what it was like, and Nicholas was... irritatingly easy to talk to."

Tata stared at her for a moment, then let out a sigh of exasperation.

 "Oh, Natasha," she muttered, though her tone had softened. "Of all the people to experiment with, you chose him?"

"I didn't choose him, it just happened," Natalia repeated, her voice a bit defensive now. "Besides, it's not like it meant anything."

Tata let out a short laugh, but there was an edge to it. 

"Natalia, do you remember all those talks we had when we were younger? How we said we'd choose carefully when it came to our first kiss?" She raised an eyebrow, her voice both teasing and exasperated. "You were the one who always said it had to be perfect, that you wouldn't settle for anything less."

Natalia winced, instantly remembering all those late-night conversations. She had been so certain back then, always rejecting boys who showed any interest, convinced that her first kiss had to be something magical, with someone special.

Tata continued, her tone almost scolding. 

"Do you know how many perfectly good people you brushed off because they weren't 'right' for your perfect first kiss? And now, here we are, with you kissing a playboy prince who, might I remind you, was kissing another girl just a few hours ago."

Natalia groaned and covered her face with her hands. 

"I know, I know," she muttered, her voice muffled by her palms. "You don't have to remind me."

Tata sighed and gently pulled Natalia's hands away from her face. 

"Look, I get it. Nicholas is charming, and you were curious. But... seriously, him?"

Natalia looked down, feeling the weight of Tata's words. 

"I didn't plan it," she said softly, her voice tinged with regret. "I guess I just got caught up in the moment. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

There was a brief moment of silence between them, the only sound of their footsteps echoing down the quiet street. Then Tata, ever mischievous, smirked and asked, 

"Well... was he at least any good?"

Natalia tried to hide the smile that tugged at her lips, but it slipped out despite her best efforts. She shook her head, laughing softly. 

"It was... " she started, the words spilling out. "Perfect." 

She shrugged, a little embarrassed but also amused by the absurdity of it all. 

"Not in the way I thought it would be, but still... I don't regret it yet."

Tata raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Really? No regrets?"

Natalia sighed, feeling a strange mix of relief and confusion. 

"Not yet," she repeated. "It's not like I have any feelings for him or anything. Honestly, there's something about him that... annoys me." She made a face, thinking of Nicholas's overly confident smirk and smooth, teasing remarks. "Maybe it's that ridiculously self-assured attitude of his. But... it was a good kiss. He knew what he was doing."

Tata gave her a knowing look, her smirk growing wider. "So, the playboy prince lives up to his reputation?"

Natalia rolled her eyes but couldn't help laughing. "I guess so. But it's not like it means anything."

"Sure," Tata said, drawing out the word with a teasing grin. "It's just a kiss from a charming prince. No big deal at all."

Natalia swatted her arm playfully, but deep down, she knew she'd never forget that kiss—even if it hadn't left her feeling like she was floating on a cloud.

Chapter Text

Ai-Todor, Late November 1923

Irina

Three weeks after learning she was expecting a child, Irina still hadn't come to terms with it. Her body, however, left her no choice. She was overwhelmed by morning sickness every day, so intense that she could hardly keep any food down. Feeling weak and miserable, she spent most of her days confined to bed, utterly drained of energy. The mere idea of making the long, uncomfortable journey to Yalta to attend her university lectures felt impossible. She couldn't imagine sitting in a classroom now, focused on anything other than the churning in her stomach and the dizzying fatigue that seemed to blanket her every thought.

The physical symptoms were relentless, but they kept her from confronting the deeper truth that was threatening to break her. She had been so close to her dream—her education, her future—and now it all felt like it was slipping away. Not because of some unavoidable circumstance, but because of her own blind trust. She had assumed Feodor knew what he was doing when it came to preventing this. He had reassured her that there were ways to prevent it, again and again, and she had believed him. How could she have been so foolish, so careless? She had notes—pages of methods Marianne had shared with her—yet she had never checked them to ensure Feodor followed any of them. She had been too confident, too trusting, and now here she was.

Feodor, for his part, was doing everything he could to make her feel comfortable. He stayed close to the house, visiting her room throughout the day, asking if she needed anything. But Irina was too angry to appreciate his efforts. Every time he appeared at her door, she had to fight the urge to lash out. He didn't understand. He couldn't. For him, this news was nothing short of a triumph—he was practically bursting with the desire to tell his family, to announce it to the world. If it were up to him, the newspapers would already be printing the announcement. He didn't see that for her, this pregnancy was the glaring symbol of her failure. A failure to protect her own future, her own dreams.

In a week, they would be travelling to Paris for Natalia's birthday. She knew she wouldn't be able to hide the pregnancy for much longer, but the thought of telling anyone terrified her.

One afternoon, Feodor quietly entered her room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her as she lay curled up in bed, the shadows of her emotions playing across her pale face. Gently, he sat down on the edge of the bed and asked how she was feeling.

Irina didn't bother to answer. The nausea had subsided for now, but her mind was too full to speak. She stared at the ceiling, trying to hold back the frustration that surged inside her.

Feodor shifted, clearly searching for the right words. "I know this is difficult," he said quietly. "But I wished you could understand how much of a blessing a child is, Irina. I'm sure you're going to be an incredible mother."

Irina turned her head sharply to look at him, her eyes narrowing. "A blessing?" She heard a voice thick with anger. "Feodor, I'm not ready for this. I don't want this right now. I had plans—my education, my life—and now it's all slipping away because we weren't careful. I trusted you to handle it, and look where that's gotten me."

Irina sat up, her eyes blazing with anger as she clenched her fists in frustration. 

"Did you even know what you were saying when you told me there were ways to prevent this?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of disbelief and fury. "Did you actually do anything? Or was that just something you said to make me feel better?"

Feodor froze, his face flushing with embarrassment. He averted his gaze, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of her accusation. For a moment, he struggled to find the right words, but the truth was there, hanging between them. Finally, with a sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I... I tried, Irina. I did what I knew." His face reddened further as he admitted, "But sometimes... in the heat of the moment, I— I forgot. I didn't mean to. I never wanted to put you in this position. I just—"

Irina's eyes widened in disbelief, and she let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "You forgot?" The bitterness in her voice cut through the room like a blade. "This wasn't just some small oversight. This was my life! My future!" She shook her head, her hands trembling as she gestured wildly. "I trusted you! I thought you knew what you were doing, and now everything is falling apart because you were too— too careless!"

Feodor, still flushed with embarrassment, hesitated before quietly adding, "Irina... I know I made a mistake, but you were there too. You... you didn't seem bothered by it at the time, either." His words were gentle, but they struck her like a slap.

Irina's face tightened, her fury mixed with a sudden wave of embarrassment. "Are you seriously trying to put this on me?" she demanded, her voice rising. "I trusted you! I thought you understood all of this better than I did!"

Feodor swallowed, his eyes downcast. "I'm not saying it's your fault," he said softly. "I just— I thought we were both... in the moment."

"In the moment?" Irina's voice wavered, her anger battling with the deep humiliation welling up inside her. Feodor didn't know the half of it—he didn't know how little she truly understood. For someone who prided herself on learning everything she could about the world, about science, about history, she had been utterly ignorant when it came to matters of marriage and conception. And she had never wanted to admit that weakness to him.

She had listened to Marianne's advice, but she hadn't fully understood. Feodor had made it seem like it was under control, and Irina—proud, self-assured Irina—had blindly trusted that he knew better. But now, in this moment, it stung to realize how wrong she had been. How ignorant she had been.

Her chest tightened and she felt her hands trembling as she clutched the blanket. She wanted to lash out, to scream at him again, but instead, her voice faltered, turning quieter, more vulnerable than she intended.

"You don't get it," she muttered. "I didn't know... I didn't know as much as I thought I did. And I didn't want you to see that."

Feodor looked at her. "Irina, you're one of the smartest persons I know. I never thought—"

"Exactly!" she cut him off, her face flushed with both anger and shame. "You thought I was smart, so I let you think I knew what I was doing. But I didn't! I didn't know. I didn't understand everything. And now, I'm stuck in this mess because of it."

Her words hung between them like a weight, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. Feodor's face softened with understanding, and he reached out, placing a hand on her arm gently.

"Irina," he said quietly, "we both made mistakes. But that doesn't mean we can't figure this out together. You don't have to go through this alone." He paused, his voice steady but gentle. "You don't have to be perfect. We'll get through this. And you can still have everything you want."

He leaned closer, his voice softening even further. "I know this feels overwhelming right now, but you're going to be an amazing mother. I truly believe that. And I think... when you hold our baby for the first time, you'll feel differently. It won't feel like the end of everything. It'll be the beginning."

Irina blinked back the sudden sting of tears, the frustration in her chest still burning, but something about Feodor's words eased the sharpest edge of her anger. She didn't know if she could believe him yet, but for the first time in days, the thought of moving forward didn't seem entirely impossible.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers twisting in the bedsheets as she hesitated. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, filled with a vulnerability she rarely let show.

"I'm scared, Feodor," she admitted, her throat tightening. "I'm scared, and I'm... disappointed in myself. I've never been good with children. I don't know what to do with them, what they need." Her words tumbled out quickly, a flood of anxieties she had tried to bury. "What if I don't know how to love this baby the way a mother should? What if I'm just... not enough?"

Her chest ached as she let out a shaky breath. Admitting this, her deepest fear, felt like a crack in the facade she always tried to keep intact.

Feodor, still sitting close, reached out and gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. 

"Irina," he said softly, "you don't have to have it all figured out right now. I don't think anyone knows how to be a parent from the start. My sister Irina struggled with it, and Andrei is not finding it easy either. But we'll learn together. You will love this child because you have so much love in you—I see it every day. And you don't have to be perfect. You just have to be there. That's all our baby will need."

A wave of emotion surged through Irina, a mix of relief, fear, and—unexpectedly—love. For the first time since she'd heard the news, she truly felt the warmth of Feodor's presence, the depth of his care, and how much he believed in her. It stirred something deep inside her, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

Feodor held her tightly, wrapping his around her as if he could shield her from all the uncertainty and fear. She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt as her sobs came in waves. She didn't have words anymore, just raw emotion pouring out—the frustration, the fear, the overwhelming sense of failure she had been carrying for weeks.

He didn't say anything, just held her, rubbing gentle circles on her back, letting her cry and it was enough for her not to feel so alone.

When her sobs began to slow, Irina stayed there in Feodor's arms, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself. She still didn't know what she was going to do or how she was going to fully accept this change in her life, but something had shifted. The weight pressing down on her chest seemed just a little lighter, the panic that had clouded her mind starting to clear.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at Feodor through her tear-filled eyes. "I'm still scared," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I don't know how I'm going to do this... but maybe... maybe I don't have to know right now."

Feodor smiled softly, wiping away the last of her tears. "You don't. We'll figure it out together, one step at a time."

Chapter Text

Paris, 5 December 1923

Natalia

The day had finally arrived. Although she knew it made no sense, in the back of her mind, Natalia had thought that there would be some kind of physical transformation that would be obvious to all who came across her once the clock hit midnight, something that would make everyone realize in a heartbeat that she wasn't a child anymore, she was now officially an adult. But it didn't take long for her to realize that it wouldn't be easy to convince her family that the little girl they knew was long gone.

Her entire family had arrived the day before. Even Vladimir had made the grand gesture of asking for a two-week leave from the Corps des Pages to be with her.

When she woke up, she heard the sound of soft murmurs outside her door. She smiled, already sensing that her family was planning something special for her eighteenth birthday. The door to her room creaked open, and before she could sit up, her parents entered, smiling warmly. Her mother held a tray of breakfast, and her father followed with a bouquet of her favourite flowers.

 "Happy birthday, my darling," her mother said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "Eighteen already. How did that happen so fast?"

Her father kissed her on the forehead. "You'll always be our little girl," he said with a wink, making Natalia laugh, though there was a part of her that still wanted him to see her as the young woman she had become.

Before Natalia could say anything, the door burst open again, and in came Irina, Tata, Marianne and Dmitri, one after the other. Vladimir, always the most composed, walked in last, straight from his leave, looking proud and somewhat out of place in the morning scene. But Natalia's heart swelled seeing him. She hadn't expected him to make it. He stepped forward, holding a carefully wrapped package.

"Happy birthday, Natasha," he said, handing it to her. "I wouldn't have missed this for anything."

Natalia tore off the paper to reveal a leather-bound book with gold-edged pages. "For your thoughts," Vladimir said with a soft smile. "Now that you're an adult, maybe you'll start writing them down."

The others, playful as always, joined in with hugs and teasing remarks about how they couldn't believe their baby sister had grown up. Irina handed her a necklace from her and Feodor, Marianne a small, decorative box for her keepsakes and many other presents.

As the morning went on, Natalia was surrounded by laughter and gifts, her family making her feel like the centre of their world. She felt a mix of joy and longing. Her family still saw her as their youngest, their baby, and in many ways, she loved that feeling. Was there anyone who didn't enjoy being pampered and cared for as the Queen of the place?

As the evening approached, Natalia stood in front of the mirror, brushing through her hair while Tata and Irina flitted around the room, helping her prepare for the soirée. The house had been buzzing with activity all day, but her parents had been unusually secretive about the evening's plans. Natalia wondered what surprises they had in store. She had a feeling it would involve some of her favourite artists—perhaps a ballet performance, or maybe a renowned opera singer. Her parents were known for their grand gestures, especially when it came to celebrating their youngest daughter.

Tata, as lively as ever, was chattering away, fussing over the arrangement of flowers on the vanity and adjusting Natalia's dress, making sure it looked just right. 

"I think you're in for an unforgettable night," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I overheard something about—oh, but I won't spoil it!"

Natalia smiled at her, feeling a surge of gratitude for her energy. She appreciated how Tata always seemed to know how to keep things light. Yet as she glanced over at Irina, who was quietly fastening a brooch to her gown, a pang of concern crept in. Irina had been distant since she had arrived, even more silent than usual, always sneaking away with Feodor to some distant corner and hardly paying attention to what was happening around her. She looked thinner than Natalia remembered, and her face was pale and drawn. She hadn't smiled much, and, although she always had a tendency to detach herself on public occasions, she had always been happy when it came to celebrations within the family. No, this was not like her at all. Something was wrong.

"Are you alright, Irina?" Natalia asked gently, trying to catch her sister's gaze in the mirror.

Irina blinked, as though startled by a thought. "Oh, I'm fine," she said in a drawled voice. She gave Natalia a quick smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Natalia nodded but couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Irina hadn't mentioned anything about it, but Natalia suspected it was more than just fatigue. She wondered if her sister had been under some kind of strain recently, though it wasn't like Irina to talk openly about such things. She had always been the steady one, the one who rarely showed her burdens.

But as the evening drew closer and the sounds of the household preparing for the soirée filled the air, Natalia's thoughts kept drifting back to Irina. There was a cloud hanging over her sister that Natalia couldn't ignore, but she pushed it aside for now. Tonight was meant to be a celebration, and whatever was troubling Irina, Natalia knew she would find a way to help her—just not tonight. For now, the evening awaited, and Natalia wasn't going to let anything take away from what her family had planned.

Dinner was supposed to be a quiet affair—just her, her closest family, and Tata. That's what Natalia had expected, at least. But the moment she stepped into the dining room, she sensed something was different. There, standing by the window, was a figure she hadn't expected to see. At first, she didn't want to believe it. The young man standing in her childhood home, dressed in civilian clothes, felt out of place, almost like a memory come to life. But then he turned around and smiled at her, and all doubts vanished.

She gasped, and, without a second thought, ran towards him, ignoring the curious looks from her family. When she was close enough, she leapt into his arms, not even noticing the small grunt of pain he made as he tried to steady them both.

"Alexei!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? How did they let you get away?"

Although amused by her excitement, Alexei struggled slightly with her weight and gently set her back down, holding her hands tightly instead. His smile widened. 

"Well," he said, with that familiar sly grin she hadn't seen in so long, "it took some persuasion. But being the Tsar has its privileges, you know. That counts for something."

Natalia laughed, feeling a rush of happiness. She couldn't believe he was here, standing in front of her, in the one place she thought he could never return to so easily. Unable to contain herself, she threw her arms around him again, this time pulling him into a tight embrace. 

She whispered into his ear, her voice trembling with emotion, "You've got to stay at least a few days. There's so much I want to show you!"

Alexei chuckled softly, returning the embrace. "I wish I could. But you know how things are," he said, his tone tinged with regret. "I only have one week. But I'll make the most of what I have. I couldn't miss your birthday, Natasha."

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, her face filled with determination. "I'll make them let you stay longer," she teased. "I'll convince everyone. You just leave it to me."

He smiled, shaking his head fondly. "I have no doubt that, if there's someone who can convince them, it would be you."

They stood there for a moment, the rest of the room fading into the background as they shared a few quiet moments together.

"I missed you, Alexei," Natalia said softly, her smile growing more gentle. "It's been too long."

"I missed you too," he replied, giving her hands a soft squeeze. "But look at you now, eighteen. I almost didn't recognize you."

Before she could respond, the sound of her father's voice broke through the moment. "Natalia, dear, we're waiting for you."

She glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of her family seated at the table, all watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

With a final smile, Alexei leaned in and whispered, "Let's not keep them waiting any longer."

Natalia nodded, still feeling giddy from the surprise, and together they made their way to the dinner table.

Chapter Text

During dinner, Natalia and Alexei sat next to each other, catching up after their long time apart. Alexei, who had taken off his coat and seemed more relaxed, leaned in to speak quietly to her.

"So, how's life as a university student?" Natalia asked.

Alexei gave a small sigh, running a hand through his hair. "It's... more than I expected, honestly. I thought it would be easier-just attending lectures and doing the work. But it's exhausting. The workload is heavier than I imagined. And the professors, they don't exactly go easy on you just because of who you are." He gave a wry smile, though there was no bitterness in it.

Natalia tilted her head. "I can't imagine anyone daring to give the Tsar a hard time," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

He chuckled. "Oh, they do. Trust me. It's as if they want to prove something like they're in some sort of competition to see who gives me the least special treatment." He paused, then added with a more serious tone, "But it's been good for me. Keeps me grounded."

Natalia nodded, listening closely. She could see a new kind of weight in Alexei's words that wasn't there the last time they had spoken. "Do you enjoy it, though?"

"I do," he admitted, after a brief hesitation. "I've learned so many things-politics, history, economics. But the time it takes... Sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it. Especially with my uncle dragging me to every cabinet meeting now., where I actually see these things happening before my eyes, not just in theory."

"So Uncle Misha is still committed to having you involved."

Alexei smiled faintly. "More than involved. He takes me to every meeting, and talks to me about every decision. He says I need to be prepared for... well, everything. It's overwhelming sometimes, but I know he's right. And I've started attending the Duma discussions at least once a week. It's interesting to watch the debates, and see how the ministers argue over every detail. It's like a whole other world."

"Do you enjoy the politics?" Natalia asked, curious. "Or is it just... an obligation?"

Alexei paused, considering her question. "I think a bit of both. Something is fascinating about it-how everything connects, how one small decision can ripple through the entire empire. But at the same time... there are days when I feel like I'd rather be doing something simpler."

Natalia smiled sympathetically. "I can't imagine how hard that must be. But you'll get through it, Alexei. You always do."

Alexei gave her a soft look. "It helps, hearing you say that." He glanced around the table, then lowered his voice, leaning closer again. "I just wish I had more time for... other things. Like this. Being here with you, with all of you."

Natalia smiled. "Don't worry, Alexei. Tata and I will make sure you have a good time while you're in Paris."

Alexei raised an eyebrow. "Should I be excited or a little scared by that tone?"

She gave him a playful wink. "Both, maybe."

Alexei shook his head with a smile, but she could tell he was intrigued. She spent dinner feeling a bubbling excitement for the evening ahead, knowing that the real fun was yet to come.

Once it was over and the first guests began to arrive, it was easy to see that they came from all walks of life. The usual aristocratic crowd, including the Órleans family, mixed with artists and performers. Among the arrivals was Isabelle, who, as expected, made a grand entrance. She clung tightly to her new fiancé, making sure to walk directly into Feodor and Irina's line of sight.

But her calculated move didn't have the effect she likely hoped for. Feodor and Irina were engrossed in a quiet, intimate conversation, hardly noticing Isabelle's arrival. If Isabelle had imagined that Feodor would be overcome with regret or perhaps even despair, she was sorely mistaken. When Feodor finally did glance up and see her, he gave her a warm, beaming smile and, with genuine cheer, congratulated her and her fiancé, wishing them all the happiness in the world.

On the opposite side of the room, Natalia, Tata, and Alexei had witnessed the whole scene and were barely able to contain their laughter.

Later on, Natalia was chatting with Tata when she noticed the familiar faces starting to fill the room. Her eyes widened in delight. Actors she had long admired, famous singers she had only heard from afar, and, to her utter surprise, even a jazz band setting up in the corner of the ballroom.

Natalia turned to her father, who was standing nearby, looking slightly out of place amidst the growing crowd of performers. "Papa," she said with a grin, "are you going to be able to handle all this?"

He shook his head, pretending to be grumpy, but there was a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"I would have preferred if we all went to the drawing room and played bridge, but I suppose I'm willing to give up a quiet evening for your birthday."

Natalia smiled and went over to him, holding him in a tight embrace. "Thank you for your sacrifice, papa, I really appreciate it," she whispered.

Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. "You only turn eighteen once, my dear. I wanted it to be something special you'd never forget."

Natalia's heart swelled as she glanced back at the room filling with music and laughter. She couldn't have asked for a more perfect evening.

Just as she thought all the guests had arrived, a new group entered the room, and the lively chatter seemed to hush for a moment. She looked over, trying to understand what was causing the shift in the atmosphere and, when she saw it, she froze -members of the Ballet Russes, dressed impeccably, moving with their graceful presence even when offstage, led by their master, Sergei Diaghilev himself.

But Natalia's gaze bypassed everyone else, her eyes immediately locking onto Serge Lifar. It had been months since she had last seen him, but he looked the same: dashing and able to make every fibre of her being flutter with his mere presence. If anything, the time they had spent apart had only made her forget just how handsome and striking he really was, with his oriental features and dark eyes that always seemed interested in everything else except her.

"This is my birthday present to you," Tata, who had come to stand beside her, whispered.

Natalia turned to her, widening her eyes. "How did you manage this?"

Tata chuckled softly. "Your parents asked me if there was any particular performer you'd like to see tonight, and I might have mentioned the Ballet Russes." She glanced toward Serge Lifar, who was still unaware of Natalia's gaze. "I wasn't sure if Lifar would come, but I was hopeful. And now here he is."

Natalia felt she could hardly hide her excitement at the surprise, but, still, the image of her, standing in an almost deserted street in Montmartre just a couple of weeks earlier, while a certain Romanian Prince swept her off her feet and made her feel things that not even her undeniable attraction for Serge seemed able to dwindle, soured the moment just enough for a slight heaviness to settle on her chest.

"I'm thrilled, truly," she whispered back to Tata, "but I'm thinking I just might have outdone myself in the department of doing things I shouldn't with less than appropriate people lately."

Tata seemed unbothered by her worry and dismissed it with a laugh.

"Oh, don't worry. At least there's a much smaller chance of bumping into Lifar at a family wedding."

Natalia couldn't help but laugh along, feeling the tension easing a little. Tata's lightheartedness made everything seem less complicated, at least for the moment.

"True," she murmured with a smirk. "Very true."

As Natalia and Tata shared their laugh, Alexei reappeared, balancing three glasses in his hands. "What are you two whispering about over here?" he asked, eyeing them both.

Natalia and Tata exchanged a quick glance before shaking their heads almost in unison.

"Nothing important," Tata said with a wave of her hand.

Natalia accepted the drink from Alexei with a grateful nod, taking a small sip to compose herself. "Thank you," she said, smoothly changing the subject. "Did you see the jazz band setting up? I think they're just about to start."

But despite her best efforts to focus on the conversation, Natalia's thoughts kept drifting back to Serge. She could feel her gaze slipping toward him, drawn in by the sight of him standing there in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. He looked entirely different from the powerful, ethereal figure she had seen on stage. There was a quiet elegance about him now, something grounded yet still magnetic.

Her mind raced, trying to balance the excitement of his presence with the sense of caution she couldn't shake. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on her friends, her eyes kept wandering back to him, curious and intrigued.

The soirée felt almost surreal to Natalia. The evening began with actors performing scenes from her favourite plays. Before each performance, they turned to her with a simple, warm birthday wish. Hearing them perform the lines she loved the most since she was a little girl made her feel comfortable and appreciated, but, above all, thankful for how much thought had gone into the night.

Afterwards, there were opera singers who also knew all her favourite arias and filled the room with their powerful voices.

Then, there was a pause before the dancers from the Ballet Russes were introduced, and Natalia sensed a shift in the atmosphere. Despite the notoriety of many of the performers, Paris was going through a complete craze over the Ballet Russes, to the point that even their costumes, which were always bright and brilliantly executed, were being copied by the fashion houses and were becoming all the rage around the city. That was most likely the reason why the room became so still when Sergei Diaghilev took centre stage. His presence drew everyone's attention, including hers, but the night was about to take a turn when her eyes wandered to the back of the room, where Serge Lifar stood, ready to perform.

Diaghilev, with his commanding presence, stepped forward and extended his hand toward Natalia. "Your Serene Highness, Princess Natalia, on behalf of all of us at the Ballet Russes, I wish you a most splendid birthday. May your year be filled with the grace and beauty of the arts."

While Natalia listened to Diaghilev, her focus remained fixed on Serge. His subtle smile, directed solely at her, sent a quiet thrill down her spine. She could almost swear that the elegant bow he gave her was charged with an unexpected intensity and she was left momentarily flushed. She felt exposed under the quiet weight of his gaze as if something between them had changed in that single moment.

As the dancers took their places and began to move, Natalia's world narrowed to Serge. His performance, though only a brief snippet of their latest ballet, was mesmerizing. Watching him this close, the way his body moved with the music, fluid and precise, was even more powerful than she had remembered. His every gesture seemed to blend perfectly with the rhythm, each movement so effortlessly graceful that it left the audience breathless.

The rest of the party swirled around her -the laughter, the applause, the joyful atmosphere- but Natalia could barely focus on anything else. Serge's presence and performance had a magnetic pull, and she found herself captivated in a way she hadn't expected, her thoughts dancing along with him, in perfect sync with the music that filled the room.

She was lost in the moment for a long time until the performance was over and, as she stood up to applaud, she saw Alexei staring directly at her, with something like anger and disappointment shining in his eyes. When he realized she was looking at him, he stopped himself and turned his gaze towards the performers, clapping along with the others. It was the strangest thing, the most out-of-place reaction she had ever seen from him. For a moment, panic settled in her chest as she wondered if he had noticed something, if she had been too indiscreet in the way she looked at Serge and if he, with his high moral standards and secluded life, did not approve of her showing her affection for a ballet dancer so openly.

She touched his arm lightly and looked quizically at him. "Is everything alright?"

Alexei's face lit up with a broad smile as if nothing had happened. "Of course, why wouldn't it be?"

Natalia nodded and said nothing else. The rest of the performances continued under that seemingly light atmosphere, but she knew Alexei too well not to see that something was bothering him beneath his composed and even cheerful exterior. She wasn't going to discover what it was in a room filled with people and music where all eyes were on her, but now she was more determined than ever to have a conversation with him once things settled down.

Chapter Text

Vladimir

After the performances were done, the dancefloor was cleared and the jazz band that had been waiting in the corner all evening took centre stage. It was the cue for the older, more distinguished guests to take their leave, although their young sons and daughters looked longingly at the band as they tuned their instruments and prepared for an animated night ahead.

Vladimir's parents lingered for a few songs but soon discovered that the music wasn't to their liking. They took their leave after giving Natalia a final, tight embrace. From across the room, Vladimir couldn't help but chuckle. Among everyone present, only Natalia could convince their elderly parents to bring a jazz band into their home without so much as a request. They had simply asked around to find out what would make her happy for her birthday, and here they were, delivering it without hesitation, delighted to see their youngest daughter enjoy herself.

Shortly after, Irina and Feodor announced their plans to retire for the night as well. Irina looked pale and weary, and no one, not even Natalia, pressed her to stay. Throughout the evening, a peculiar air had surrounded Irina, and the siblings had discussed it quietly among themselves, agreeing to let Natalia have her special day before turning their focus to their sister.

Once they left, the ballroom transformed into a lively scene dominated by the youth. Young aristocrats who had successfully convinced their parents to remain now revelled in the experience of witnessing a jazz band for the first time, mingling with some of the performers who had graced the stage earlier.

Though Vladimir considered himself an old soul in many ways, he had surprisingly come to appreciate the sound and artistry of jazz. While he wasn't bold enough to attempt the new dance styles himself, he took pleasure in watching others fill the dancefloor. If he were to be honest, his attention was primarily fixed on one dancer, though he tried not to let it show too much.

Perhaps it was the time apart—seven long months—but he felt that Tata grew more beautiful and irresistible each time he saw her. Dressed in a crimson gown with golden embroidery that swirled around her knees, she danced energetically with Natalia and Alexei. While he didn't particularly enjoy the dancing, he thought quietly to himself that he might be willing to try if it meant getting closer to her.

The house had been bustling with people since Vladimir's arrival, leaving them with little chance to exchange more than a few words of greeting, thanks to Tata's skill at maintaining the facade of their relationship in public. He had spent the day plotting ways to find some time alone with her, but he knew that doing so here would be more challenging than at Ai-Todor, where the estate's vastness offered plenty of hidden corners.

After watching the dancers twirl and spin across the floor for a while, Vladimir decided to take a break. He made his way to the refreshment table, weaving through the crowd as laughter and music enveloped him. As he poured himself a drink, he glanced back at the dancefloor, his thoughts still lingering on Tata.

Just then, he caught a glimpse of her slipping away from the crowd with her crimson dress flowing gracefully behind her. She approached him with a smile that lit up her face, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world faded away.

"Hey," she said softly, leaning against the table beside him. "I thought I might find you here."

"I was hoping you would notice," he replied, unable to hide his own grin. "How have you been? It feels like an eternity since I last saw you."

Tata's eyes sparkled as she shrugged lightly. 

"Seven months is far too long to be apart."

"Every moment has felt like a lifetime," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've missed you more than I can say."

She bit her lip, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. 

"I was about to say you don't have to talk to me as if you're writing a poem every time we see each other, but, I can't deny I liked that." She took a break to take a sip out of her drink. "I've missed you too. It's been hard, pretending everything is normal when I'm counting down the days until I see you again."

Vladimir nodded, a mixture of relief and longing washing over him. 

"I thought I was supposed to be the one doing that."

Tata chuckled at that and the sound made every fiber of his being shiver. He could swear that he felt a tickling sensation on his fingertips, just from the overwhelming want to reach out and touch her hand, which was lying suffocatingly close to his.

"It seems that times have changed," she replied with a soft smile.

"I was worried I wouldn't get a chance to talk to you tonight. It's so crowded."

"Me too. I thought it would be impossible to get a moment alone," Tata said, glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "But I'm glad we did. It's nice to be able to talk."

He took a sip of his drink, savouring the fleeting moment. 

"I wish we could find a way to spend more time together, just the two of us."

Tata smiled a hint of mischief in her eyes. 

"Maybe we can sneak away later, even if just for a few minutes. I'd like that."

Vladimir's mind raced as he thought of a place where they could escape the noise of the party.

 "You know," he began, "there's an annexe to the house that's usually empty when my sister Maria isn't here. It's quiet, and I think we could have a moment there. What do you think?"

Tata's eyes brightened at the suggestion. 

"I know the one you mean. It's tucked away at the end of the corridor, right? I noticed that it's always locked."

"Exactly. Do you think we could meet there later, once everyone's in bed?" he asked, feeling a thrill at the thought of being alone with her.

A mischievous smile crossed Tata's lips.

"Oh, look at you! Planning clandestine meetings like a seasoned rogue. I think I've created a monster."

Vladimir felt a flush rise to his cheeks at her teasing tone, a mix of embarrassment and excitement. 

"Maybe," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "But it's been hard to think about anything else since Ai-Todor. I can't focus on anything without wondering when I'll see you again."

Her teasing gaze softened. 

"I understand. It's hard for me too. I've thought about you every day since then."

He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. 

"I honestly think I might die if I don't kiss you soon." 

The words slipped out before he could stop himself, and his heart raced at the vulnerability of his admission. Tata's expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and warmth lighting her features.

"Is that so?" she whispered, teasing me. "I don't want to be blamed for murder. We should try to fix this as soon as we can."

Vladimir's breath hitched, the tension hanging thick between them as he felt a magnetic pull drawing him closer. 

"I really think we should," he replied, his voice low, filled with a want he was unable to hide.

Just then, laughter erupted from the dancefloor, pulling them back into the reality of the party. Tata glanced toward the noise, her playful demeanour returning. 

"Well, let's not keep our friends waiting. I'll find you later, is that alright?"

"Definitely," he promised, watching as she turned to blend back into the crowd.

Chapter Text

The jazz band turned out to be a great success. If, at first, the remaining guests were sceptical about what they were going to find, once the rhythm of the saxophone, the drums and the bass picked up the tempo, the energy in the ballroom shifted into pure, infectious joy and there were very few who managed to resist the temptation of stepping into the dancefloor, even those who had never tried the new dance styles and were just trying to move along with the music. 

Natalia, on her end, was trying her best to teach Alexei how to dance the Charleston, in what was resembling very much their dance class before his own eighteenth birthday the year before.

"Come on, Alexei, it's easy! You just kick your feet out like this," she said, showing him the steps.

Alexei, however, was as hopeless at the Charleston as he had been with the waltz. His legs seemed to have a mind of their own, kicking in the wrong direction, stumbling slightly as he tried to follow Natalia's lead. His clumsiness only made them both laugh harder.

"I swear, I'm better at anything that doesn't involve my feet!" he joked, barely managing to keep up with her swift, swinging movements.

Natalia threw her head back and laughed, enjoying herself despite his lack of rhythm. 

"You're hopeless, Alexei! But it's fine, as long as you're having fun."

He grinned, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, still trying to keep up with her. 

"I'm having the time of my life, even if I'm making a complete fool of myself, so that's got to count for something."

She twirled around him, effortlessly kicking her legs out in perfect sync with the beat, while Alexei failed in his own awkward but endearing way. Despite his lack of coordination, his good-natured spirit and willingness to try made the moment all the more enjoyable for both of them. They danced, carefree and out of rhythm, laughing all the way through it.

However, after a while, out of the corner of her eye, Natalia noticed two figures approaching them. She instinctively slowed her movements, and when she realized who it was—Serge Lifar and one of his female colleagues from the Ballet Russes—a wave of self-consciousness washed over her. She came to a complete stop, urging Alexei to do the same with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

Alexei, confused for a moment, followed Natalia's gaze and noticed the approaching dancers. He straightened slightly but kept his lighthearted smile.

Serge Lifar, who always looked so commanding on stage, seemed ill at ease when he reached them. He looked out of place and it felt as if he was studying each of his movements carefully, almost like a choreography of his own. The woman at his side shared the same sense of awe and nervous energy. Serge cleared his throat softly, glancing quickly at Natalia before turning to Alexei with a formal nod.

"Your Majesty," Serge began in a respectful tone with a hint of hesitation, "I apologize for the interruption, but I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself and my colleague if that's not too bold of a request."

Natalia's heart, which was still beating fast from her efforts on the dancefloor, seemed unable to settle down around Serge. He was looking particularly dashing tonight, with a tuxedo that had been tailored to perfection and his wild hair tamed and slid back. The easygoing atmosphere that had reigned a moment ago had completely passed and the sudden formal introduction made her feel exposed, especially knowing Serge's eyes were not just on Alexei, but also subtly on her.

Alexei, who was used to greeting people from all walks of life daily, acted gracious and seemed unaware of Natalia's sudden discomfort, smiling warmly at them both. 

"Of course, it's no interruption at all," he said, extending his hand to Serge. "I've had the privilege of seeing your work tonight—it's truly impressive."

Serge shook his hand, his posture relaxing with the praise. 

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he replied. After a beat, he then gestured toward his colleague. "This is Mademoiselle Anna Zimina, my collegue."

Anna stepped forward with a graceful curtsy, showcasing her elegant and fluid movements, much like her presence on stage. She was tall and striking, with raven hair pinned into a neat knot at the back of her head, accentuating her soft features and high cheekbones. Her cat-like green eyes, vivid and mysterious, kept diverting shyly toward Alexei as if she wasn't sure whether to meet his gaze. Watching them, Natalia could almost swear she saw Alexei blush slightly. The usually composed expression he displayed in these formal introductions seemed to falter, and there was a hint of nervousness in the way he stood and rubbed his hands, as if unsure of how to handle the attention.

Natalia noticed the subtle awkwardness between them, which left them both slightly flustered. There was an undeniable charm in Alexei's unease, something she had never seen before in him and that made her smile inwardly.

To try and ease the tension, she offered them both a kind smile. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, stretching her hand towards Anna.

She caught Serge's gaze for a brief moment, and, for the first time since they had been first introduced, could almost swear that something passed between them—a look that lasted just a bit too long, a slight change in his breathing. But, then again, it was highly likely that she was just imagining things.

"Well," Alexei said, clapping his hands together, "I'm sure Natalia would agree that we're very fortunate to have such incredible talent here tonight."

Natalia nodded quickly, grateful for Alexei's lighthearted tone. 

"Absolutely. You've made this evening unforgettable."

Serge gave another respectful nod, his eyes briefly meeting Natalia's once more before he stepped back with a slight bow. 

"Thank you, Your Majesty, Your Serene Highness."

He smiled, a touch of warmth returning to his expression as he turned to Natalia. 

"Before we go, I wanted to take the opportunity to wish you personally a very happy birthday, Your Serene Highness. And, if it's not too bold, perhaps I could ask for the honour of a dance?"

As Serge extended his hand, inviting Natalia to dance, she felt a rush of excitement ripple through her. It was an offer she had dreamed about but hadn't dared to hope for, and yet here he was, waiting with a polite smile that sent her heart racing. She glanced at Alexei, whose expression seemed to shift—just for a moment—but she couldn't quite decipher what it meant. She could almost swear he was scowling, but he was always so good at hiding his true feelings that it was difficult for her to tell.

Her excitement wavered for a moment, but she quickly brushed the thought aside, smiling brightly at Serge. 

"I'd love to," she said. 

But, before she accepted the hand Serge was stretching, she suddenly had an idea, one that she hoped would lighten the mood. 

"As long as Anna accepts to dance with Alexei," she added, looking between them with a teasing smile.

To her surprise, Alexei seemed caught off guard. He blinked, staring at her for a heartbeat longer than usual, his smile suddenly feeling a touch more forced. Natalia tilted her head slightly, unsure why he looked so flustered, but before she could dwell on it, he nodded, turning to Anna with a polite, if awkward, gesture.

"I—uh—of course," he said, offering his hand to Anna.

Natalia could have sworn he hesitated before speaking, but she wasn't sure. She hoped he wasn't too uncomfortable with her suggestion, even though she knew it was difficult for him to open up with new people. Anna seemed lovely, and a little dancing with a beautiful young woman could do him no harm. It could even help him relax and enjoy the evening even more. She gave him an encouraging wink, trying to ease whatever had unsettled him.

Anna, meanwhile, seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. Her shy smile bloomed as she took Alexei's hand, and for a brief moment, Natalia caught the flicker of something—maybe attraction or simply the honour of dancing with the Tsar of Russia, she could not be sure—in Anna's eyes as she glanced at Alexei. Natalia smiled to herself. It was harmless fun, and Alexei could use a distraction. He often took things too seriously, especially at events like this.

Serge, who had been waiting patiently, stepped closer to Natalia, gently taking her hand. The touch, though light, made her head light and her breathing shallow. His presence was already magnetic when she saw him on stage, but having him this close to her, feeling the warmth of his hand on her, feeling his tight grip around her waist was enough to make her lose her balance. As the music began to play, they moved together onto the dance floor.

Chapter Text

The first few moments of Natalia's close proximity to Serge were not as magical as she had anticipated. She was not one to be easily intimidated, but, in this case, it seemed her mind had opened an exception. The thought of dancing with a professional ballet dancer—a man who seemed more suited to Mount Olympus, blending effortlessly with the gods, than to her ballroom—left her feeling unusually self-conscious.

Then, even as she followed Serge's lead, gracefully stepping to the rhythm, Natalia couldn't shake the strange feeling that Alexei's reaction had left in her. She saw him and Anna begin to dance out of the corner of her eye. Alexei's movements were polite, and it was impossible for him to hide his awkwardness entirely, but something about the way he carried himself still seemed off. She noticed how stiff his smile appeared, how his eyes seemed to wander back toward her and Serge, almost unconsciously.

Natalia tried not to dwell on it, forcing herself to focus on the moment with Serge. After all, this was what she had been looking forward to for months. And yet, the shadow of Alexei's earlier expression lingered in her mind, casting a small cloud over her excitement.

"You seem a little distracted, Your Highness," Serge commented, forcing her to be back at the moment.

She smiled politely at him and, when her eyes met his, she felt more than a little dizzy.

"It's... it's nothing," she stammered, struggling to piece together a full sentence. "Alexei doesn't usually dance with people he doesn't know, and I feel a bit guilty for pushing him onto your friend."

Serge's lips curled into a half-smile. He could have glanced at Alexei and Anna to see for himself how they were doing, but his grey eyes remained fixed on her, unwavering. The intensity of his attention made her palms sweat.

"Don't worry, Anna knows how to put people at ease," he replied gently. "Though, I didn't realize you were so close with the Tsar..."

"Oh, we sort of grew up together," she replied with a nervous laugh. "Well, maybe 'grow up' is a bit too strong, since I was born here in Paris and didn't move to Russia until I was eight. And, even then, I don't think his mother ever quite approved of my family. But when his family went into exile, we grew closer. I must have been twelve or thirteen at that time and he's not much older than me. He became my dearest friend on this Earth."

She smiled softly as she spoke, finding a bit of comfort in the familiarity of the topic. This was easy ground, something she could talk about without stumbling over her words, and to her relief, she realized she could actually manage to say full sentences in front of Serge.

Serge's gaze softened, though a hint of curiosity remained. 

"It's rare to find such a bond, especially considering his position. I imagine it's hard for him to find people he can really trust."

Natalia nodded, relaxing even more. 

"Yes, it is. Alexei carries so much on his shoulders... but he's always been there for me."

Serge tilted his head slightly and, in a casual tone, asked. 

"And how long will you be staying in Paris?"

"Just until the end of the month," Natalia replied. "My semester at school is ending, and I'll be heading back to Russia soon."

"Ah, I see. That doesn't leave much time, then." Serge's eyes flicked momentarily toward Alexei before returning to her. "Are you planning on making the most of it while you're still here?"

Natalia chuckled, her nerves fully dissipating. 

"I hope I can! I've been meaning to show Alexei around the city. It's so rare for him to go out and enjoy himself."

Serge's smile grew a little wider, though there was a glimmer of curiosity still lurking beneath his calm demeanour. 

"That sounds like a good plan. Though I imagine it's not easy to take a stroll along the Seine with the Tsar of Russia without causing a certain level of commotion."

Natalia laughed, shaking her head. 

"That's the tricky part! He always has to bring a dozen guards on toe, so I still have to figure out how to make it happen."

Serge raised an eyebrow, amused. 

"Sounds like quite the challenge."

"It definitely is," Natalia said with a grin. "But I'll manage somehow. It'll be good for him to experience Paris in a way he normally wouldn't."

Serge nodded, though his eyes still held a thoughtful glint. 

"Well, you do look like someone who can come up with a good plan."

Natalia laughed nervously, feeling her cheeks growing red again. Was this a sort of compliment? It was hard to tell, but she had to clear her throat so he wouldn't hear the slight trembling in her voice. 

"My friend Tata is the real mastermind. I'm just really good at following instructions."

Serge's smile deepened, giving the impression of warmth. 

"What a curious name. Tata. Is your friend French by any chance?"

"Oh, no," Natalia clarified between laughs. "Her real name is Natalia, like me. Natalia Sergeyevna Mamontova, but everyone calls her Tata to tell us apart. We're always together, so it would make things a little harder if people called for 'Natalia' and we both turned around."

"And how did you two meet? Is she an aristocrat, as well?" Serge asked.

"Not exactly, but..."

Natalia hesitated, finding it hard to explain the connection to Serge. Her closest friends were Tata, the stepdaughter of Grand Duke Michael, the Regent of Russia, and Alexei, the Tsar himself. How could she explain that without sounding like an insufferable debutante? She cleared her throat. 

"I'm afraid you're going to find me a bit of a snob..."

Serge laughed again, putting her more at ease. 

"No offence, Your Highness, but given that you have a title, live in a mansion in one of Paris's most luxurious neighbourhoods, and your father is a Grand Duke, I think I already have a pretty good idea of your connections. So far, you haven't struck me as the least bit pretentious."

Natalia let out a nervous chuckle, glancing down for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

 "Well... Tata is actually the stepdaughter of Grand Duke Michael, the Regent of Russia." She cringed inwardly, bracing for his reaction.

Serge's eyebrows lifted, and a slow smile formed. 

"Alright, I'll admit, that is impressive."

He seemed to be letting the information sink in for a moment, as they continued to move along with the music, then he charged back into his questions.

"It's a wonder you manage to lead such a normal life, especially in Paris when everyone enjoys a little gossip and is in awe of romanticised figures like the Tsar of Russia."

Natalia tilted her head, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

"Oh, I'm sure most of the attention is on Alexei. I'm just here for school," she said, trying to downplay her significance next to the Tsar.

Serge chuckled softly, his eyes narrowing playfully. 

"You're too modest, Natalia. I'm sure people are just as curious about you." Though his tone was light, there was a subtle probing in his words. "It must be quite something, being surrounded by so many influential figures—both here and in Russia."

Natalia nodded, not thinking much of his comment. 

"It can be, I suppose. But honestly, I spend most of my time studying or with family. I'm not really in those social circles like Alexei or others."

Serge's gaze remained focused, as if genuinely interested in her every word. 

"Still, it's an interesting position to be in, especially now with everything changing so rapidly in Russia. You must have a unique perspective, being close to the Tsar and his family."

Natalia smiled politely, oblivious to the deeper intent behind his words. 

"It certainly can be... eye-opening. But I try not to get too involved in politics. I'm more focused on the arts, you know?"

Serge nodded thoughtfully, keeping his tone light. 

"Of course, of course. But I imagine being around someone like the Tsar and the Regent Michael, who are at the heart of it all, you must hear quite a bit—especially about what's happening back home."

Natalia glanced around the room, her thoughts drifting toward the music rather than the conversation. 

"Well, sometimes. But we mostly talk about normal things. He tries not to burden me with all of that," she said with a soft smile.

A quiet pause settled between them, as if Serge was taking in everything she had said. Natalia couldn't blame him. She had been born into this world, and to her, Alexei was just Alexei—her friend, someone she knew intimately. But she understood that for others, he carried an almost divine aura, a certain distance that made him seem unreachable.

"Take a look at them."

Serge's words brought her back into the real world again. She followed his gaze to where Alexei and Anna were dancing. To her surprise, Alexei appeared much more at ease than before. He was laughing—really laughing—at something Anna had said, and there was nothing left of his usual reserve. At the exact moment Natalia glanced at them, Anna leaned in, telling Alexei something that made him smile and then, he whispered something back to her, their faces so close that it made Natalia blink.

Unexpectedly, she felt a pang of possessiveness creeping in. Alexei wasn't the type to open up with just anyone, and she had always been one of the few he truly let in. It felt selfish, but she liked being his confidante, one of the rare people who knew him beyond the surface. Seeing him this relaxed, laughing with someone outside their usual circle, unsettled her in a way she hadn't anticipated.

Serge watched her reaction closely and his voice sounded smooth when he spoke again. 

"See? I told you Anna would make him feel comfortable. She has a way of putting people at ease."

Natalia smiled faintly, still watching Alexei and Anna. 

"You were right," she admitted. "I've never seen him like this with someone he just met."

Serge tilted his head, studying her for a moment, then smiled in a way that felt practised but genuine enough. 

"It's nice to see, isn't it? He deserves a little break from all the pressure."

Natalia nodded, her thoughts half-focused on the conversation and half on Alexei's uncharacteristic behaviour. 

"He does. It's good for him."

Serge kept his smile, softening his tone as he subtly shifted the conversation. 

"I suppose it must be a relief for you too, seeing him unwind like that. You probably don't get many opportunities to relax either, with school and everything else."

Natalia nodded absently, her gaze still flitting between Alexei and Anna. 

"It can be a bit much at times, but I make do."

Serge raised an eyebrow, as though genuinely intrigued. 

"You must have a routine down by now—juggling school, friends, and family. How do you manage it all? I imagine there's never a dull moment."

Natalia chuckled lightly, turning back to him. 

"I suppose I'm used to it. School keeps me busy most of the time, but I try to make the most of my free moments. I still get to see friends, and go out a bit, though maybe not as much as I'd like."

Serge leaned in just a little, his interest piqued. 

"And where do you like to go when you do have time? I imagine there are quite a few places in Paris that feel like a second home to you by now."

Natalia shrugged, her thoughts still a little scattered. 

"Oh, the usual. Cafés, some galleries when I can, opera."

Serge's smile remained, his tone playful but curious. 

"You never go out in the evenings? It seems like such a missed opportunity, especially for someone who knows the city so well."

Natalia hesitated, a small smile playing on her lips as she glanced away. 

"Well... not exactly," she said, in a quieter voice. "I'm not really supposed to go out on my own, so I don't do it that often."

Serge's eyebrows lifted with interest, sensing something more behind her words. 

"Ah, I see. You make it sound like there's a story behind it." He chuckled lightly, trying to make her feel at ease. "I can't imagine anyone being able to resist a little taste of Paris nightlife."

Natalia laughed softly, still a little unsure. 

"It's not that I don't want to... it's just, well, there are rules. Boarding school and all. Technically, I'm not allowed to leave without a chaperone."

Serge gave her a playful, understanding look. 

"And yet... you've found a way, haven't you?"

His voice was teasing but gentle, as though he wasn't really pressing for an answer, just sharing in the fun of it. She smiled, a little sheepish. 

"I may have slipped out a few times. But nothing wild—just to dance."

She instantly regretted revealing her secret to this stranger, but there wasn't much time to dwell on it. Shortly after the words left her mouth, the music began to die down and Serge let go of her hand respectfully.

"Well, I must say this was a delightful conversation, Your Highness," he said with what Natalia thought was a genuine smile.

She smiled back at him and nodded. 

"Likewise, Monsieur Lifar. It was good to see that you can laugh, I thought that was impossible."

He ran a hand through his hair then and Natalia could tell he was forcing his lips into a more conservative line, but his eyes were sparkling and it was impossible not to see that he was amused by her, even if he was trying hard not to show it.

"Will you stay for a little longer, Monsieur Lifar?" She asked hopefully, but he promptly shook his head.

"Unfortunately not. Anna and I have an early day tomorrow and we've already extended our stay more than we should have."

As he said it, Anna and Alexei appeared by their side, still giggling together. Before Anna let go of Alexei to join Serge, she rested the palm of her hand on Alexei's chest for a fleeting moment, but it was enough for Natalia to see and feel that same, unfamiliar and nasty feeling of possessiveness get over her again.

"It was a wonderful evening, thank you again for your invitation," Anna told her, extending her hand.

Natalia shook it, forcing a smile that felt like an enormous effort to her cheeks. 

"No problem. I hope we meet again soon. Maybe when your new ballet premiers?"

"It would be an honour to have you," Anna said. "I hope you are not back in Russia already when it does."

"Hopefully not," Natalia replied, feeling that she couldn't hold the same level of politeness for much longer.

At long last, Anna linked arms with Serge and, after a respectful bow, the two of them left, making their way through the large group of dancing guests like two ethereal figures leaving the stage. It took Natalia a while to realize that both she and Alexei were standing in the middle of the ballroom, staring at them, like two statues.

A slow smile spread across Alexei's face. 

"Well," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a surprising shiver down Natalia's spine. "It seems we've been abandoned."

Natalia blinked, startled by the intensity of his gaze. 

"It would seem so," she managed, suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing.

The music had started up again, more lively this time. Around them, couples twirled and laughed, but Natalia felt strangely detached from the revelry.

Out of nowhere, she became deeply aware of Alexei's warm, solid presence beside her, and, for some reason, she noticed how tall he had grown, and how much he had changed in the year they had spent apart. In the dark, intimate ambience of the ballroom, he almost looked handsome. In fact, looking at him, a delirious thought raced through her mind that he felt more real, more reachable than Serge, who looked to her more like a demi-god rather than an actual human being.

"May I have this dance, Your Highness?" Alexei asked, extending his hand with a playful bow.

Natalia hesitated for a moment, shaking her head as if to clear away whatever trick her mind was playing on her. She reminded herself that this was Alexei, her goofy, slightly awkward friend, who should be as unremarkable to her as any of her brothers. Thankfully, that comparison was enough to pull her back to reality, allowing her to see him as she always had.

She even laughed quietly to herself at how ludicrous the idea was and the sheer amount of trouble it would cause to even consider it. She was probably just in need of a vacation of some sort, somewhere that would take her mind off all these strange feelings she had started to develop for young men lately. Although Nicholas didn't really count, as he had been more of an experiment and Serge was more out of reach than the Garden of Eden.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied, feeling a playful smile creeping onto her face as she placed her hand in his. "You may."

Chapter Text

Serge

Anna and Serge did their best to remain quiet as they slipped out of the ballroom, moving with purpose but trying to maintain their composure. Serge's heart pounded with adrenaline, his mind buzzing with chaotic thoughts. None of it felt real yet. They had been in the same room as the Tsar of Russia. They had imagined an opportunity like this would take months to orchestrate, yet here it was, handed to them on a silver platter.

Anna managed to keep her elegant posture as they stepped out into the cool night air, but once they had put enough distance between themselves and the house, she stopped suddenly. She turned to Serge, covering her mouth with her trembling hands. It was the most open display of emotion he had ever seen from her.

"We didn't dream this, did we?" she asked, her smile wide and gleaming, like a child who had just left a candy shop with their pockets full.

Serge shook his head, pulling her into a tight embrace. He wanted to lift her off the ground, to spin with the joy that surged through him, but he kept his excitement in check. They were still too close to the house.

"I can't believe it. I suspected they had some connection, but I never thought it was this close," she said, catching her breath. "He's completely in love with Princess Natalia, did you notice?"

Serge raised an eyebrow, unsure. "Is he? What makes you think that?"

Anna laughed softly, tilting her head toward him. 

"Come on, Serge. You know I don't like to brag, but he's a nineteen-year-old young man, dancing with me—a ballet dancer. I gave him my full attention and offered him everything he might want, and he acted like he didn't even notice. All he could talk about was the Princess as if he owed her some kind of loyalty."

Serge paused, considering her words. He hadn't spent enough time around the Tsar to make that kind of judgment, but he trusted Anna's instincts. If she had sensed something, then there was likely truth in it. His mind wandered back to his own brief interaction with Princess Natalia, remembering the nervous way she had glanced at Alexei and Anna throughout the evening. A flicker of understanding lit up in his thoughts.

"I suppose you're right," Serge murmured, the pieces slowly falling into place. "Now that you mention it, the Princess did seem very affectionate toward him. Perhaps she loves him too, but just hasn't realized it yet."

Anna burst into laughter, her amusement bubbling over. 

"Well, who would've thought? All this time, we've been keeping an eye on our future Empress."

For some reason, hearing those words spoken out loud made something inside Serge twitch. He didn't know Natalia well—if he could even claim to know her at all—but the conclusion he got from their few interactions, especially tonight, was that she didn't come across as someone who would easily submit to the rigid expectations of an Empress. There was a quiet rebelliousness to her, a spark she kept just beneath the surface. It intrigued him, though he couldn't explain why. Still, he chose not to share this thought with Anna, unsure of what it meant himself.

Instead, he pulled her closer, pressing a warm, celebratory kiss to her lips. 

"I think you'd make a far better Empress, Anna," he whispered playfully. "Anna, the Great."

She laughed, lightly slapping his shoulder. 

"More like Anna, the Terrible," she teased, her eyes gleaming with humour.

After that, Serge noticed a shift in Anna's demeanour. Her posture straightened, and her expression turned more serious. The brief moment of celebration had passed, and he could almost see the gears in her mind beginning to turn.

"I don't think I'm going to get anything from him, at least not easily," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Even if we take out his infatuation with Princess Natalia, he struck me as too green, too religious, too... serious. It would take a lot more time to get to him. How gullible do you think Princess Natalia is?"

Serge swallowed hard at the choice of words. He didn't think Natalia was gullible at all. Maybe she lacked some real-world experience, but she seemed sharp—someone who would catch on quickly if given the chance. Still, he decided to downplay his impression.

"Not as much as one might assume," he said carefully. "But I do think I've made some progress and I have a sense I've caused some impression in her. If I keep pushing, it wouldn't be hard to use her to influence the Tsar. Even if they aren't romantically involved, they seem close. Did he strike you as someone who would do anything for her?"

Anna nodded slowly, processing his words.

"Yes, something like that. It's hard to judge from a first impression, but men are easily manipulated when they like and trust a woman," she paused for a moment. "And what about that other girl who's always around? Did you find anything useful?"

Serge's smile grew triumphant. 

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot. You and Zinoviev are going to love this. She's Grand Duke Michael's stepdaughter."

Anna's eyes lit up, her earlier composure giving way to a quiet celebration. She couldn't hide the triumphant smile that spread across her face as she processed the information.

"Well, this is better than I thought," she said, almost to herself, before turning to Serge. "It feels like they've put all our eggs in one basket, doesn't it? All the key players, in one place."

Serge gave her a knowing look, his grin widening. 

"It gets better," he said, lowering his voice slightly as if savouring the moment. "Natalia confided in me tonight that she would like to take the Tsar of Russia sightseeing without the guards."

Anna's smirk wavered as she weighed the possibilities. 

"Let's not assume our luck will hold out forever," she scoffed. "He brought an entire regiment with him. How could she possibly sneak him out without anyone noticing?"

Unbothered, Serge gave a casual shrug. 

"You saw as well as I did how she and her friend slipped away before. It seems to me that Princess Natalia knows this city like the back of her hand—she grew up here. His guards didn't."

For a moment, Anna remained quiet, considering the thought, though it was clear that she was still sceptical. 

"I'm not convinced," she finally said. "It's better that we focus on getting ourselves in rather than expecting him to sneak out."

With a quiet nod, Serge agreed outwardly, though inside he couldn't shake the feeling that Natalia was much sharper than Anna gave her credit for. If anyone could pull it off, it was her.

Chapter Text

Natalia

After hours of dancing and music, the jazz band finally disbanded in the late hours of the night, when the first rays of the new day were already filtering through the tall windows of the ballroom. Neither Natalia nor Alexei felt the least bit tired, at least not in spirit. Alexei had to stop dancing when he felt a twitch of pain in his leg, but he stayed in the ballroom until the very end.

Once the band was gone and everyone returned home, he and Natalia were the only ones left, except for a couple of guards he was forced to have near him at all times, although they were both sleeping in chairs in opposite corners of the entrance. The room felt now eerily quiet, although Natalia could swear she could still feel the vibration of the music reflecting on every surface. She still felt the adrenaline of it all and didn't feel prepared to go to bed.

Alexei seemed to share her restlessness. He had taken off his coat and was sitting on a window pane, gazing out at the snow-covered garden with distant, dreamy eyes. When Natalia approached, he turned and smiled at her. She sat across from him, studying his face. He had changed so much over the past year that it was hard to recognize her old friend. His height was the most obvious difference, but his features had grown more mature, his jawline sharper and stronger. Yet, when he smiled, it was the same boyish grin she remembered, and she felt herself relaxing.

"That was quite the party, wasn't it?" Natalia asked with a smile.

"Unforgettable," Alexei replied.

She glanced at his leg with a hint of concern. "How's the leg?"

He stretched it slowly, wincing slightly before giving a nod. 

"Better," he assured her. "I'll survive."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, before Natalia broke it with a question that had been on her mind. 

"How have you really been? Back in Russia, I mean."

Alexei chuckled, shaking his head. 

"Well, I won't bore you with a report on the industrial reforms and the Crimean question. But... I think the country's changing for the better," he said, hopeful, but also unable to hide the weariness from his tone. "I only hope I'll be able to keep up."

She gave him a reassuring smile. 

"Knowing you, I think you'll do just fine."

Then, she held her gaze for a moment and tilted her head with a teasing smile. 

"Do you feel like going to bed yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Alexei shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"Not really. Do you?"

She chuckled softly. 

"Not at all." She glanced toward the tall windows. "What do you say we take a walk in the garden for old-time sake?"

Alexei hesitated, shifting his gaze towards the guards sleeping soundly in their chairs. "What about them?" he asked, lowering his voice. "They'll notice if I disappear."

Natalia grinned and waved a hand dismissively. 

"They're out cold. I doubt they'll even notice if we throw a snowball at them." She leaned in a little closer. "Besides, it's just a quick walk. They'll never know you were gone."

Alexei looked uncertain for a moment, then a mischievous smile spread across his face. 

"Alright," he said, standing up. "Let's go before I change my mind."

They slipped out of the ballroom on tiptoes, making sure they passed the guards unnoticed, then put their coats on and made their way to the sunhouse, which had a door to the back garden. Although the temperature was not quite as low as it would have been in Peterburg, they felt the cold more bitterly because of the humidity, but, at least for Natalia, it was a pleasant sensation after all the evening exertions.

Everything was quiet around them, except for the crunching sounds of their footsteps as they walked through the garden. It was still quite dark, but they could already see the sky slowly changing from deep black into the softer blue colours of dawn. It was rare for Natalia, who had never been a morning person, to be up at this hour, so she enjoyed the sight and the stillness thoroughly. The whole time, Alexei was walking by her side, keeping his silence, most likely as absorbed by the magical atmosphere as she was.

After a few moments of walking in comfortable silence, curiosity got the better of Natalia. Without turning to face him, she asked, 

"I saw you were enjoying yourself quite a bit with Anna tonight."

She tried to keep her tone light, but to her surprise, a hint of jealousy crept into her voice, causing it to crack slightly. She hoped he wouldn't notice, but she immediately sensed the hesitation in his step. It was subtle, but she knew him well enough to recognize when something was on his mind—his stride lost its usual energy as he searched for an answer.

"She was very nice," he said at last, his voice quiet, almost a whisper.

Natalia cast a sidelong glance at him, trying to read his face, searching for any sign of reaction. But it didn't take long for her to realize that Alexei was just as skilled at hiding his emotions as ever, even after all the time they had spent apart.

"And stunning, wasn't she?" Natalia found herself asking.

Alexei turned to her, rolling his eyes. "Oh God, not you too."

She stopped in her tracks, surprised but amused by his response. Laughing, she stepped in front of him, blocking his path. 

"What do you mean by that?"

Alexei seemed to hesitate, glancing down as if weighing whether he should share what was on his mind. Finally, he spoke, though his words came out slowly, almost reluctantly. 

"My grandmother has teamed up with the court minister, and they seem determined to find me a bride as soon as possible. It's become their pet project."

Natalia's eyes lit up, a spark of amusement dancing there as she took his hands in hers and leaned closer. 

"Oh, you have to tell me everything!" she urged, unable to contain her curiosity as well as her excitement. "This is just too delightful."

Alexei groaned, but he didn't pull his hands away. Instead, he let out a resigned laugh, shaking his head. 

"Alright," he said, his tone half-exasperated, half-amused. "But only because I know you won't leave me alone if I don't tell you."

"Obviously not," she replied with a grin. "Now, start from the beginning—who's the frontrunner?"

"Well, the beginning of the story is that everyone seems to be afraid that I might drop dead at any minute, but no one wants to say that to my face, so they use things like, 'a young man such as yourself, away from your family, must be in want of a companion to share the burden of ruling once it falls upon your lap,'", Alexei said, imitating the voice of Count Freedericksz, the Court Minister, to such perfection, that Natalia was left in hysterics.

After sharing the laugh with her, Alexei continued, "And it was all very fine while it was just him because I could easily ignore what he said, but suddenly my grandmother had some sort of epiphany and decided that she wanted to have lunch with me at least twice a week and, what do you think these lunches are about?"

Natalia had to cover her mouth, barely stifling her giggles. 

"How are they going about it? Just casual hints, or do they actually hand you lists of eligible Princesses?"

The way Alexei hesitated, his cheeks tinged pink, told her everything she needed to know.

"They bring you lists, don't they?" she pressed, grinning.

Alexei shot her a wary look. 

"If I tell you, you're only going to laugh at me, so maybe I'll keep this one to myself."

Natalia put on her most solemn expression, looking straight into his eyes. 

"Alexei Nikolaevich, I've been your best friend through every one of your moods these past five years. I think I've earned the right to tease you when the occasion calls for it. And in this case, it's not even really you that I'm laughing at—it's the whole ridiculous situation."

Alexei took a deep sigh and let the words out in a slow, low droll as if it was embarrassing just to remember it. 

"There have been meetings about this, Natasha. Real, formal meetings, with ministers, courtiers and, sometimes even Uncle Misha. They've got dossiers, photographs, family backgrounds... everything you could imagine. They want to match me up with the perfect bride as if it's a science."

Natalia doubled over with laughter, picturing Alexei stiffly enduring endless meetings where ministers debated his love life as if it were a matter of national security. It was hard enough navigating one's feelings without a council of advisors, and the sheer absurdity of his situation left her nearly breathless.

Alexei, thankfully, didn't take offence; he chuckled along with her, his expression softening as he watched her try to regain her composure.

Finally catching her breath, she gave him a playful look. 

"So... has anyone in this grand, strategic search even remotely caught your interest?"

Alexei rolled his eyes, pulling his scarf higher around his cheeks in an attempt to hide the faint blush there. 

"It's hard enough to know if you like someone you've actually met," he admitted, his voice a bit shy. "Imagine deciding that based on portraits and summaries that don't include anything that really matters to me. Imagine that someone you don't know showed you a picture of a prince and said, 'Here's an ideal match—solid alliances, impressive ancestry...' and that was it! That was all you've got. If I showed just the faintest interest in anyone, I'm afraid they would start negotiating a treaty straight away. I've already told Uncle Misha that this whole thing isn't going to work."

Natalia gave him an encouraging smile. 

"And what did Uncle Misha say? Surely he could stop all of this if it bothers you this much."

Alexei's mouth twitched in a small, reluctant smile. 

"Let's just say Uncle Misha's still a bit wary of his mother. She can be just as intimidating as a General, if not more so."

Natalia laughed. She'd only met the Dowager Empress a few times, but everyone knew she was the family's true matriarch and that it was nearly impossible to contradict her.

"Well, don't throw the list out just yet," she teased. "Some of the Greek princesses were quite pretty."

Alexei sighed in exaggerated exasperation, but there was a hint of a smile. 

"I thought you'd understand that I'm not ready to take that step yet—especially not with someone I don't know."

Natalia pretended to be shocked, pressing a hand to her chest. 

"Really? Nineteen and not ready to settle down? And you don't want to pick your life partner from a list your grandmother and a council of sixty-year-old courtiers made? What a disappointment you are, Alexei Nikolaevich."

At that, Alexei finally burst into a real laugh, and Natalia joined him, happy to lift the weight from his shoulders, even if just for a while.

"I wish my grandmother understood that," he said quietly. "She's right about one thing—I would like to have someone by my side. But someone who understands me. Who sees that, yes, I have my illness, but it doesn't define who I am."

"Someone who sees you for who you are," Natalia agreed gently. "Isn't that what we all want, in the end? To be understood?"

"Yes, exactly," Alexei said. "And of course, someone who understands the crown too—someone who knows the weight and responsibility that comes with it."

Natalia looked at him thoughtfully. 

"If you ask me, that's all the more reason to give people like Anna a chance. Meeting new people could help you discover what you're actually looking for. Or even what you don't like. Love is tricky business."

Right after the words left her mouth, she saw Alexei's expression shift, his eyes narrowing slightly, looking at her with a mix of curiosity and... was that irritation?

"And where, may I ask, did you suddenly acquire all this wisdom about love?" he asked in a tone that was a bit sharper than she'd expect from him.

Caught off guard, she felt her cheeks warm. "Well... it's not exactly a deep wisdom, it just sounds like common sense to me that you won't find your life-long partner in the first person you meet. You have to look around a little, see what draws you to someone" she said, trying to brush it off.

"That's an interesting theory," Alexei said in a flat tone. "One could almost swear you have been testing it yourself."

Natalia scoffed and rolled her eyes, but he was watching her too intently, and she knew he wouldn't drop the subject. He knew her too well and, since they had never kept secrets from each other, she thought it would be silly to start with such a minor thing. Besides, he could blow it out of proportion if he heard it from someone else.

She hesitated for a moment longer but eventually sighed, glancing away. 

"Alright, I may have... possibly... kissed someone. Just once. But it was nothing."

The way his eyes flashed with surprise—and something else she couldn't quite place—made her feel even more self-conscious. 

"You may have kissed someone?" he repeated, crossing his arms. His voice sounded unusually dry. "Who?"

"It was just... a family friend," she said, almost defensively. "If I'm completely honest, it was more a kind of experiment. I was just curious about what it might feel like. It didn't mean anything."

He still wasn't satisfied, though, leaning closer, giving her a faintly teasing smile that contrasted with every other signal his body was giving her.

"An experiment?" He repeated as if saying the word over and over again could take away the weight behind it. "And does this... friend have a name?"

She gave him a look. "Not important. It was harmless."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, and she noticed his smile soften, though there was something guarded in his expression. 

"And... did it teach you everything you needed to know about love?" he asked in a lighter tone, though she could still sense an edge to it.

She laughed softly, trying to shake off the odd feeling between them. 

"It taught me nothing, Alexei. It was just a... God, I hate to call it an 'experiment' again, but that's all it was." She gave a small shrug, then looked at him, hoping to explain herself. "You know how I am—I'm terrified of the idea of giving myself to someone, fully, without knowing what else is out there. I don't even know who I am yet, I'm still trying to figure that out. How am I supposed to know the type of people I like if I don't meet more of them? I think even you can understand that?"

For a moment, he said nothing, only nodding as his gaze drifted off. She couldn't quite make out why he seemed so moody all of a sudden, but assumed he was just unimpressed by her "experiment."

After what felt like an uncomfortably long silence, Alexei finally turned back to her, his face relaxing slightly as if he'd processed the revelation and found the taste a bit less bitter than before.

"I just think... if you really like someone, if you know they're right for you, when you feel like they understand you, see through you, that they make you a better person, you simply stop thinking about other people." He paused, his expression unreadable. "Once you know what you want, everyone else just feels... I don't know, inferior? Not really a word I like to use, but I think you understand."

His words hit her with an unexpected weight, and for a moment, Natalia felt she was missing something important. She gave him a slow nod, her own smile fading as she searched his face, wondering what he wasn't saying. But the intensity in his gaze softened as he looked away, leaving her only to wonder.

Finally, Alexei turned back to her, his face hard to read. 

"It wasn't... Lifar, was it?" he asked, looking faintly appalled.

Natalia's eyes widened, and she let out a horrified laugh. 

"No! I'm not that adventurous!" she said, a bit louder than she'd intended.

However, as her laughter faded, Natalia found herself thinking, almost absentmindedly, that perhaps it wouldn't have been so terrible if it had been Lifar. The thought brought a small, private smile to her lips, one she quickly brushed away—but Alexei seemed to notice the flicker of something on her face, and his frown deepened even more.

In a bid to finally break the awkward tension, she stepped directly in front of him, blocking his path and forcing him to stop and look at her. 

"Alright," she said, folding her arms with a playful grin. "I'll make you a deal: I'll tell you who I kissed if you tell me who you're in love with."

Alexei's eyes went wide, his face flashing with something like alarm. 

"What on earth gave you the idea that I'm in love with someone?" he asked, his tone almost panicked.

"Oh, come on, Alexei." She lifted her brows, clearly unconvinced. "You accused me of being so wise about love, but here you are, talking about it like you're some Greek philosopher. Someone has clearly caught your eye, and I'd like to know who. Tell me that, and I'll let you know about the kiss."

For a moment, he looked utterly appalled, his mouth opening as though he wanted to protest, then snapping shut again. His expression shifted between irritation and unease as he struggled to think of a response. Finally, he shook his head, dropping his gaze as he muttered, 

"I... I don't know where you get these ideas, Natasha."

His voice sounded strained, and Natalia could only watch him, half amused and half bewildered by his sudden discomfort.

Alexei's expression remained tense as he said, "I'm not in love with anyone, Natalia. Honestly."

Natalia gave him a sceptical look, raising an eyebrow. "Well, if we're keeping secrets from each other, then I'm keeping mine too."

Alexei huffed in mild frustration but said nothing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps crunching softly against the frosty ground. Eventually, they wordlessly agreed to turn back toward the house, the quiet between them less tense but still thick like it hadn't been in years.

Just as they neared the house, Natalia caught a glimpse of someone moving through the shadows. She squinted, then stopped in surprise. Walking toward the front door, bundled in a heavy fur coat over a nightgown, was Tata. Her hair was loose, and she seemed to be sneaking back inside, as though trying to avoid notice.

Natalia glanced at Alexei, who had also spotted her and looked equally intrigued. The two exchanged a curious glance, forgetting about their previous tension just as quickly as it had taken hold of them.

As they drew closer, Natalia raised a hand and called out softly, "Tata?"

Tata froze mid-step, her wide eyes darting over to them, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, she just stood there, looking more panicked than Natalia had ever seen her. She clutched her fur coat tightly around herself and looked over at them as if she hoped they were just a fragment of her imagination.

"Tata... are you alright?" Natalia asked, exchanging another glance with Alexei.

Tata seemed to regain her composure slightly, but her voice was still a little shaky as she replied, "I... didn't expect anyone else to be up this late."

Alexei tilted his head, a slight smirk playing on his lips. 

"We could say the same for you."

Tata's cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, and she looked down, clearly uncomfortable. 

"I—just needed some air. It was... stuffy inside. I couldn't sleep."

Natalia gave her a small, reassuring smile, hoping to ease her nerves. 

"You must have been freezing out here. Come on, let's head inside before we all catch cold."

"Yes! Let's!" Tata said all too quickly and in a loud voice that was the exact opposite of the careful, low tone she had been using up until that moment. "It's far too late for anyone to be wandering around out here."

Without giving them time to react, she took Natalia by the hand and turned toward the house with brisk steps almost dragging Natalia along. Alexei hesitated for a moment before following them, his brow furrowed in confusion.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Natalia pulled back slightly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Alexei wasn't close enough to hear. 

"Are we... are we going to talk about this?" she asked in a hushed tone.

"Nope," Tata replied immediately, shaking her head. She didn't look at Natalia, focusing instead on the path ahead. "In fact, I think this is one of those situations where silence is golden. If you and Alexei don't breathe a word about what just happened, then I also won't mention that you two were taking a midnight stroll alone in the garden. Sound like a fair trade?"

Natalia's lips parted as if to argue, but then she sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Fine. But you owe me an explanation later."

Tata glanced sideways at her, her lips curving into a smirk. "Fine. Later."

They hurried through the doors, the warmth of the house washing over them, leaving the chilly garden and its secrets behind.

Chapter Text

Alexei was only staying in Paris for a week before he had to cross the channel to spend Christmas with his family in England. At long last, after six years of exile, King George and the parliament agreed that Russia's political situation was stable enough. So they had allowed his parents, sisters and the rest of their family and suits to establish themselves in England.

They were all living now around Hertfordshire, and Alexei's parents had acquired a great country estate where his mother was establishing a religious community similar to the one her sister, Grand Duchess Elizabeth, was running in Moscow. According to Alexei, Anastasia, who was still blissfully single and had no prospects of marriage on the horizon, was living a quiet and independent life in a small cottage within the estate. Maria, her husband and their now two children (Maria had given birth to another healthy boy in January) were living close by in their own farmhouse. This would be the first time Alexei would visit their new home.

Natalia was more delighted for him than she could express, but his short stay also complicated her plans to take him around Paris quietly and without guards. Tata was helping her with the plan, keeping an eye out on the guards' schedules, which was something she was accustomed to doing back in the Winter Palace, but it didn't take long for them both to conclude that if they wanted to overpass the carefully built wall of security built around Alexei, they would have to befriend the guards and have them turn a blind eye when the moment to escape came.

So, that's what they set out to do. They picked four of the youngest guards responsible for the night watch and shamelessly flirted with them for days on end. They made sure they always walked close by them during their afternoon strolls, they asked about their families and their careers and, by the fourth day, they even started bringing small gifts. Both Natalia and Tata had an endless stock of hand-embroidered handkerchiefs from the time their governesses had forced them to learn how to knit, so it was not difficult to use them in order to make the young men feel special.

They soon discovered that the four of them would be on duty on the evening of Alexei's departure for England, so they fixed the date and worked on the last details. Alexei was perfectly unaware that he was the subject of such a meticulous plan, of course. He was too upright and bound to duty to agree to any of it if he had time to think it over. So, they decided that the best course of action would be for Natalia to wake him up in the middle of the night, convince him to follow her without giving too many details as to where they were going, choose an outfit that would make him look nothing like the Tsar of Russia and pray that the guards wouldn't lose their courage when the time came. Tata would stay behind anyway to make sure none of them would sound the alarm around the house.

The intensity of their efforts in this little scheme made other issues seem insignificant. Natalia consciously ignored her curiosity about Tata's late-night activities while Irina and Feodor, still absorbed in their private world, gave her little reason to intervene, so she had also decided that she would only talk to her sister once Alexei returned to England.

When the night of the escape finally came, Natalia tiptoed to Alexei's room, which, to make things even more complicated, was on the first floor, on the other side of the house, far from the private apartments of the rest of the family. Fortunately, as they were in Paris and it was deemed unnecessary, Alexei had no extra guards protecting the corridor, and even though the room was dangerously close to her father's study, everyone had already gone to bed by the time she arrived.

She tried the door carefully, hoping it wouldn't be locked and sighed with relief when the handle gave in at her gentle movement. Inside, Alexei was fast asleep under the covers. His leg, which had been giving him some trouble lately, was propped up on top of a pile of cushions that looked slightly uncomfortable, but Natalia figured he must be used to it by now. As she watched him for a moment, breathing in slow, peaceful breaths, his face rested and serene, she wondered if what she was about to do could be seen as an attempt to kidnap a head of state, but the notion was so ridiculous that she had to stifle a laugh.

Fearing he might scream, she cautiously pressed a hand over his mouth before she whispered his name into his ear.

Alexei's eyes snapped open, wide and startled. He stared at her in dazed confusion, blinking as if unsure whether he was dreaming. Seeing him so vulnerable, she almost felt a pang of guilt, but there was no turning back now.

"Shh," she whispered, lifting her finger to her lips with a playful glint in her eyes. "It's just me."

He kept staring, his brows knitting as he tried to make sense of what was happening. "Natasha?" he murmured, voice rough with sleep. "What...what are you doing here?"

She leaned in, flashing him an impish grin. "Get dressed quickly and quietly. I'm taking you to a nightclub."

He blinked again, clearly still dazed, and then looked at her as if she was the Ghost of Christmas Future and was about to show him something terrifying about the days to come.

"A nightclub?" he repeated, his voice trailing off. "Are you...are you serious?"

Her grin widened. His complete bafflement was endearing and wildly amusing, but she kept her voice steady. "Yes. And we don't have much time—so come on, get up."

He sat up slowly, eyes darting around the room as though hoping to find some clue confirming he was still asleep. When his gaze returned to her, there was a mix of bewilderment and something else in his eyes, something she couldn't quite place.

"You came here," he said, voice almost pleading, "just to drag me off to...a nightclub?"

"Exactly!" she replied as she moved to his closet to appraise his clothes and find something that wouldn't scream 'I am the Tsar of Russia' to the people they might run into. "Tata and I have everything arranged. But we need to move quickly."

He glanced down at his leg, still propped on the cushions, and she could see him weighing his options. "Are you aware I brought half the imperial guard with me?"

"Oh yeah," Natalia answered casually, selecting the most civilian clothing she could find. "We looked over everything, don't worry. Only Boris, Kostya, Timofey and Grisha are on duty tonight. Put this on."

Alexei caught the shirt and trousers Natalia tossed at him in mid-air. "You know their names?"

Natalia cocked her head and looked at Alexei as if he was a schoolboy who hadn't studied his lesson. "Please, Alexei. I thought you knew us better than that. Of course we know their names, how do you think we're getting out tonight? By climbing the wall? Not with your leg like that, we won't."

He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, clearly trying to make sense of the scheme unfolding before him. For a moment, she thought he might ask her to pinch him awake, but instead, he rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

"Can I just say...this all sounds a little mad?" he asked cautiously, studying her.

She couldn't resist a grin. 

"We're all mad here," she quipped, channelling the Cheshire Cat's mischievous grin. "Now, I'm giving you five minutes to get dressed. I'll be right outside. Don't overthink it. Tata and I have done this nearly every weekend since we arrived. Nothing's ever gone wrong. Trust me."

She slipped out of the room with one last smile, closing the door softly behind her. She didn't have to wait long for Alexei, who appeared before her in the unremarkable outfit she had picked up for him just a few minutes after, although he still didn't look fully convinced that this would be a good idea.

"And are you sure the guards aren't going to stop us?" He asked for the third time as they made their way out of the house.

Natalia scoffed. "Oh, I'm sure. Tata and I were very diligent in our approach."

As arranged, Tata was waiting for them in the garden. Although she wasn't going out, she was dressed as if she was about to arrive at the most luxurious nightclub in town. They were expecting the guards to put on a little fight when they realized who the person they were trying to sneak out of the house was, so Tata was in hand to spend the rest of the night talking and distracting them like only she knew how.

Alexei glanced between them, clearly torn between admiration and exasperation. 

"You two are either the Empire's greatest asset or its worst nightmare," he muttered as they went over the instructions for him to act natural at the gate.

"Always an asset, darling," Tata replied with a wink.

Alexei hesitated a moment longer, studying Natalia with a wary look as if still half-expecting her to reveal this was all a joke. But there was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, too. This was most likely the greatest stunt he had ever pulled in his orderly, duty-bond life, and however much anxiety the final meeting with the guards might excite in him, Natalia did not doubt that he would come to enjoy their little stunt.

Of course, the guards were waiting at the back gate. There were only two since the others were posted at the main gate, but even with the confidence that everything would turn out right, they decided that they shouldn't push their luck by trying to leave through the main entrance. Natalia could feel Alexei fumbling with his cufflinks as they approached, so she gave him a reassuring squeeze.

When the two young men saw movement, they immediately drew their weapons and assumed a ready-to-attack position. However, when they recognized Tata and Natalia, they relaxed slightly, although there was still some hesitation due to Alexei's presence.

"Boris, my dear, I cannot fathom how you can stand this weather," Tata said as she approached the tallest of the two.

In any other setting, Natalia was certain Boris would look menacing. He was fantastically tall, with shoulders like an ox and a bulky composition. He also kept a shaved head and generally made a point of looking like a raving bulldog anytime someone approached him, but, with Tata, as she proudly liked to put it, he looked like a baby bear. In fact, she called him her 'special pet', which made him look so flustered that even his bold head turned red.

"Just doing my job, Miss Mamontova," he replied. There was a faint flush in his cheeks, but still, his posture showed some reluctance. "Isn't this an odd hour for you to be wandering about?"

Tata's smile didn't waver as she glided up to Boris and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Oh, Boris, you're always so formal," she teased. "We just needed a little fresh air. The evening was far too beautiful to waste indoors."

Boris didn't look convinced, his gaze shifting to Alexei with a frown. "And His Majesty... needs fresh air as well?"

Natalia stepped forward with a bright, innocent smile, casually linking her arm with Alexei's. 

"I think Alexei needs the fresh air more than any of us. You boys are always keeping him locked in here. He's been in Paris for a week and hasn't even seen the Eiffel Tower. Isn't that a shame?"

"I didn't find it all that impressive," Kostya, the other smaller guard, commented. "Just a big pile of steel. We have far superior monuments in Petrograd."

Natalia's eye twitched slightly at the degrading comment, but she tried to hide it as best as possible. As someone who had been born in Paris, she saw it as a symbol of home and, yes, those who lived in Paris sometimes commented that it wasn't the most impressive piece of architecture ever built in the History of mankind, but they certainly didn't enjoy it when foreigners pointed that out.

Feeling that Kostya had broached a sensitive topic, it was Tata's time to step forward. She trailed her fingers lightly on Boris' arms as if removing an invisible spec of dust and smiled at him.

"Look, I know you're on duty, and you're not supposed to let His Majesty leave the house under any circumstances," she rolled her eyes as she pronounced the word 'any' as if it were an exaggeration. But can we be practical for a second here? This is the Bois de Bolougne. What's going to happen to him? Getting attacked by a fox?"

Kostya's eyes flickered with a bit of uncertainty, though he kept his stance firm. 

"It's not just foxes we're concerned about, Miss Mamontova," he replied stiffly. "We can't afford to take any risks with His Majesty's safety. And, besides, we have orders and could get into real trouble if we let His Majesty leave without an escort."

Tata flashed a charming smile, lowering her voice to a gentle, almost conspiratorial murmur. "Of course, Kostya, we understand. But surely you can make a little exception, just this once?" Her hand lingered on Boris' sleeve, squeezing just a little tighter. "Look around—the Bois is deserted. What could possibly happen?"

Kostya glanced over at Boris, who still seemed sceptical. Natalia caught Boris's eye and tilted her head with her best smile. "Boris, we're not asking for much," she said softly. "It's a quick stroll to stretch our legs and breathe fresh air." She leaned in, giving him an innocent and persuasive look. "You wouldn't keep us cooped up all night, would you?"

Boris's frown wavered slightly, though he still held his ground.

"And His Majesty?" Kostia asked. "He... he's meant to rest, not wander off into the night."

Natalia patted Alexei's arm as if to reassure them both. "He's been resting for days, Kostya. Look at him—don't you think he could use a little fresh air? I swear, he'll be back before you know it."

Boris hesitated, shifting under Tata's gaze as she tucked a stray piece of lint off his sleeve with delicate fingers.

"And if you're really so concerned, Boris," Tata said in a low, seductive tone, "I'll stay right here and keep you both company. You'll hardly notice they're gone, and if anything should come up, I'll be right here, and you can put all the blame on me." Her tone held just the right mix of flirtation and assurance, and she cast Kostya a quick wink for good measure.

The two guards exchanged a long, uncertain look, but finally, Boris sighed, his resolve beginning to soften. 

"All right," he muttered, though his tone was still gruff. "But not a word of this gets back to anyone, you understand? And you have to be back in an hour."

Natalia's grin was radiant as she squeezed Alexei's arm, nodding her thanks. 

"Not a word, Boris. You're too good to us."

With a knowing smile, Tata stepped back, watching as Alexei and Natalia slipped away into the street. Then she turned back to the guards, lifting a brow. 

"Now, gentlemen, tell me—what's the latest gossip I've missed around here?"

Chapter Text

Alexei had never done many things before that evening. He had never walked down a public street without an escort, called a cab, or set foot anywhere near a nightclub. Natalia felt a bit nervous herself, even though she and Tata had been doing this almost every weekend for the past months. Tata, however, moved with more confidence in these settings. Except for the fact that her mother had married into the Romanov family, Tata had experienced a more typical upbringing than any of them.

She knew how to handle money, navigate shops without the help of servants, and make sense of public transport. Over the past year, she’d taught Natalia these things, but this was the first time she was trying it on her own—and with Alexei in tow, it felt a little daunting. However, she did her best to hide her uncertainty from him.

There was also the constant worry that someone might recognize him. Despite his civilian clothes, his height alone could attract attention, and a closer look would likely reveal his identity, as his face was often in newspapers and on postcards. Still, she found some comfort in the idea that most people wouldn’t expect the Tsar of Russia to be out dancing at a Parisian nightclub. If anyone questioned it, she could brush it off, claiming he was just a distant cousin who happened to look a lot like him.

When she had left the house, Natalia had been bent on the idea of taking him only to the nightclub, but when they stepped foot on the streets of Montmartre, she had a slight change of heart. It was a beautiful evening. A light layer of snow was on the ground, but it was not as cold as it had been over the last few days.

Paris was preparing for Christmas, with all the shops draped in soft, twinkling lights, garlands of evergreen and ribbons lining the lampposts and wreaths hung on doors. The air smelt of cinnamon and freshly baked bread, which the bakeries prepared in advance to sell in the morning. Although it was late, the streets were still filled with people wrapped in scarves and coats who seemed reluctant to trade the cold, magical feeling of the evening for any warm fire.

Looking at Alexei, who was standing next to her, she saw him admiring all this, his eyes darting around wide and his mouth slightly open in awe at the scene. She smiled to herself at the sight of him. It was one of those moments she wished she could take a picture of and cherish it forever. The boy Tsar, now a young man, the richest and one of the most powerful people in the world, who lived in a palace all his life, was left completely stunned and taken aback by some humble Christmas lights the people of the neighbourhood had put together. It felt like something fragile, a snippet in time that could break at any moment.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispered, hoping to hold on to the moment's magic just a little longer.

Alexei snapped out of his reverie, looking down at her with sparkling eyes and a soft smile.

“It might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered back.

“The nightclub doesn’t sound like such a good idea anymore, does it?” she asked playfully.

He chuckled, glancing back at the lights. “Maybe not. I think I’d rather stay here.”

Natalia laughed, linking her arm with his. 

“I love the sentiment, but we’re not staying in one place all night. If you think this is beautiful, wait until you see what the Champs-Élysées and the tower look like at this time of year.”

No further words or explanations were needed. Natalia led Alexei down the cobbled streets of Montmartre as the sounds of fading music and laughter filled the crisp night air. They wandered past small art studios and cafes, most of them closed for the night. The street performers were already packing their things, but there was an accordion player with his dog who, seeing them pass, asked if they would like to listen to a song. Natalia offered him a coin, and he started playing “Silent Night,” filling the street with its gentle, familiar melody. Natalia thought there couldn’t be a more perfect song for the evening.

When she took her eyes off the man and the dog—barking in rhythm with the tune—she found Alexei stretching out his hand toward her.

"This wouldn't be the perfect night in Paris if we didn't dance at least once," he said.

She laughed and accepted the invitation. They moved slowly to the tune, their chests pressing together, gloved hands holding tight to one another. The melody was so soothing, and Alexei's scent and presence were so familiar that she allowed herself to rest her head against his shoulder, humming the lyrics to the song in French. She could feel Alexei's heart beating frantically against his chest in unison with her own.

She found herself quietly thankful to have a friend like Alexei. Someone who had always been there since they were little more than children, someone who, even after a whole year apart and with all the responsibilities he had on his shoulders, still managed, deep down, to be the same kind little boy she had met all those years ago. All the fears about bringing him out and showing him the city had vanished, and now she was only glad that they had managed to get away, that she could offer him a few hours where he could just be himself, far from the pressures of the court.

When the tune ended, Alexei turned to the musician, slipping off one of his silver cufflinks and pressing it into the man's hand. Natalia leaned in, murmuring softly, "Alexei, that's far too generous."

He shook his head. "Not at all. It's a small price for the best performance I've ever seen," he replied with a wink. Then he took her arm, guiding her back onto the street.

As they strolled on, he grinned, "One day, I'll come back here and make him a Count."

Natalia chuckled, glancing up at him. "An excellent idea—for the day you decide things are running a little too smoothly. Hand out titles to street performers and watch your ministers question your sanity."

"Alexei the Mad," he declared in a mock-serious tone, sending them both into a fit of laughter.

They continued walking for a long time, but everything seemed easy and light in each other's company. They moved toward the heart of the city, crossing into the Champs-Élysées, where the scene became even grander. Strings of lights crisscrossed the boulevard, illuminating it like a river of stars flowing toward the Arc de Triomphe. At that time, the avenue was practically deserted, except for scattered groups of friends who were also enjoying the evening and the odd worker returning home after a long day.

After nearly two hours of wandering through the city, they finally reached the Place de la Concorde, where the Champs-Élysées opened up to a view of the Eiffel Tower. Against the dark winter sky, the tower shimmered with thousands of lights, casting a radiant glow over the landscape. Alexei stopped in his tracks, transfixed by the sight.

Natalia squeezed his arm. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

He hesitated, glancing at her with a half-smile.

She raised an eyebrow, catching the look on his face. "What?"

Alexei bit his lip, a semblance of a smile playing on his lips. "I'd rather not say. I saw how you practically murdered poor Kostya with a glare when he dared to criticize it."

Natalia burst into laughter, nudging his shoulder. "Well, let's hear it, then. Maybe you'll live to tell the tale."

He gave a mock sigh, looking back up at the tower. "Fine. It's... a pile of iron. A very tall one, I'll admit. And the lights make it somewhat pretty, but I wouldn't trade Russia for this."

Natalia gasped, feigning outrage, and swatted his arm. "I swear to you, Alexei Nikolaevich, if I'm ever fortunate enough to be in the same room as the President of France—and that shouldn't be too hard, considering he's a friend of my parents— I'm going to tell him word-for-word what you just told me. Let's see how the Entente Cordiale holds up after that!"

Chapter Text

Once their little quarrel about the merits of the Eiffel Tower was resolved, Natalia and Alexei sat on a bench watching the slow rhythm of Paris in the late hours of the night unfolding before them. One of the groups of friends they had seen scattered around the avenue burst into singing drunken carols as they staggered home, weaving their way through the avenue.

After listening to them, a homeless man walking near Natalia and Alexei started humming the same tune with a nostalgic smile. He had lost a leg, most likely during the war, and was limping through the avenue with his crutches and long grey beard. Walking past them, he took off his hat and bid them goodnight. Alexei then rose from his seat and pressed his other cufflink into the man's hand while Natalia took off her earrings and reached towards him. The man thanked them with tears streaming down his face, and then, because it was getting late, they decided it was time to return home.

The walk to Boulogne-sur-Seine was shorter than their earlier trek, but it would still take a good hour. They chose to stroll by the riverside, and Natalia made a point to cross the Pont Alexandre III, eager to show Alexei the bridge named after his grandfather. Yet, as they walked across it, Alexei grew quiet, his gaze lingering on the grand archways and statues. Instead of the enthusiasm she'd hoped for, she noticed a contemplative look in his eyes as though the moment had stirred something deep within him.

"I never knew my grandfather," Alexei said, his voice thoughtful. "He died so young—barely fifty."

Natalia sighed softly, sensing the conversation might turn sombre.

"I know," she replied. "My father says it was a great loss, that things in Russia might have turned very different if he'd lived a bit longer."

Alexei nodded with a wistful smile. "My father says that, too."

They walked silently for a few moments, the sounds of the Seine filling the quiet before Alexei spoke again.

"At least I've heard that he had a peaceful death, which is rare for a Tsar. His father was blown to pieces by a terrorist bomb, as well as his brother. His great-grandfather was murdered in his bedroom by people loyal to his son."

Natalia squeezed Alexei's arm, feeling the conversation was turning too dark.

"I'm well aware of the blood spilt in our family, Alexei. It doesn't feel like the right time to bring it up."

He looked at her and nodded, offering an apologetic smile.

"You're right. I didn't mean to cast a shadow on the evening. I haven't even thanked you for all of this."

Natalia smiled warmly.

"There's no need for that. I don't like when you talk this way, as if your fate is written in the past. It's not. Not in our day. You're going to grow very, very old, Alexei Nikolaevich and I'll be right beside you, prodding you along if I have to," she teased. "Even if it means I'll need a hot iron to chase those dark thoughts away."

Alexei's smile faded, and a shadow passed over his eyes as he lowered his gaze.

"I wish that were true," he murmured.

"What do you mean by that?" Natalia asked.

A sad smile remained on his face as he looked at her.

"I know you'll leave eventually," he said. "I know you don't feel like Russia is your home, but that is fine, I understand. I know you'd jump on the first opportunity to return here for good."

"You are thinking far too much of the past and the future instead of focusing on this moment, Alexei," Natalia said, holding his gaze. "Nothing of that matters now."

He lowered his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Moments like this almost make me want to give it all up. Abdicate, return to my family, and try to live a normal life somewhere. I know it sounds dramatic, maybe even a little superstitious. Perhaps it's something Father Gregory left lingering in my mind, or because I've been close to death so many times, but I can't shake this feeling... that I'm not going to be here for long."

Natalia pressed her finger gently to his lips. "Alexei, don't you dare say—"

But he took her hand and set it aside, looking at her intently. "I have to say it, Natasha. I know you'll understand. I must live fully to experience everything I want before it's too late. And yet here I am, bound to a path already decided, even down to the person I'm supposed to marry. It's suffocating."

Natalia's heart ached for him, and she took his hands. "Alexei, I can't imagine how hard that must be. The weight of it all. But I know you too well. Abdicating might feel like freedom initially, but it wouldn't bring you peace. Ruling is in your blood; it's part of who you are. You were born to it. And I'm not saying this just as a cliché or because everybody says so. I know how fulfilling your duty is important to you, and I know how you long to prove to everyone that your parents have raised you well and that our family is still useful to Russia. Walking away might be liberating, but you'd come to regret it."

He looked down, listening closely.

"My father felt the same way," she continued, her voice gentle. "He had to give up his family and his duty when he married my mother, and though he was happy, he was always restless. A part of him felt unfulfilled; he always had this feeling that he wasn't being useful. Only when he returned to Russia and his responsibilities did he find true happiness again."

Alexei absorbed her words in silence, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

Natalia gave his hands a reassuring squeeze. "You'll find a way, Alexei. You have the strength for this—even if it doesn't always feel that way."

Alexei drew Natalia into an embrace, holding her close as if drawing strength from her presence. They stood together like that for a long time, wrapped in a quiet understanding. Finally, he pulled back, his gaze soft but grateful.

"Thank you," he murmured. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Natalia smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. "Well, luckily, you don't have to find out."

After that, they resumed their walk home. The atmosphere still carried a trace of the heaviness they'd shared, but their old companionship lingered, stronger than any doubts or dark conversations.

By the time they reached Boulogne-sur-Seine, dawn had already broken. Natalia grew nervous as she glanced at the sky, unsure of the exact time. Tata had mentioned that Boris and Kostia finished their shift at four in the morning, but she hadn't shared that detail with Alexei. As they approached the gate, her steps slowed, her mind racing about who might be waiting for them. Her heart sank when she saw the two guards on duty—two of the oldest and most experienced in the regiment, men she had never spoken to before.

"Merde," she muttered under her breath.

Alexei caught the tension in Natalia's face and leaned in.

"What's wrong?"

She let out a frustrated sigh, glancing warily toward the guards.

"Boris and Kostia are gone," she whispered, nodding toward the gate. "From what I've seen over the last few days, those two aren't exactly friendly, and they'll notice we were gone. They'll report it to my father, and we'll be in serious trouble."

Alexei raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"So... did you happen to think of a Plan B?"

Natalia sighed, casting a helpless look at him.

"No, I didn't. It was hard enough to come up with Plan A," she admitted, starting to pace.

She glanced around, wracking her brain for ideas as Alexei watched her. After a moment, he ventured to speak.

"How do you and Tata usually get away on the weekends?"

Natalia stopped pacing and glanced over her shoulder.

"We climb the wall at the corner of the street," she said, pointing towards the spot. "It's a little lower there, and we hold onto an ivy plant to help us over."

Alexei tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Isn't that an option for us now?"

Natalia bit her lip, looking uncertain.

"I don't know, Alexei."

She hesitated before she told him what she really thought. His leg had already been giving him trouble since he had arrived, and although generally, she hated to bring up the issue of his illness and make him feel like it undermined his life in any way, scaling a garden wall was exactly the sort of risk people with haemophilia were told to avoid.

Although she didn't voice her concern, he read her expression perfectly, holding her gaze as he gave a small shrug.

"It's either that, or we stroll right up to the gate and turn ourselves in," he said with an amused determination. "I'm not made of glass, Natasha. If we're careful and manage a graceful landing, I think we'll be just fine."

Natalia still looked doubtful.

"Our landings are rarely what anyone would call graceful," she replied, glancing warily at the wall.

But Alexei shook his head, refusing to back down. "If tonight's about showing me what normal life can be like, then I'm sneaking back into this house like anyone else would."

Natalia sighed with a mixture of frustration and reluctant acceptance. 

"Fine. But you must follow me and do exactly as I do, alright? No shortcuts."

Alexei gave her a nod, the familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes as they made their way toward the corner of the street, where overhanging trees partially hid the wall. The ivy creeping up the stone was thick enough to provide some cover, but it was still challenging.

Natalia crouched down, positioning herself by the base of the wall. She reached for the ivy, her fingers brushing over the rough leaves before securing a firm grip on the tendrils. Slowly, she began to climb, careful not to put too much pressure on any one spot as she pulled herself upward. Her legs were steady against the stone, but her eyes remained vigilant, scanning the surrounding area.

When she finally reached the top, she paused, her feet resting on the narrow ledge of the wall. She glanced down at Alexei,

"Take your time," she called down to him. "And be careful. Go exactly where I went, step for step."

Her warning was barely out before she finally said, "Don't rush. I'm right here."

Alexei nodded, though she could tell he was already itching to prove himself. Standing at the top, she focused on him, waiting for him to follow her lead.

His movements, however, were steady and measured, following Natalia's careful steps with precision. Despite the occasional weight shift or slight adjustment to his balance, he made it to the top without any setbacks. When he finally reached her side, his smile was triumphant, and he looked over at her with a cocky grin.

"See? Nothing to worry about," he said with a chuckle.

Natalia's lips tightened. "Don't get too confident just yet," she replied. "The hardest part is still to come."

She pointed towards a nearby tree with thick branches hanging low enough to reach the top of the wall.

"We've got to go down now," she explained. "We can use the branches to help us, but before we hit the ground, we'll have to take a little jump."

She glanced at Alexei's leg, unable to fight away the worry, though she did her best to mask it. The jump wasn't high, but it would still be risky—especially for him.

"Are you sure you're alright with this?" she asked reluctantly.

"We've come this far, haven't we?" He asked, with shining eyes.

Natalia took a deep breath and nodded, pushing her worries aside for the moment.

"Alright," she said, her voice steady despite her unease.

She reached for the low-hanging branches of the tree, grasping them firmly before carefully lowering herself down. She moved slower than usual, demonstrating the process for Alexei and making sure each motion was measured and deliberate. As she descended, her thoughts were focused on guiding him through every step of the way.

Once she reached the ground, she carefully set her feet down, keeping her balance steady as she glanced up at him. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the slight unsteadiness in Alexei's movements as he released his hold on the wall. It seemed like he might lose his footing for a moment, but he quickly adjusted, grabbing the nearest branch just in time.

"Careful," she whispered, her eyes locked on his movements.

Alexei nodded, though she could see the determination in his eyes. Slowly, he climbed down, each movement a bit more hesitant than the last. His grip on the branch was tight, and his face was a mask of concentration. As he neared the last stretch, something in his posture shifted—a slight misstep or loss of focus—and before she could warn him, he let go of the branch earlier than we should have, dropping to the ground.

There was a sickening thud as he hit the earth, and Natalia's heart lurched in her chest. She rushed forward, but her heart stopped when Alexei didn't immediately move. Instead, he remained sprawled on the ground, his face contorting with a grunt of pain. Panic surged through her body, and for a brief moment, she couldn't breathe.

"Alexei!" she cried. Her hands hovered helplessly for a second before she knelt beside him, her eyes scanning his face and body for any sign of what had gone wrong.

He tried to sit up, pushing himself up with his arms, but his face twisted in agony, and he collapsed back down. His breathing was shallow, and a quiet groan escaped him as he attempted to shift his weight.

"I... I can't—"

His words were strained, his voice tight with pain. He tried again, but it was no use. His leg buckled beneath him, and his eyes flickered with frustration, but the sharp pain had him breathless.

Natalia's heart raced as she moved closer, pressing a hand to his arm.

"Alexei, please—don't try to move." 

Her voice was tight and barely controlled, her panic only slightly masked by the calm tone she was trying to maintain.

She looked at his leg, the way it was angled beneath him. She didn't need to be a doctor to see that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Stay still," she urged, her hands trembling as she tried to assess the damage. "I should've known better. I shouldn't have let you—"

"No, don't—" Alexei cut her off, his voice weak but insistent. "I'm fine... just... it's just the leg. I'll be okay."

But his words didn't match the grimace on his face or the way his body tensed in pain with every movement. He was clearly struggling, and Natalia's stomach twisted with the realization that this was more serious than either of them had anticipated.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. 

"We need to get you inside. You need to rest—"

"No," he interrupted again, though this time there was more reluctance in his tone. "I can't—if someone sees us, they'll know. Just... just help me stand, please."

His request wasn't just for him. She saw the strain in his eyes, the determination to avoid drawing attention, even now. But she wasn't sure he could stand, let alone walk.

"I won't leave you," she said firmly. "Let's get you to the house. We'll figure it out later."

She helped him shift slightly, trying to move him into a better position without making his injury worse, though every movement seemed to send him into new waves of pain. She couldn't help but feel a surge of guilt for allowing this to happen.

But she had to keep calm—for him.

Chapter Text

In a moment, the mood of the evening changed completely. From pure joy and peace to utter despair as Natalia tried to drag Alexei out of the frozen garden and into the house. She had wrapped his arm around her shoulders, bracing him as best as she could, but she felt the burden grow heavier with every step. She was sweating despite the freezing air, and her breath came in short, laboured gasps as she struggled to keep her footing. Her legs were trembling, her muscles threatening to give out beneath her, but there was no choice. She had to keep moving. She couldn't stop. Not now.

Alexei was doing his best, too. With one leg planted on the ground, he dragged the other behind him, gritting his teeth through each painful movement. The effort was too much. His face had gone deathly pale, his eyes glassy with pain, and every strained grunt that escaped him made Natalia's stomach tighten with dread. She could feel the warmth of his body fading, his strength slipping away with each passing moment. She feared he might lose consciousness at any second, and the thought nearly broke her.

She had wanted to scream for help, to call for the guards, but her voice came out thick and muffled. Her lungs burned from the effort, and her throat felt like it was closing in on her. Still, she pushed on, refusing to let him collapse.

The garden seemed endless as she struggled to carry their weight toward the house. She was growing weaker, but the thought of leaving Alexei behind—of letting him fall—was unthinkable. She couldn't afford to stop. Not for a second.

"Come on, Alexei," she whispered through gritted teeth. "We're almost there. Just a little further."

She felt his body lean more heavily against her as his grunts grew more pronounced. His good leg wavered, barely keeping him upright. She could feel his heart pounding erratically against her side, and it only made her panic more.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep this up. They were so close to the door, but it might as well have been miles away. The icy air and the weight of their situation all felt too much. She kept her eyes on the door ahead, focusing on it, willing herself to make it, but she wasn't sure if she could.

She only wanted someone to hear them, see them, and help. She no longer cared if they knew they had been out in the town. It seemed so stupid now that they had done something so risky when they could have faced the guards and a minor punishment for disobeying. She knew the guilt would eat at her soon enough, but for now, she kept those thoughts away, focusing solely on getting to his room.

"Just a little more," she muttered, as if the simple words could somehow make it true. "We're almost there."

She could hardly believe it when they finally reached the door to his room. With what little strength remained in her, she guided him to his bed, easing him down before collapsing onto the floor beside it. Her body screamed in protest, every muscle aching, every bone protesting the strain as she tried to steady her breath, her mind swirling in a haze of panic and confusion.

Alexei needed help. She needed to call someone—his doctor, preferably—but she couldn't stay there, slumped on the floor, waiting for things to fix themselves somehow. His grunts of pain from the bed cut through her, sharpening her focus and spurring her into action. She had no choice but to rise.

He was lying face down, his screams muffled against the pillow, his face slick with sweat, his hair sticking to his skin. Climbing onto the bed, she gently turned him over, but the sight of him made her blood freeze. His face was the colour of the sheets—pale, drained—and the dark circles under his eyes made him look like he hadn't slept in days. Her chest tightened, but she pushed forward, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead and speaking to him in a soft, trembling voice.

"Alexei, I'm here. Please, stay with me," she whispered, but he could hardly respond coherently. His breath was ragged, his eyes unfocused.

"Go to... go to Bodia," he gasped, fighting for air. "He'll understand. He'll know what to do... —just tell him we were walking in the garden, that I tripped and fell. If you tell anyone the truth, they'll never let you near me again... And I just couldn't bear it, Natasha."

Her heart clenched at the desperation in his voice, but she nodded quickly, even though the pain in her chest felt unbearable. She didn't care about the consequences anymore—she would do whatever it took to help him.

***

With every step up the stairs, Natalia questioned where she found the strength to keep going. Her body was exhausted from carrying Alexei, her mind spinning with panic, and her vision blurred by the steady flow of tears. Yet somehow, she reached her brother's room, knocking frantically on his door.

No answer. She knocked again, harder this time, but still nothing. Heart pounding, she tried the handle and found it unlocked. She pushed the door open, only to be met with emptiness. The room was dark and silent—Vladimir was nowhere to be seen. A fresh wave of panic washed over her. Now, in addition to her fear for Alexei, she found herself worried about her brother as well. She stood there for a moment, feeling lost, wondering who else could possibly help.

Then she remembered, with a surge of relief, that her sister Marianne was also staying with them. She had been so focused on Alexei's instructions that she hadn't thought of her immediately, but Marianne was, without a doubt, the perfect person to turn to. She rushed down the hall toward Marianne's room.

With her resilience and free spirit, Marianne was no stranger to crises. She'd been by Dmitri's side during Rasputin's murder and had faced situations that required a cool head and quick thinking. Natalia also knew Marianne was fiercely loyal to her younger sisters and would do anything to protect her from the consequences of what was to come.

She knocked with a little more urgency than she had on Vladimir's door, hoping that the mere frantic sound of it would let her sister know that this was urgent. Unlike what had happened in Vladimir's room, she immediately heard the sound of rustling, and in less than a minute, Marianne was looking at her through sleepy eyes, still dressing her robe as she opened the door. It only took one look at Natalia's face for her slightly annoyed expression to turn into worry.

"What happened?" Marianne asked at once.

It was such a simple question, yet as Natalia tried to answer, her voice broke into a sob. One sob followed another, each one deeper and more consuming, as if the night's events had finally caught up to her all at once. Her legs gave way, and she began to sink, but Marianne, acting on instinct, caught her, pulling her close to keep her from collapsing to the floor.

"Natasha, listen to me," Marianne said firmly, keeping her voice calm yet insistent as she held her sister steady. "You need to tell me what's happened. I can't help if I don't know."

Natalia took a deep breath, but her body shook with each ragged sob. She was struggling to find words when Irina, awakened by the commotion, emerged from her own room. Her face was pale as she took in Natalia's dishevelled, tear-streaked state. Rushing over, she wrapped her arms around Natalia.

"What's wrong? Why are you like this?" Irina asked gently.

Natalia finally managed to let out a shaky breath, and after a moment that felt like an eternity, she whispered one word: "Alexei."

It was enough for both her sisters to spring into action. They gazed at each other for a beat, and then, without asking further questions, Marianne ran down the hallway towards the stairs while Irina clung to Natalia and led her, in small steps, towards her room.

After that, events unfolded faster than Natalia's mind could comprehend. As she walked towards her room, each of the corridor doors opened, revealing Feodor, her parents, and her sister Olga. Then, she heard their frantic steps running in the opposite direction, down the stairs, towards Alexei's room. She protested with Irina and used the last of her strength to ask her to take her back to his room, but her sister refused.

A few moments after she got to her room, she heard the water running in the bath and watched as her sister and a maid helped her out of her clothes and into the water, where they scrubbed the mud and blood out of her skin. She had a nasty cut in her leg, probably from when she dropped to the ground to see how Alexei was after his fall, but she hadn't even noticed. There were also bruises covering her legs and arms from the effort, but she felt no physical pain.

Tata appeared shortly after Natalia got dressed. She looked angry when she entered the room, her eyes wild and filled with rage. It looked as if she was about to scold Natalia for a moment, but her expression softened as soon as she took one look at her. She stopped mid-sentence, took a deep breath and addressed Irina instead.

"Irishka, they need you," Tata said. "The doctor says he needs a blood transfusion as soon as possible, and you're the only one who was compatible..."

A few moments earlier, no one in the room thought it would be possible for Irina to grow more pale than she had been over the course of her stay in Paris, but as soon as Tata's urgent request left her lips, that was exactly what happened. What little colour was left on her lips faded, and she had to sit down on the bed for a moment, taking deep, shallow breaths.

"What's wrong?" Tata asked, slightly annoyed.

No one could blame her. Even Natalia, still dealing with her own guilt and trying to make sense of everything that had happened over the last few hours, looked at Irina expectantly, wondering why she wasn't already rushing out the door.

But Irina remained where she was, as though frozen in place. She took another shaky breath, opened her mouth, and hesitated. Finally, her voice came out, trembling and uncertain.

"I... I don't know if I can. I'll ask, but I'm not sure if it's possible."

Tata's lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled sharply, struggling to keep her tone steady. Her narrowed gaze fixed on Irina, fists clenched, as she fought back the urge to shout.

"Irishka, I understand it's scary—it's a new procedure—but the doctors wouldn't suggest it if it weren't safe. You have to understand that Alexei's life depends on this."

"I'm pregnant, Tata," Irina shouted at last and every single person in the room felt the deep frustration in her words. "That's why."

The room went silent for a long moment while Irina shook and sobbed in her corner of the bed. Tata stood immobilized by the door. Natalia looked at her in disbelief from the other side of the room. 

She was certain she would feel terrible later for her reaction, but right now, Natalia hated that baby. She hated her sister for not even waiting a full year before letting herself give up all her hopes and dreams for a child. But, most of all, she hated her because she was the only person who could have helped Alexei, and now it was clear she wouldn't be able to do it.

"I can ask the doctors," Irina repeated after a while. "I can ask them if I can do it, and if there's even the slightest chance that they can use my blood, I'll do it; I don't mind."

Tata took a deep breath to steady herself and then approached Irina. Without a word, she took her in her arms and let her sob into her shoulder.

"It's alright," Tata said. "I'm sorry I was angry. I'm so happy for you and Feodor."

Watching the scene from outside, Natalia felt no compassion and did not want to hold her sister as Tata did. It seemed to her that they were all wasting their time. She could understand that Irina wasn't grasping the whole situation - she had not seen Alexei, and she didn't know how he was - but if Tata had already been to his room and seen the state he was in, then there was no reason why she should let sentimentality take the best out of her judgement.

Without a word and not even turning around to say anything to her sister, Natalia rushed out of the room and ran downstairs as best as her legs allowed her. The doctors needed to know that they needed to find another solution as quickly as possible.

Chapter Text

It had been only three or four hours since Natalia had knocked on Marianne’s door, but it looked as if the entire city of Paris had been summoned to Alexei's bedroom. The corridor was filled with people she barely knew. Guards, doctors, nurses, and courtiers who had been staying at nearby hotels, ready to intervene in case of this sort of emergency. They all had grave expressions on their faces and murmured amongst each other, but none of them seemed to know what to do. Some paced up and down the hall, drifting from the foyer to the drawing room, while Alexei’s muffled cries of pain echoed faintly down the hallway.

The sound pierced through Natalia’s soul and made her contort with guilt and helplessness. It took her a moment and another deep breath before she summoned the courage to continue walking towards the room, but she did so anyway, trying to ignore the stares and whispers some of the people present were directing at her. She was sure that, by now, they all knew she had been there with him, and the bruises and cuts on her legs and arms did little to dispel the angry attention she was receiving.

The door to the room was opened, and even more people were inside, making the atmosphere heavy and the air impossible to breathe. Around the bed, she found three doctors, including the specialist in blood illnesses they had contacted in Paris. Her father and Vladimir were also there in a corner by the window, but they looked as dazed as everyone else and didn't notice when she walked in.

Alexei was howling in pain, but she tried to ignore it as best as she could for the moment. She would go to him in a moment, but first, she needed to talk to the doctors, so she walked towards the bed with hesitant steps and touched the shoulder of the specialist cautiously. He turned to her with wild eyes, unable to hide his intense emotions. Natalia could only imagine the pressure he was under. It was not every day a single person held the future of an entire Empire in their hand.

“Are you Irina?” He asked her in a brutish manner.

At the sound of Natalia’s voice, her father and Vladimir finally realised she was there. Their heads snapped in her direction, and in an instant, they rushed to her side, urging her to leave the room amid protests and stern words that she barely registered. She ignored them, as well as the specialist’s intimidating stance and tone.

"Irina is pregnant," she announced in a blunt, cold way. "Can she donate blood in that condition?"

It seemed to Natalia that the room went into a deep silence, much like the one that had settled upstairs when her sister had first given the news. It would have been impossible for the room to be entirely quiet because Alexei, in the middle of his overpowering pain, had never stopped screaming, but that was how Natalia remembered it, even years later. She also remembered the astonished expressions on the faces of her father and Vladimir as they heard the news. It was certainly not the best or even the most gracious way of telling them that the family was about to grow, but Natalia was in a deeply practical state of mind and, in order not to break down at the sight of Alexei fading away on his bed, she also had to push away any other feelings or sentimentalities.

The specialist ran a hand through his hair and huffed in frustration.

“No, it’s already too risky as it is. No one can be sure what would happen to both mother and child if we attempted it. We’re going to have to find another way.”

“What is the worst thing that can happen if I give my blood?” Natalia asked.

Instead of answering her directly, the specialist turned to her father.

“Was she a match with the Tsar?”

Her father promptly shook his head.

“No, she was not. My son-in-law Feodor is, but he has tuberculosis, and the specialist from England who ran the tests told us that it would be impossible to use his blood.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Natalia repeated defiantly. “What is the worst thing it could do to him? I don’t care what it does to me.”

The doctor’s eyes flashed, and he replied in a sharp tone. 

"It could kill him," he said. "His immune system might react violently against your blood, and in the worst-case scenario, it could end his life within hours—or even minutes. We don’t know enough about this procedure to predict the outcome."

Natalia’s mouth tightened into a thin line. The specialist had essentially told them that no one in the house could help Alexei. She steeled herself, then forced her gaze towards Alexei for the first time since leaving him hours earlier. His face was hidden, buried in his pillow as his body contorted in unnatural, agonizing spasms. Someone had dressed him in a nightgown, likely to offer comfort, but it was apparent nothing could ease the agony radiating from his swollen leg.

"Natasha, it’s best if you leave," Vladimir whispered. "This isn’t something you should see."

But Natalia barely acknowledged him. With a defiant stare, she shook her head. "I’m not leaving unless you drag me out."

Ignoring the disapproving murmurs and uproar from those around her, Natalia moved past her father, her brother, the doctors—anyone standing in her way. Kneeling by the bed, she took Alexei’s hand in hers, feeling its trembling weight and clammy chill. For a moment, he lifted his head, and though his gaze was distant and fogged with pain, she felt a glimmer of recognition.

"I’m here," she told him firmly, leaning close to ensure he could hear her. "I’m not going anywhere until you get better."

Alexei let out another pained, guttural sound, his cry reverberating through the room. Natalia wanted to scream with him, to let her own helplessness pour out, but she held herself steady. Gently, she brushed a damp lock of hair from his face, keeping her touch light but firm. Slowly, his cries softened, breaking into laboured gasps. His eyes rolled, then closed, and a heavy, still silence finally settled over the room.

A flicker of panic crossed Natalia’s mind—dark, horrible, as she feared for a second that Alexei had died. But his personal doctor quickly came to her side and checked his pulse.

"He’s lost consciousness," he assured her. "It’s better this way. It will help him as the morphine takes effect."

Natalia nodded, feeling her heart thudding hard, her hands trembling as she held Alexei’s. No tears fell; she was determined to be strong. She could at least stay by his side if she could do nothing else.

After some time, the doctor informed her that the morphine was working, and Alexei had finally drifted into sleep, his body beginning to recover from the strain. He warned her, though, that the relief would be temporary. The morphine would eventually wear off, and its effects would diminish over time. Natalia only nodded, unwilling to leave.

As morning wore on, those in the room eventually gave up trying to persuade her to go. They accepted her silent, resolute presence and adjusted around it. Someone brought a chair at some point, and meals quietly appeared beside her, though she felt no hunger.

Tata came and went throughout the day but couldn’t bear to stay long each time. Natalia could feel her friend’s anger beneath her concerned glances, and she understood. She hadn’t kept up with the plan, and if people knew that Tata had been involved in their escape, the consequences to her would be much worse than for Natalia. She also knew that Tata cared for Alexei just as profoundly as Natalia did, although it was hard for her to show her emotions as plainly. Natalia knew the sight of him in this condition was extremely painful for her friend.

The hours ticked by, and by mid-afternoon, Alexei was restless again. He wasn’t screaming as much as he had in the morning, but he was moving from side to side, unable to find a comfortable position. The doctor gave him another morphine shot, but they all knew the benefits wouldn’t last long.

Then, just a few moments after administering the doses, Feodor walked into the room, looking as if he had run from the other side of the house. He was hardly able to speak as he tried to catch his breath.

“Uncle Nicky and Aunt Alix are coming,” he said between gasps. “They’re bringing Anastasia. They can get here tomorrow morning; he just needs to hold on for tonight.”

Chapter Text

The night crawled by. Just as the doctor had warned, the morphine lost a little more of its effect as the hours dragged, one after the other. When the last rays of light filtered through the window, Alexei was already tossing and turning and, at this point, the fourth dose the doctor injected only gave him relief for a couple of hours before he grew restless again.

Natalia had hardly left the room. She felt her own tiredness taking over, her muscles sore from the effort of the night before, her eyelids heavy after spending almost twenty-four hours awake, but she braved through everything. Her small discomforts seemed insignificant compared to the inhuman pain Alexei was experiencing. At times, it almost felt like he recognised her. His eyes became focused enough to linger on her for a moment, but when he tried to speak, no sound came out of his mouth. He was too drained to speak, and Natalia quietly whispered for him to remain still and avoid any unnecessary effort.

As darkness settled over the garden outside, Alexei’s quiet groans of pain began to fill the room again. Around nine that evening, the doctor administered the fifth dose, but its effects were nearly nonexistent this time. His face was pale and damp with perspiration, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper and more pronounced with each passing hour.

Closer to one in the morning, he was screaming as loudly as he had in that morning. Most people had left by that time, and only Natalia, Vladimir, and two of the doctors had remained by Alexei’s side. The specialist had left to prepare for the blood transfusion he would perform between Anastasia and Alexei as soon as she arrived from England, and while they waited, there was nothing they could do to ease Alexei’s pain.

Natalia had given up her seat on the chair and was now lying on the bed next to Alexei, afraid to touch him, should that mean more pain to him. However, she was close enough so that he would know she was there. Again, her decision had come with protests from Vladimir and the doctors, but they soon realized that, although Alexei kept on screaming in pain, he didn’t flinch as much when he felt Natalia by his side.

“It’s possible that her presence relaxes him somehow,” Natalia heard the doctor whisper to Vladimir somewhere in the middle of the night. “We were never sure what techniques the Mad Monk used with him, but the truth was that the Empress felt calmer when he was present, which helped the boy deal with the illness better. Maybe your sister has the same reassuring effect.”

Vladimir heard the doctor intently, and then he nodded slowly, accepting that what he had said made some sense.

"Yes," Vladimir whispered back. "I remember Grand Duchess Olga telling me something along those lines a few years ago."

After that, no one else questioned her presence, and they let her stay by Alexei’s side for the rest of the night. For Natalia, those hours felt like days. Her mind must have gotten used to the screaming at some point because it didn’t sound as bone-chilling as the first time she had walked into the room. When dawn broke, she even dared hold Alexei’s hand, trying to calm him down. She remembered the doctor’s words about how feeling relaxed could help him, so she started to think of funny stories that she whispered into his ear, hoping he could listen through his daze.

“Do you remember when we stole your tutor’s boots in Gatchina?” Natalia whispered. She tried to keep her voice light, but it came out trembling.

Alexei didn’t respond for a moment, and she wondered if he’d even heard her. Then, with great effort, his lips moved. 

“...Boots?” he murmured, barely audible.

She nodded quickly, leaning closer. 

“Yes, when he took them off by the lake. I think it was because it was a hot day, and he thought no one was around, but I was with Tata nearby, and we saw him. I thought I would never get another opportunity to make his life miserable, so I filled them with water and hid them behind a tree. Do you remember?”

His eyelids fluttered weakly, and a faint sound, almost like a sigh, escaped him. It might have been a laugh—or just his laboured breathing—but Natalia took it as a sign to continue.

“He spent hours looking for them, stomping around and yelling. I thought he’d explode when he found them soaking wet,” she said, hoping he could hear the smile in her tone.

A flicker of something passed over Alexei’s face—perhaps amusement or just a faint acknowledgement. His fingers twitched against hers, the slightest motion, but it felt monumental.

“You were so mad at him that day,” she continued, her throat tightening. “And I just couldn’t stand how he constantly yelled at you. Someone had to put him in his place.”

His lips parted, and she leaned closer, barely catching his strained whisper.

“Always... you.”

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard, willing herself to stay composed.

“Always me,” she agreed softly, gently brushing his hair.

He exhaled shakily, and the effort seemed to take everything out of him. But she kept holding his hand, whispering more stories, determined to keep his mind occupied. As if by some miracle, when the first rays of light broke into his room, he fell into an uneasy sleep, possibly brought on by his deep exhaustion.

Natalia must have drifted off, too, because one moment, she was looking into Alexei’s pale face, and the other, someone was pulling her away from him. It took her a moment to situate herself and understand what was happening, but now the room was once again fully lit by the morning light and full of people. She realized that her brother Vladimir had pulled out of bed and was now discreetly carrying her away.

In the quick survey she did of the scene she was leaving behind, Natalia recognized the specialist, who had returned, Alexei’s father, who had taken her place beside the bed, and a hunched little woman dressed in a nun habit, who she only later recognized as the former Empress. In the corridor, she passed Anastasia, who was taking off her snow-covered coat and rushing into the room. She was the last person allowed inside before the door closed, and the sound of a lock turning was enough warning to keep everyone else away.

Still dazed, Natalia looked up to her brother.

“Is he going to be alright?” She asked.

Vladimir tried to smile, although the corners of his mouth barely twitched.

“He’s with his family now, Natasha,” he replied. “You did very well. You were the bravest person in this house, but now we’ve got to leave it up to them, and you’ve got to rest.”

She wanted to argue, to insist on staying, but the exhaustion weighed her down, and she knew that now that Alexei's family had arrived, it was their place to take care of him and not hers. She would have to give them space. And so, she let herself lean into her brother’s steadying embrace, nodding as her eyes drifted shut again.

Chapter Text

Serge

“What illness is this? Hemophilia? What does it mean?"

Anna's voice cut through the room, sharp with anger, drawing Serge and Dmitri's attention from the sofas where they lounged. She sat at her desk, clutching a newspaper, her cheeks flushed as a rare burst of emotion flickered across her face.

Serge and Dmitri blinked at her, slow to react. They’d been indulging in a shared dose of opium Serge had brought with him, a gift from one of his wealthy patrons. Dmitri eagerly joined in, but Anna engrossed in crafting her latest scheme to reach the Tsar, waved off their invitation.

When Anna erupted, Serge and Dmitri were sinking into the haze of post-euphoria after their early boost of energy had been replaced by a languid calm. The drug helped Serge with the constant muscle pains he experienced from the demanding hours of rehearsals and spectacles he had to endure for the Ballet Russes, but he was aware that smoking was bad for his lungs and impacted his breathing, so he was careful with the times he chose to indulge in this small pleasure. His career was far too important for him to waste because of something so insignificant as a couple of hours of oblivion with opium.

The three of them were gathered in the cramped living room of Anna and Dmitri's small apartment in the Vaugirard district. It was a far cry from the luxury they had seen at the Grand Duke’s mansion. The apartment, inherited from their late aunt, was modest and decaying—a space of peeling wallpaper, threadbare furniture, and carpets riddled with holes. The pervasive mould clung to every surface, and the bitter cold seeped through the unheated walls, forcing them to bundle up in layers.

But at least it was theirs. Most Corps des Ballets dancers shared rat-infested rooms around the theatre, and factory workers such as Dmitri could only dream of owning an apartment near the city centre.

But Anna’s outburst shattered their temporary tranquillity, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she demanded an answer.

“I have no idea—never heard of it,” Serge drawled lazily, exhaling the last remnants of smoke.

“Isn’t that the illness the Tsar has?” Dmitri chimed in; his tone was as sluggish as Serge's. “The one only princes get? I remember something about the Mad Tsarina thinking her lover—the Mad Monk—was the only one who could cure it.”

His words ignited Anna’s simmering frustration into something sharper.

“Aren’t you two helpful?” she snapped. “Well, whatever it is, the Tsar is suffering from it—and it’s serious enough that they’ve published a health bulletin in the papers. You know as well as I do they’d never make his condition public unless he was fighting for his life!”

Serge’s mind was still a haze, and he hadn't been participating in the Bolshevik meetings long enough to understand all the subtleties of their plans and ideas, but considering they were trying to bring down the Monarchy and the sole heir to the throne was gravely ill, Serge could not conceive why Anna was so furious. To him, it looked like Providence was getting things done for them.

“Isn't that a good thing for us?” He asked naively.

The glare Anna shot Serge’s way was so fierce it cut through the opium haze clouding his mind. Blinking rapidly, he sat up straighter, instinctively bracing for the scolding he knew was coming.

“We are not ready yet,” Anna said, each word dripping with disdain as if addressing a particularly slow child. “Lenin was the only one who could unify the party, and now he’s an invalid. He probably won’t last another month. When he’s gone, the fight for leadership will begin. Zinoviev isn’t even leading the race. Trotsky and Stalin are the frontrunners, but I don’t believe either is what the party needs.”

She paused, giving Serge a moment to process her words, though her sharp tone implied she doubted he would. Across from him, Dmitri stifled a chuckle at Serge’s expense, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Anna continued, ignoring their antics. “The reason we’re monitoring the Tsar is simple: there will be a long and brutal power struggle within the party. Zinoviev needs to prove he’s the right choice for leadership. And what better way to do that than to show he has the power to bring down the Tsar and spark a constitutional crisis with a snap of his fingers?”

“The Young Tsar was the only reason why the constitutional monarchy has any legitimacy,” Dmitri added quietly, his tone less mocking now. “They had nothing else in their favour. If the former Tsar had abdicated for himself and his son, which he nearly did, the aristocracy, the Church, and even the conservative masses would never have supported Grand Duke Michael as Tsar. Alexei II was the bridge between old and new; he was a child who could please both sides because he was the legitimate and natural heir to the throne, but, at the same time, he could be moulded into a liberal monarch who would allow Russia to modernize itself without losing the important link to the past.”

Anna picked up the thread seamlessly. “If he dies, the monarchy dies with him. The government will collapse soon after. Grand Duke Michael may be a popular regent, but he’ll never be accepted as Emperor. His unequal marriage and controversial reforms have made him too divisive. And don’t even get me started on Grand Duke Kirill. He’s even less popular.”

Serge, undeterred, shrugged and pressed on. “Which brings me back to my point. If he dies on his own, we benefit without lifting a finger.”

Anna buried her face in her hands, her frustration boiling over. “Our hand has got to be in it, Serge!” she snapped. “If the Tsar dies now, while the party is divided and without a leader, it’ll be another wasted opportunity. We need to be united and strong when it happens. Zinoviev must show the party he can topple the regime at will. That’s the point! That’s why we’re doing this!”

Serge leaned back, his mind churning as Anna’s words settled in. For the first time, the fog cleared enough for him to grasp the gravity of their mission. This was about positioning Zinoviev as the revolution's leader, about timing the empire's collapse to coincide with their rise to power. It meant taking someone's life. It was bold, calculated, and ruthless.

He glanced at Dmitri, who was still smirking, though there was a glint of approval in his eyes as if Serge had finally caught on. Then he looked back at Anna, whose piercing gaze bore into him, waiting for any sign that he understood—or, worse, that he didn’t.

Serge sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it,” he said finally. “The goal is not just for the Tsar to die. It’s about how he dies and when. It’s about making sure Zinoviev looks like the one holding the cards when it happens.”

Anna nodded sharply, her frustration giving way to something more like relief. “Exactly,” she said. “If we don’t orchestrate this carefully, we’ll lose control of the narrative. The revolution could fall apart without a united party and a strong leader. That’s why I’m hoping whatever happens in Boulogn-sur-Seine will pass.”

Serge tilted his head, a thoughtful crease forming between his brows.

“So what exactly is this haemophilia?”

Dmitri shrugged, leaning forward slightly.

“It’s something to do with blood, I think. The body can’t stop bleeding, even from the smallest cuts. It’s rare, mostly found in royal families, they say.”

Anna frowned. “Blood that doesn’t stop bleeding? That sounds absurd. How does someone even survive something like that?”

“It’s dangerous,” Dmitri said matter-of-factly. “A bruise or a nosebleed can be deadly…” He gave a dark smile. “It’s serious enough that even a minor injury could spiral out of control.”

Serge’s brow furrowed, his mind racing. “So, if he’s dealing with that… it means he must have hurt himself during his stay here.”

Dmitri shrugged again, uninterested in the details. “Could’ve been anything. But what could possibly injure him if he’s stuck in Boulogne-sur-Seine?”

The question was meant to be rhetorical, but it was enough for Serge to connect the dots between his conversation with Natalia on the evening of her birthday and how she had told him she wanted to show the city to the Tsar. His gaze sharpened as he gave Anna a pointed look that lingered just long enough to make her shift uncomfortably.

“What?” She asked him.

“I warned you,” he said quietly, in a measured but firm tone. “That night, I told you not to underestimate Princess Natalia. You brushed me off and said she was just a sheltered princess playing the rebel. But whatever happened in Boulogne-sur-Seine, I’d bet my last ruble she had a hand in it.”

Anna’s lips tightened, her posture rigid as if bracing herself against his words.

“You’re assuming a lot,” she said coolly, but there was a flicker of unease in her eyes.

“I’m not assuming,” Serge replied, his voice still calm but with an edge of certainty that left no room for argument. “You know as well as I do that she’s clever. Too clever. And she’s loyal to him in ways we’ll never fully understand. If anyone could have outmanoeuvred those guards and gotten the Tsar out, it’s her.”

Dmitri, who had been lounging against the arm of the sofa, raised an eyebrow. “What are you two talking about?”

Serge glanced at Dmitri. “The Grand Duke’s youngest daughter, the one who is studying in a boarding school. Anna here discovered the Tsar is head over heels for her, and I, on my side, discovered she wanted to take the Tsar out of the house, showing around Paris. I told Anna she was clever enough to pull it off, but she didn’t trust me and thought waiting until we were invited in again was best.”

Dmitri straightened slightly, his curiosity piqued. 

“Wait—are you telling me a schoolgirl outwitted Anna and her plans?” He smirked, clearly amused.

Anna’s glare could have cut steel. 

“She’s not just a schoolgirl,” she snapped. “She’s a Romanov in all but name, with all the arrogance and resourcefulness that implies. And she’s not acting alone. Someone helped her—someone had to. A girl like that doesn’t move unnoticed, not in a city like Paris, and certainly not under the watchful eye of the guards.”

Serge shrugged, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. 

“Maybe. Or maybe she’s just smarter than we gave her credit for. Either way, she got him out, didn’t she?”

Anna’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Dmitri leaned back again, his smirk widening. “I’ve got to say, it’s impressive. Outwitting us, outmanoeuvring guards, all while being fawned over by the Tsar. She sounds more dangerous than half the people at our meetings.”

“She’s a liability,” Anna said sharply, cutting through Dmitri’s amusement. “And liabilities need to be dealt with.”

Serge raised an eyebrow, his smile fading. “She’s not a liability. She’s just someone we need by our side. She doesn’t need to know that, of course, but I’m more convinced than ever that she’s the way we must follow to make this work.”

Anna’s eyes narrowed, her tone cutting as she replied, “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Serge. We agreed weeks ago that she’s the easiest path to the Tsar. I didn’t need you to spell it out for me.”

Serge leaned back slightly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying we underestimated her, Anna. That’s all.”

Anna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her glare unwavering. “You’re making her sound clever. I disagree. Sneaking the Tsar of Russia—who, let’s not forget, is suffering from a deadly illness—out into Paris without proper protection isn’t clever. It’s reckless. No, it’s outright stupid. And now the consequences are clear for everyone to see.”

Dmitri chuckled under his breath, earning a sharp look from Anna.

“She’s got a point,” Dmitri said, his smirk lingering. “It doesn’t matter how resourceful she is if the end result is that the Tsar gets himself hurt and causes this mess.”

Serge crossed his arms, his expression hardening slightly.

“Maybe it was reckless, but it also means she’s willing to take risks. Big ones. That’s not something we should ignore.”

Dmitri raised an eyebrow at Serge’s words, his smirk returning.

“For once, he’s got a point, Anna. Risks like that mean that she’s bold. She’s willing to take risks. That could work in our favour.”

Anna rolled her eyes with a sharp huff.

“Fine. If the Tsar manages to survive this fiasco, Serge, you can go ahead with whatever grand plan you’re cooking up to charm Princess Natalia and rope her into helping us.”

Serge tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips as if he were about to make a quip, but Anna cut him off with a sharp gaze. 

“But don’t overdo it. I know how your ego swells when you feel the slightest bit flattered. And I have no doubt her attention would be very flattering.”

Serge’s grin didn’t falter; instead, it turned more knowing.

“I thought that was the plan all along,” he added. “How else did you think I would get close to her? What were you thinking when you asked me if she was gullible?”

Anna squinted at him, clutching the newspaper just a little tighter.

“I just didn’t think you would be so eager to jump into it. It doesn’t feel as if this is a task for you. It almost feels as though you are enjoying the idea.”

Serge laid back down on his sofa, keeping his gaze steady on Anna.

“Careful. You almost sound jealous.”

Anna froze, her composure slipping for a moment before her jaw tightened.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

“Oh, I’m ridiculous now?” Serge replied in a maddeningly calm tone that held a trace of amusement. “I think I hit a nerve.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor as she rose.

“I have better things to do than indulge your ego, Serge,” she said sharply.

Without another glance, she strode toward the door in a rigid posture and brisk movements. Dmitri watched her go, one eyebrow raised in mock surprise then turned to Serge with an amused grin.

“Well,” Dmitri said, leaning back with a chuckle. “That went about as well as expected.”

Serge sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’ll get over it.”

“Maybe,” Dmitri replied, smirking. “But you better hope Natalia doesn’t do too good a job flattering you, or you’ll have more than just Anna’s temper to deal with.”

Serge said nothing, his gaze lingering on the door Anna had just walked through, his smile fading ever so slightly.

Chapter Text

Vladimir

Alexei's recovery was not straightforward. He needed four blood transfusions over the course of two weeks, and his sister Anastasia, stoically and proudly, was happy to provide him with the precious blood he needed. There were some days he looked better and could even sit and talk with those around him, but this could often be followed by another episode on the same day or the day after that would prostrate him again.

However, after two weeks, things began to settle, and Alexei could now sit in bed for most of the day, although he looked like a fraction of himself and spent a lot of time sleeping. He had completely exhausted all of his strength over the dreadful days that had followed his fall.

Nobody knew for certain what had happened except for Alexei and Natalia. But it did seem like they had worked on a general story together, although they had forgotten — or hadn't had time — to brush up on a few details. Both claimed they had been walking in the garden when Alexei tripped and fell. However, Alexei said he stumbled over some tree branches, while Natalia mentioned a garden bench. Their accounts of why they were in the garden at such a late hour also diverged slightly. Alexei explained that his leg had been bothering him, preventing him from sleeping, so he had gone to Natalia's room to invite her for a walk. On the other hand, Natalia said she had been feeling sad about his imminent departure and had visited his room to talk, leading to their decision to take a walk for fresh air.

Whatever the truth, Empress Alexandra made her disapproval of Natalia's presence around Alexei unmistakably clear. The only reason Alexei had not yet been moved to the hotel suite his parents had rented at the Ritz was the doctors' firm advice against it. Vladimir was confident, however, that the moment the doctors deemed Alexei fit for the short drive, he would be whisked away.

Since her arrival, the Empress—no one who came into contact with her dared suggest the title didn't belong to her anymore—had firmly taken over the running of the household, particularly the sick room. Though still happily married to the former Tsar, her role as the founder of a nursing order in England, modelled after her sister’s in Moscow, seemed to elevate her presence. Always dressed in her nun’s habit, there was an undeniable aura of authority and reverence about her, and while her husband was just as present around the house, it was clear to everyone that she was the one in charge.

She spent most of her days in Alexei’s bedroom, questioning the doctors and giving instructions whenever possible. She oversaw the cooking of his meals in the kitchen and made every effort to avoid contact with others in the house. The only person she spoke to was Vladimir’s father. Yet, much like their tense encounter at the Alexander Palace in 1917—when the Empress had ended the conversation by ordering his arrest— Vladimir knew that even his towering father felt a rare sense of intimidation in her presence.

In order to appease the tension following the Empress's stormy arrival and to address the serious consequences of Natalia's actions, Vladimir’s father punished her by sending her back to school to complete the final two weeks of her term. Vladimir tried to remember any other time Natalia had been punished in her life and could not think of any. It was heartbreaking for their father to do so, and Natalia’s vehement protests at being separated from Alexei were so impassioned that many of the servants were moved to tears. Still, Vladimir understood his father’s position.

He loved his sister and would always stand by her, even if he couldn’t openly show it. But she needed to understand that Alexei wasn’t just her friend, someone she could involve in her schemes for fun without considering the consequences. He was the Tsar of Russia, and the recklessness of whatever they had been doing that night could have easily plunged the Empire into a constitutional crisis if not for the advancements in modern medicine.

There had been times over the past year when Vladimir had almost regretted the decision of separating them. Their devotion to each other was touching, but as he looked at the consequences of this short meeting, he changed his mind again. He now understood that Paris was not a safe place for Natalia and that she knew the city too well for comfort, so she would need to return to Russia to be closer to her family. Alexei would need months abroad to recover, so they would spend another long period of time apart, but Vladimir doubted it would be enough.

He was pouring all of these concerns out to Tata as they lay in bed in the annexe of the house, watching the snow falling heavily against the windowpane. They had interrupted their secret meetings after the fatal evening when Alexei had hurt himself after they nearly got caught. Vladimir learnt later that he was the first person Natalia had sought when she managed to bring Alexei inside. If Marianne hadn’t been in the house, he was almost certain Tata would have been the next person Natalia turned to—but she wouldn’t have found her either, as they had both been here, in this very spot, when they heard the commotion.

For days afterward, they were consumed by guilt, barely able to look each other in the eye. Yet one late afternoon, they accidentally crossed paths in the sunroom, and that fleeting encounter was all it took to reignite their secret escapades.

"I understand why your father had to punish her," Tata said, fidgeting with the edge of her blanket. "But sending her back to school feels cruel. He could have punished her by keeping her confined to her room. At least then, she’d still be under the same roof as Alexei. I can’t imagine how much she’s suffering over there. She probably doesn’t even trust our letters. She’ll think we’re softening the truth to spare her feelings."

Vladimir took a deep breath, the sweet scent of Tata’s hair filling his senses, grounding him despite the weight of the situation. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the faint traces of her perfume mingle with the rhythmic crackling of the fire in the adjoining room. The glow of the flames cast soft, flickering shadows across the walls, creating an intimacy that made the outside world feel far away.

“I think the Empress forced his hand on that one,” he whispered, afraid to break the moment's magic. “You know my father—he’s never punished Natasha in her life. But this... this was serious. He had to send her away to keep some peace in the house. And they need to be separated; you know that as well as I do.”

“Even though it was Natasha who saved him,” Tata shot back, her voice taut with restrained anger. 

She shifted slightly, her head resting against his chest as if trying to find a comfortable spot despite the tension in her words. “Even though her presence calmed him and allowed him to make it through the night. But no, we’ve got to tiptoe around and be cruel just so nobody upsets her former Majesty.”

Vladimir smiled faintly at her outburst, a touch of warmth breaking through his solemnity. He kissed the top of her head, his lips brushing her hair. “She was also the one who caused this in the first place, Tata. However much she regretted it, however much she tried to fix it, we couldn’t just pretend it didn’t happen. And she’ll be back for Christmas next week. Maybe Alexei will still be here then, and they can say goodbye.”

Tata sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly as she tucked herself closer to him. 

“It would be so good for him if he fell in love with someone else,” she murmured. “This thing with Natasha is starting to feel like torture for him. He talked to me about it after her party.”

Vladimir turned to her, his curiosity picked. 

“He talks to you about his feelings for Natasha?”

Tata bit her lip as if this was something she didn’t want to reveal but had let slip out in the intimacy of the moment. They had spoken about Natalia and Alexei before when they had nearly been caught by them on the night of the party. Tata had guessed that Vladimir knew about Alexei’s feelings towards Natalia by the sheer panic of his reaction when Tata told him they had been walking alone in the garden.

“Not much,” she admitted softly, her voice almost drowned by the muffled sound of the snowstorm outside. “Only when he’s desperate. He told me when he first realized it—just because I asked him as a joke, and he thought I was being serious. Now, occasionally, he comes to me when he needs to talk about it. He thinks I’m the only person who knows.”

“And what does he say?” Vladimir asked, leaning closer, unable to hide the eagerness in his tone. The idea of hearing Alexei’s unguarded thoughts about Natalia intrigued him—he wanted to understand the depth of his feelings for his sister.

But Tata only shook her head firmly, her expression unreadable in the room's dim light.

“I’m not going to share the private conversations I have with Alexei—or with any of your sisters, for that matter,” she said. “People trust me for a reason.”

Vladimir let out a quiet grunt of frustration, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the headboard. Despite his annoyance, he couldn’t help but admire her unwavering loyalty. He sighed, feeling his frustration melting into reluctant acceptance. 

“Fair enough,” he said. “I suppose that’s one of the reasons I care about you so much. You’d never betray anyone’s trust.”

Tata tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“That’s why you trust me too, isn’t it?”

Vladimir nodded, his gaze lingering on her face. 

“It is,” he admitted. And in that moment, his feelings for her—already deep and conflicted—seemed to solidify even further.

“There is one thing you should do, though,” Tata said, her voice thoughtful as she adjusted the blanket draped over her shoulders. “You’ve got to talk to Irishka about Natasha. They’re still not speaking to each other.”

Vladimir groaned quietly, massaging his temple at the unwelcome news. 

“Is Irishka still upset about Natasha’s reaction to the pregnancy?”

“I’d say that’s the understatement of the year,” Tata replied, offering a faint, sad smile. “Natasha was cruel to her at a moment when Irishka was already so vulnerable. I can understand it—she was under a lot of pressure and focused on saving Alexei—but the truth is that she hasn’t apologized. And knowing Natasha as I do, that’s not something she does easily, if ever. I can’t recall a single time she’s apologized to anyone.”

Vladimir couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. 

“Neither can I, but there’s a first time for everything.”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking, before glancing back at Tata. 

“Do you know how Irishka really feels about all this? I’ve asked her, and she keeps saying she’s fine, that she’s happy. But it doesn’t sound convincing. I think she’s just trying not to worry us.”

Tata hesitated, biting her lip again as though weighing her words. Finally, with a resigned puff of air, she spoke. 

“Of course she’s not alright. She didn’t want a baby so soon. I think she’s still in shock. She probably will be until she gives birth and realizes an actual human being is growing inside her.”

She paused, a wry smile breaking through her reluctance. 

“That’s what happens when you trust men to handle matters of conception. Especially someone like Feodor who needs a servant to tell him where he left his hat. How could anyone expect him to be careful enough to avoid a pregnancy?”

Vladimir watched Tata intently, a mix of amusement and apprehension dancing in his expression. Her words were so pointed, so reflective of their precarious situation, that he almost forgot they had been discussing Irina for a moment.

“Is that what you think of me too?” he asked, his tone deliberately light, though a genuine curiosity flickered in his eyes.

Tata didn’t miss a beat, meeting his gaze with her usual disarming candour. 

“In a way, yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re not as hopeless as Feodor, at least. You’ve got some experience, and you’re just as invested in avoiding the consequences of our... little actions as I am. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you can only truly trust yourself.”

Her words lingered in the air, as sharp as they were honest.

Vladimir chuckled softly, shaking his head. 

“Well, that’s comforting,” he replied, though there was a flicker of unease beneath his humour. “Remind me never to put you in charge of inspiring speeches.”

Tata smirked, her lips curving in that playful, knowing way that always seemed to set him slightly off balance. 

“I’m just being honest, Vladimir,” she said, shrugging lightly. “It’s not cynicism—it’s survival.”

He sighed, torn between admiration for her insight and the uncomfortable truth of her words.

 “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But you make it sound like we’re doomed to repeat everyone else’s mistakes.”

“Not doomed,” Tata said, her tone softening as she reached for his hand. “But we’re not immune either. That’s why I’m careful—and why you should be too.”

Vladimir squeezed her hand, a rare seriousness in his eyes as he studied her. 

“I am careful, Tata. About everything. Especially when it comes to you.”

Her expression faltered for just a moment, a flash of something vulnerable slipping through before her confident demeanour returned. 

“Good,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “Because I don’t take risks unless they’re worth it.”

The grandfather clock in the sitting room chimed, its deep, resonant tones cutting through the quiet, reminding them painfully that their stolen time together was over. Tata let out a soft, reluctant sigh. Turning to Vladimir, she leaned in, pressing a long, tender kiss to his lips, letting her touch linger as if to stretch the fleeting moment.

With a groan, she finally slid out of bed, Vladimir following suit. The room was cold, and neither of them spoke as they moved through the familiar ritual of gathering their scattered clothes. The soft rustling of fabric and the distant crackle of the fire were the only sounds between them.

As Tata wrapped herself in her fur coat, she turned back to Vladimir, her expression steady but her voice softer than usual. 

“Don’t forget to talk to Irishka,” she reminded him, adjusting her gloves. “She listens to you, and she respects your opinion. Try to make her see that Natasha wasn’t herself—that she was overwhelmed and not thinking straight. It doesn’t excuse what she said, but... imagine what she went through with Alexei in that garden.”

Vladimir smiled faintly and stepped closer, pulling her into his arms. His lips brushed hers again, tenderly, and his voice dropped to a murmur. 

“It’s getting harder and harder to let you go.”

Tata rolled her eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though a faint sparkle betrayed her amusement. 

“Come now, Vladimir Pavlovich,” she teased, straightening his lapel with a mock seriousness. “Pull yourself together. We don’t indulge in unnecessary feelings here, do we?”

He chuckled softly, watching her as she slipped through the door, the soft creak of its closing leaving an emptiness in its wake. He lingered there, his gaze fixed on the spot where she had just stood as if the echoes of her presence might somehow convince him to move. But he didn’t—not yet.

The longer they continued this way, the more absurd the secrecy felt. Tonight’s long conversation only magnified that feeling. There were undoubtedly profound differences between them that they couldn't afford to ignore. Tata was impulsive and lively, while Vladimir was thoughtful and introspective to a fault. That might be fun for a while, but could it withstand the ordinary rhythms and challenges of life?

And yet, Tata also understood his family—truly understood them in ways even he sometimes didn’t. She knew the nuances of Natalia’s temper, Irina’s vulnerabilities, and Alexei’s quiet despair. Who else could navigate the intricate labyrinth of his family’s quirks and wounds as effortlessly as she did?

There was also her unique position as Grand Duke Michael’s stepdaughter, a man he truly admired and respected. Though Vladimir despised calculating his personal relationships in such cold, practical terms, he couldn’t ignore the political advantage her position offered. She also seemed to have Alexei's full trust, which was invaluable. It was impossible not to see the doors she could open, even as he hated himself for thinking of it.

But more than that, there was the part of Tata she rarely revealed, the shadowed corners of her life she kept tightly locked away. The vulnerability she inadvertently let slip in quiet moments—her fear of trust, her deep sense of isolation—called to something primal in him. He wanted to break down those walls, offer her the protection she didn’t think she needed, and show her that she wasn’t alone. Yet, every time he tried to reach for that part of her, she would push him back with a cold ease, leaving him both frustrated and wanting more.

He took a deep breath, drumming his fingers against the side of his leg. It was too soon to act on these thoughts. Everything that was happening at the moment was too complicated. Emotions ran high in times like these, clouding judgment and fostering feelings that might not withstand the scrutiny of calmer days.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought crept in, unbidden but persistent. 

Would it really be so bad if Tata were his wife?

Chapter Text

Natalia

“Natalia Paley, you have a visitor.”

The classroom stilled as all eyes turned toward the door. Standing there was Sister Henriette, the headmistress, her small frame dwarfed by the long black habit that swept the floor. Despite her diminutive stature, Sister Henriette carried an undeniable air of authority, accentuated by the oversized glasses that seemed to dominate her pale, angular face. It was rare to see her outside the school's administrative tower, where she ruled with quiet efficiency.

Natalia froze in her seat, momentarily unsure how to respond. In the year she had spent at this school, she had only encountered Sister Henriette a handful of times, usually in the shadowy confines of her office, a room filled with the heavy scent of ink and old books. Those visits had been formal and practical—arranging her travels or addressing minor bureaucratic matters. But seeing the headmistress here, at the threshold of a classroom, was a very rare occurrence.

As Natalia rose and went to the door, she felt a chill creeping up her spine over the dreadful possibility that this might be related to Alexei. Had his condition worsened? Was someone here to take her to his bedside for a final goodbye?

The thought tightened her chest, but she didn’t dare voice her fears. There was a strange comfort in the uncertainty, in the faint hope that the unknown might still hold good news. So, she approached Sister Henriette slowly, measuring every step in order to delay the inevitable for just a few more moments. The headmistress said nothing, keeping her gaze steady but unreadable behind those thick glasses.

She didn’t need to say anything for Natalia to know that she should follow her, and that was exactly what she did, passing through long corridors and feeling that the eyes of the few people they encountered along the way were instantly drawn to the unusual scene of seeing the headmistress walking alongside the mere mortals that inhabited the school.

Natalia felt like her heart was about to burst and that her legs would not be able to carry her once they got to the old woman’s office. She could already feel the tears prickling in her eyes as her mind worked on the terrible scenarios that awaited her behind the door. She found herself wishing Alexei was still alive, or at least if he had indeed passed away, that his death had not been painful.

As the door to the small room opened, Natalia could make out the back of a head unfamiliar to her. It rested on the shoulders of a man much shorter than any in her immediate family, so she allowed herself to take a short breath. She was certain that if something bad had happened, either her father or Vladimir would have come to fetch her.

The man rose when he sensed her presence, turning toward the door. For a long moment, Natalia stared, her mind struggling to process what she saw. It wasn’t just the shock of recognizing him—it was the absurdity of his presence here, in the quiet, austere halls of a Catholic school on the outskirts of Paris. It felt as implausible as if the Pope himself had strolled into the Corps des Pages academy to teach fencing.

He wore civilian clothing, a detail that helped soften the incongruity of the situation. His warm and genuine smile reached his tired eyes, and as they rested on her, Natalia felt a small wave of reassurance. Whatever had brought him here didn’t seem to be bad news—at least, she hoped not.

“Here she is,” Sister Henriette announced in French, as though the silence that had fallen upon the room compelled her to make sure everyone had noticed her arrival.

“Thank you so much for your kindness, Sister,” Tsar Nicholas - or rather, Former Tsar Nicholas - replied, holding the sister’s hand for a moment.

“It’s not something I allow every day. Or every year, for that matter, but you have asked nicely, which was enough for me. You can take my office if you need privacy to talk.”

Tsar Nicholas smiled politely. “Thank you again for the generous offer, but I think a walk would suit us better if that’s possible. Is there perhaps a discreet part of the gardens we could use?”

Sister Henriette tilted her head, considering for a moment. “The south garden is quiet at this time of day,” she said finally. “I will see to it that you are not disturbed.”

“Perfect,” Nicholas replied, his smile deepening as he glanced at Natalia. “Shall we, my dear?”

Natalia nodded silently, still grappling with the sheer improbability of what was happening. As Sister Henriette excused herself, Natalia followed Tsar Nicholas out into the hallway while her mind swirled with questions. As they walked, the only sound between them was that of their footsteps soft against the stone path leading to the south garden. The air was crisp, the faint scent of damp earth wafting toward them as they entered the secluded space. Natalia kept her gaze ahead, unsure how to start the conversation.

It wasn’t until they reached a quiet stretch beneath a tall oak tree that she couldn’t hold herself back any longer. With a trembling voice, she broke the silence.

“How is Alexei?”

Tsar Nicholas stopped walking and turned to face her fully. His expression softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Of course, I forgot you must be worried sick about him. He’s much better,” he said gently. “The worst has passed. The doctors are hopeful he’ll make a full recovery.”

Relief washed over Natalia, and she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and the tight knot of tension in her chest began to loosen. The words seemed almost too good to be true, and she clung to them as though they might dissolve if she thought too hard.

“Really? Are you sure? Did the doctor really say it would be complete?” she repeated.

Tsar Nicholas nodded. “It will take time—months, perhaps more—and there’s a chance he may have a limp for a while, maybe even permanently. But he’ll be alright. He’s stronger than we sometimes give him credit for.”

She looked down at the gravel path beneath their feet, needing a moment to process what she had heard. The possibility of Alexei getting better, of him being able to walk again—even with a limp—felt like a gift she hadn’t dared to hope for. Her hands, which had been clasped tightly in front of her, relaxed as she drew in a steadying breath. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, the edges of her worry began to blur.

“That’s…” She paused, her throat tightening, before glancing up at Tsar Nicholas. “That’s wonderful.”

Tsar Nicholas’s smile warmed further. “Yes, modern medicine truly is a marvel. The times we’ve sat by his bedside, thinking there was no hope, convinced this dreadful illness would claim him. And now, with these new treatments, he’s been saved—twice. It’s nothing short of miraculous.”

Natalia nodded, feeling that the warmth of his words momentarily filled the space that her fears had occupied. But as the initial relief began to wane, a sharp and unrelenting pang of guilt surfaced. She bit the inside of her cheek while her mind replayed the moments that had led to Alexei’s fall and her own inability to stop an accident that could have been so easy to predict.

She wanted to apologize—to tell Alexei’s father that she was sorry and that she had been careless. But as she glanced up at him, his calm, reassuring presence caught the words in her throat. She had not met face to face with his wife, Alexei’s mother, but Tata had told her how furious she had been, to the point that everyone in the house had been afraid to face her. And while it had been Natalia’s father who had punished her by sending her back here, she knew that, in reality, he had done it to please the former Empress, who couldn’t even stand to stay under the same roof as the girl who had put her son’s life at risk.

As she gazed at Alexei’s father, she did not see any trace of anger, only kindness, but she wondered if, deep down, he shared the same feeling of hatred towards her.

“You must be wondering what brought me here,” he said after a while.

Natalia swallowed hard as she considered the possibilities. Was he going to scold her on behalf of his wife? Maybe inform her that she was no longer allowed to be near Alexei? Could he still have the power to send her into exile, even though he was no longer Emperor? The worry of whatever had brought him there made it impossible for her to speak, and so she shook her head, just so he knew she was listening.

“Alexei told me the truth about what happened,” the Tsar said with some hesitation but not with outright disapproval. “What really happened. Your little stroll around Paris and all.”

Natalia felt her stomach tighten as she heard his words. Alexei had told him? Why? They had agreed to keep the part about sneaking out of the house out of their story. If Alexei had confessed everything, then her father surely knew by now as well. The thought made her throat dry. Her father’s punishments weren’t typically severe - they were practically non-existent - but this could change things. He would likely tighten his watch over her, restrict her freedom even further, and she might never escape the suffocating walls of their home again.

Her pulse quickened, and she felt the blood drain from her face. Why had Alexei broken their pact? Had he felt pressured? Or worse, had he blamed her for everything?

Nicholas’s calm voice interrupted her spiralling thoughts.

“You don't need to worry,” he said gently. “Your father doesn’t know, and I have no intention of telling him. What Alexei shared stays between us.”

His words pulled her from the edge of panic. She looked up at him, and his kind expression let her relax for a moment. He wasn’t angry—there was no scorn or judgment in his tone. If anything, he felt more like a protective figure than someone who had come to cause trouble.

“Take a deep breath,” he said gently. “Everything is alright, I promise.”

For a moment, Natalia didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. The words reached her ears, but her mind refused to process them. She had been bracing herself for reprimands, for judgment, for anything but this calm reassurance. Neither his soothing tone nor his understanding expression fit the scenario she had been preparing for.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to him, her brows furrowing as she searched his face. She examined every line, every nuance, looking for the slightest hint of sarcasm or a hidden reproach. But there was none. His steady, kind eyes only reflected sincerity.

“I… I don’t understand,” she finally managed to utter.

Tsar Nicholas nodded as though her confusion was expected, then lowered his gaze briefly before he started to walk again.

“What you did was careless and dangerous,” he said in a firmer but not unkind tone. “It would have been an ill-advised idea for anyone, but especially for someone like Alexei, given who he is—who both of you are. The city is swarming with questionable people who would love nothing more than to harm my son. And on top of that…”

He stopped walking and turned slightly to face her. “You knew about his condition. You understood the risks better than most, yet you still took him out there, knowing the harm that could come to him. You endangered his life… all for a bit of fun, and I need you to fully understand how disastrous this could have been.”

To her surprise, Natalia took the reproach more calmly than his earlier kindness. She had spent the last two weeks tormenting herself with guilt, replaying every decision and consequence. Each word he spoke only confirmed what she already knew—and she nodded with quiet acceptance at every accusation, acknowledging their truth without a hint of defence.

“And yet…” Tsar Nicholas’s voice softened. “I have never seen my son so happy.”

Natalia’s head jerked up, startled. Of all the things she had braced herself to hear, this was not one of them. Tsar Nicholas held her gaze, and his stern expression softened further.

“Even though Alexei has endured four blood transfusions,” he said quietly, “and more pain than any of us could imagine, knowing he has a long and uncertain recovery ahead of him… he told me every detail of your little escape with a smile on his face.”

Natalia’s breath hitched, and she felt her heart tightening in her chest.

“It was the first time I’ve heard him laugh in months,” Nicholas continued. “He described the Christmas lights in Monmatre, the sounds of the city, seeing the Eiffel Tower as if it were the greatest adventure of his life.”

Her guilt deepened at his kindness, but so did her relief. She could picture Alexei’s face alight with joy as he recounted their escapade, even through the haze of pain and exhaustion.

“I won’t pretend I wasn’t furious when I first heard the full story,” Tsar Nicholas admitted. “But when I saw the happiness it brought him, I couldn’t hold on to that anger. You gave him something none of us could—a moment of freedom. A moment to feel like any other boy his age.”

For reasons she couldn’t fully understand, the tears she had held back since the beginning of the conversation began to slide down her face, unchecked and unstoppable. Maybe it was the relief of knowing Alexei was improving or the memory of that magical evening before it had turned to disaster. Perhaps it was the overwhelming kindness in Tsar Nicholas’s words, the unexpected absence of anger or disappointment. Whatever the cause, the tears came freely, and she cried so much she began to feel a creeping sense of embarrassment.

Tsar Nicholas waited patiently until her sobs had subsided to shaky breaths and only then spoke again. 

“He also told me how you carried him inside yourself,” he said gently. “And how you stayed with him through that first night. He wanted me to tell you that he remembers all of it, even if he couldn’t answer at the time.”

Natalia managed a small nod, though her throat was too tight to form any words. Her heart swelled at the thought of Alexei lying there in pain but aware enough to notice her efforts to care for him.

Tsar Nicholas studied her for a moment longer, then gave her a faint, reassuring smile. 

“You may have made a mistake,” he said softly, “but you also showed courage and loyalty when it mattered most. Alexei sees that, and so do I.”

Nicholas waited a moment before speaking again as if what he was about to say was particularly painful.

“When we were forced to leave our son behind,” he started, and Natalia could feel the hurt in his voice as if this was still an open wound in his heart. “It was the most painful moment of my life. It was harder for me to accept that I had to let go of him than it was to let go of my position. If they had torn a limb from my body in cold blood, it wouldn’t have hurt so much, especially considering his illness…”

Natalia nodded. There was nothing else she could do at such a deeply moving moment as the former Tsar of Russia opened his heart to her, with tears pricking in his eyes. She could only imagine how they all had suffered, being torn away from each other for the first time in their lives. She had felt the pain in Alexei at the time, and she had tried her best to soothe it, but she knew it had never disappeared entirely.

“Which is why it is a relief to know that he has such devoted friends as you, your family and Miss Mamontova, who take care of him and are genuinely concerned about his happiness, and not only whether he’s following a political agenda or trying to gain influence. It makes a father’s heart a little less heavy.”

Natalia shook her head, a soft frown creasing her brow. Accepting gratitude for something that felt so natural to her seemed wrong.

“Please, you don’t have to thank us,” she said, meeting his eyes. “We’re not doing anything extraordinary.” 

Her lips curved into a small, sincere smile. “Alexei is so easy to love that we just do. He has his quirks and his moods, but don’t we all? He’s one of us. It doesn’t even cross our minds that we’re doing him any favours.”

Her words were simple but profoundly sincere. For a moment, it felt as though Tsar Nicholas's weight might have lifted just a little.

“Now, as you might have guessed, my wife doesn’t know I’m here,” he said with a hint of wryness in his tone. “She also doesn’t know the full story and doesn’t share my view on your presence around Alexei. Honestly, she doesn’t see it with any enthusiasm at all.”

Natalia blinked, the warmth of his earlier words fading slightly as worry crept back in.

“She doesn't mean it badly,” he tried to explain. “Alexei is her life; she's fiercely protective of him, and it's difficult for her to trust that other people understand his illness, truly understand the risk he's in.”

Natalia nodded slowly.

“I understand,” she replied. “I imagine that finishing the evening with a life-threatening fall didn't do us any special favours.”

With a small, almost conspiratorial smile, Tsar Nicholas continued, “Well, not exactly. In fact, the only reason I could come here at all is because Alexei is about to be moved to our suite at the Ritz, and she’s thoroughly occupied with overseeing the details.”

Natalia processed his words in silence, understanding their implication as quickly as they were spoken. Her chest tightened with a pang of disappointment. She was not returning home until Christmas Eve, just a few days away—but she understood all too clearly what he was saying.

“So I won’t be able to see Alexei before we return to Russia,” she said quietly.

Tsar Nicholas’s smile softened. 

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” he replied gently. “But I wouldn’t want my wife’s disapproval to keep you away from Alexei. That is the most important thing I’ve come here to tell you. We’re not sure how long it will take him to recover this time, but if his last episode is any indication, he might need to spend a few months abroad. If you could write to him every now and then and let him know that you will still be waiting for him once he returns to Russia, I would be very thankful.”

Natalia nodded immediately, without a second of hesitation.

“I would continue writing even if I didn’t have your approval, Your Majesty. No offence.”

The former Tsar chuckled and then started to turn around, heading toward the school building, indicating that their conversation was about to end.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added when the gate to the garden was already visible. “If you ever decide to take a stroll around the city again, I must insist that you take at least a couple of guards with you. I know it’s not ideal, but as you can see, they would have been useful when Alexei had his accident.”

This time, Natalia nodded more slowly. Despite all his kindness, she wasn’t sure Alexei’s father fully understood the reason why they didn’t want to take any guards with them. Having people they were not familiar with, who would track their movements and, more than likely, report them to their parents, took much of the edge from any future adventure they might want to have. Tsar Nicholas, however, must have read Natalia’s face because he added, in a conspiratorial whisper:

“They have all sworn an oath of loyalty to Alexei, you know? If he doesn’t want them to speak, they won’t. But it would ease my mind, and I’m sure your father’s too.”

Natalia felt her lips twitching into a smile despite the lingering weight in her chest. She couldn’t help but remember the first time she had seen the Tsar years ago during the war. Irina and she had gone with their mother to visit their father and Vladimir at the army headquarters. Vladimir had prepared games for them, but the part that stood out most was how people spoke of Tsar Nicholas II. He was treated like a figure out of myth, almost divine, larger than life.

But when she first saw him, she was disappointed. He was much shorter than she’d imagined, with dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders bore the weight of an entire empire. He seemed so human, so far removed from the grandeur everyone else had described.

Yet now, standing in front of her, he appeared freer and happier, even if Alexei's absence was a wound he had clearly not been able to overcome. His warmth, his understanding, and his willingness to comfort her despite everything made it clear that the man before her possessed an empathy that felt truly larger than life.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Natalia said, her voice still rough from crying. “Thank you for coming.”

Tsar Nicholas shook his head, smiling gently. “It was my pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you over the years, so I figured it was about time I met you.”

Natalia smiled, and together, they walked out of the southern garden. The first few snowflakes drifted down, and the sky turned pale. A strong, chilling wind swept through, making them pull their coats tighter around themselves for warmth. The air felt sharp, but the quiet beauty of the snow falling around them made it almost peaceful. It looked as if they would have a white Christmas this year.

Chapter Text

Petrograd, April 1924

Vladimir

“What I’m trying to say is that we are a year away from the coronation, and the Tsar has not set foot in Russia for five months. I don’t know how this is not a clear problem for everyone in this room.”

The sketch Vladimir had been drawing of Grand Duke Kyrill screaming at their faces during a meeting of the Grand Dukes was nearly done. He wasn’t the best judge of his own work, but he felt tempted to admit that he had managed to portray him exactly as he saw him. His raven hair fell messily over one eye from the strain of his shouting, the veins in his neck bulging, droplets of sweat slicking his forehead. As the finishing touch, Vladimir added a few beads of saliva flying from the Duke’s mouth.

Sitting next to him, Grand Duke Michael propped his elbow on the table, his palm resting against his cheek as he glanced over at Vladimir's drawing. His lips twitched at the sight, and he struggled to hide the grin that followed. He quickly turned his mouth away from the others to avoid being caught smirking at Kyrill’s expense.

Most of the Grand Dukes were scattered around the stateroom of the Winter Palace, positioned at the long mahogany table, trying to feign interest as Kyrill ranted on about his and his brother's desire to replace Alexei as Tsar. The first few meetings on the subject had been unsettling, but they were beginning to feel more like routine by now. This fourth session had caused the others to subtly glance out the windows, longing to enjoy the first hints of spring that had begun to creep into the city. Vladimir's father had been so tired of the constant repetition of the subject that, this time, he had asked Vladimir to represent him.

Sitting across from Vladimir, his brother Dmitri was slouched in his chair, his boots casually placed on the table, the chair propped up on just two legs. His eyes were closed, giving the impression he was either asleep or, more likely, deliberately ignoring the meeting. Earlier in the meeting, he had been quietly throwing crumpled paper balls ripped from the thick dossier they had all been handed, aiming them straight at Grand Duke Boris’s forehead. The paper projectiles only stopped when the others threatened to kick Dmitri out of the meeting.

“Kyrill, everyone in this room knows Alexei is recovering from a serious health issue. He’s not lounging on some beach in Cannes by day and carousing at night,” Grand Duke Michael said, unable to hide a weary edge to his voice. “He’s been informed of all government business, managing his university work, and is actively involved in the coronation preparations. You and your brothers are the only ones treating this as some dereliction of duty.”

“You’re speaking as if we’re all insane,” Kyrill shot back. “In what other country does the head of state rule from abroad half the year? This isn’t the age of the divine right of kings. People want to see their monarchs! Look at England! Their King inspects troops every week, the Queen opens a hospital practically every day, and the Prince of Wales is off to the Olympics next month. And what do we have to show?”

“Come now, Kyrill,” Dmitri drawled from his seat at the end of the table, not bothering to open his eyes or adjust his relaxed posture. “Be thankful you aren’t Tsar by the Olympics, or else you might have to watch me win gold in show jumping. Maybe they’d even make you hang the medal around my neck. Wouldn’t that just kill you a little inside?”

A ripple of stifled laughter spread around the table, though the senior Grand Dukes didn’t look particularly amused. Vladimir pressed his hand over his face to muffle his chuckling while several younger members openly smirked. Dmitri’s joke hit closer to home than Kyrill likely cared to admit. Dmitri was indeed training to compete in the Paris Olympics, aiming for gold in the equestrian show jumping category after winning bronze in Stockholm in 1912.

It was no secret within the family that Kyrill harboured a bitter jealousy toward Dmitri—not just for his exceptional skill with horses but for his effortless charm and popularity. Dmitri’s role in Rasputin’s murder had endeared him to many, while his easygoing personality and striking good looks only amplified his appeal. Kyrill, by contrast, had long been seen as dour and out of touch, and his frequent complaints earned him little sympathy even among the Grand Dukes.

The laughter simmered down as Kyrill’s face turned a deeper shade of red. 

“This isn’t a joke, Dmitri,” he snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “We’re discussing the future of the Empire, not your pathetic little stunt for glory.”

“Relax, Kyrill,” Dmitri retorted, finally opening one eye to regard him with mock seriousness. “Your speeches are long enough to count as their own Olympic event. Maybe you’ll win gold for that instead.”

Vladimir bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh again, but the tension in the room was palpable. Grand Duke Michael, tired of the squabbling, cleared his throat. 

“Enough,” he said firmly. “If we're going to indulge in petty rivalries, we'll never leave this room. Let’s move on.”

“Is Alexei not going to attend any of the ceremonies?” Grand Duke Kyrill insisted. “Considering he's staying in Cannes, the journey to Paris is not that strenuous.”

Grand Duke Michael sighed.

“No, Kyrill. He won’t be well enough by then to attend. In fact, he will be in England in May, spending time with his family. Before you launch into another tirade, that journey was planned for December and has been postponed until now. It’s happening whether you like it or not. Besides,” Grand Duke Michael added with a faint smile, “we’ll be well represented. Dmitri is going to compete, and I’m also travelling to Paris for the occasion. It’s a perfect opportunity for you to act as regent for a couple of weeks. How does that sound?”

Kyrill blinked, momentarily speechless. Clearly, he hadn’t expected his cousin to entrust him with such a responsibility. Vladimir, sitting quietly, fought to suppress a grin. He remembered the private conversation he’d had with Grand Duke Michael weeks earlier about this very scenario.

“This will keep him quiet for a while,” Grand Duke Michael had said at the time. “Two weeks won’t be enough time for him to win over the government, but it should give the rest of us a much-needed break. Besides,” he’d added with a smirk, “I imagine they’ll miss me terribly after dealing with Kyrill for a few days.”

Back in the meeting room, Kyrill seemed unsure whether to take the appointment as a compliment or a veiled jab. Eventually, he returned to his seat, his expression torn between triumph and suspicion. But he wasn’t finished yet.

“There’s still the matter of Alexei’s marriage,” Kyrill began again, leaning forward. “Has that been completely abandoned?”

The room fell silent. Even Dmitri lowered his feet from the table, shifting his posture slightly as he opened his eyes and cast a wary glance at Grand Duke Michael.

Michael, already wearied by the day’s proceedings, allowed himself a brief, exasperated sigh. Then, with a faint smirk, he asked, 

“Why? Do you want to suggest your daughter again?”

“Yes, I am,” Kyrill replied, unfazed. “Marie is seventeen now, well-educated, and from impeccable lineage. Marrying her to Alexei would strengthen the family and settle any questions about his position. It’s the most logical solution to ensure unity.”

Grand Duke Michael stared at him, blinking as if trying to process the sheer audacity of the suggestion. Then he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. 

“So, let me get this straight. You think Alexei is unfit to rule,” he said slowly, “unless he marries your daughter. In that case, suddenly, everything is fine, and all of his ‘problems’ disappear. Is that it?”

Kyrill bristled. “This is about the good of the dynasty, not my personal ambition.”

“Of course it is,” Grand Duke Michael replied dryly. “What a coincidence that the solution to Alexei’s supposed failings just happens to be his marrying your daughter. Truly selfless of you, Kyrill.”

At that, Dmitri couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. 

“Where does one go to fill out the paperwork to make you a Blessed Martyr, Kyrill? You know, for your obvious sainthood and all the sacrifices you’re making for the dynasty.”

The younger Grand Dukes and Princes snickered while Kyrill’s face darkened with outrage.

“This is an important matter, and you allow him to mock it!” he snapped, turning to Michael.

“Dmitri,” Michael said sternly, giving his younger cousin a warning look. “That’s enough.”

Dmitri held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin unrepentant.

“Just trying to give credit where it’s due.”

Michael sighed, turning back to Kyrill.

“Alexei’s future marriage is not the priority at the moment, Kyrill. His recovery, his education, and his coronation come first. He’ll marry when he’s ready and have an active role in that decision. It won’t be rushed and won’t be dictated by a ploy to bolster someone else’s ambitions.”

Kyrill’s mouth tightened but wasn’t ready to drop the matter. 

“Perhaps Alexei would feel more inclined to marry if he weren’t surrounded by such dubious company,” he said coldly.

The silence that followed was deafening. Eyes widened, a few brows arched, and the tension in the room thickened. It was clear to everyone exactly what Kyrill meant by his comment or, more exactly, whom it targeted. Tata, Grand Duke Michael’s stepdaughter, as well as Natalia and Irina, Vladimir and Dmitri’s sisters—and in Irina’s case, also the daughter-in-law of Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich. With a single comment, Kyrill had managed to offend nearly everyone present.

Vladimir’s pencil snapped in his hand, though he said nothing, while Dmitri sat up straighter, his expression darkening. Across the table, Grand Duke Alexander raised a disapproving brow but kept his composure. All eyes eventually turned to Grand Duke Michael.

Michael, however, merely rolled his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. 

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer,” he said flatly. “This meeting is adjourned.”

Without another word, Michael stood, scraping his chair against the floor as he pushed it back. The other Grand Dukes also began to rise, some muttering to one another as they left the room. Dmitri lingered just long enough to cast Kyrill a long, withering look before following his brother and cousin out, leaving Kyrill alone to stew in his failed attempt at manipulation.

Chapter Text

Paris, May 1924

Irina

The doctors had advised Irina to remain home, but she had put her foot down on this matter. It was difficult to say with certainty when the baby was due since she wasn’t exactly sure when it had been conceived, but even by the most optimistic calculations, the event was coming near. Feodor was eager that the birth should take place at Ai-Todor, but the very thought of going into labour and spending her confinement there filled Irina with dread.

Yes, Ai-Todor was ideal for a short vacation, and she had loved the place the first times she had been there and even for the first few months when she could still walk around freely and visit other towns in the proximity. But, from the moment her condition prevented her from moving about, the estate quickly began to feel less like a retreat and more like a gilded seaside prison. The feeling was made even more present by the fact that she didn’t know anyone there and spent most of her days alone. Feodor was always busy somewhere in the estate, dealing with the inevitable issues that came from managing such a vast area with so many people under his care, while she, on her end, hadn’t had time to make any friends at University before she had to quit because of her severe sickness.

Her former lady-in-waiting, Maria, had married Rostislav at last, but they had both settled in Petrograd and only visited Ai-Todor in the Spring. Feodor had found her a new Ukrainian girl to occupy the post, but the truth was that there were so few social gatherings that her position was made almost irrelevant. She was also a very nice and kind young girl, but they had so little in common that Irina felt rather awkward in her presence and, after a while, preferred to be alone rather than keep the small talk with her.

The result was that Irina knew all the corners of every house inside the estate. Even the gardens and the beach below held no secrets any more. All that feeling of loneliness, along with the knowledge she had acquired about conception and pregnancy from books she had ordered, especially from Paris — she was determined not to be caught by surprise in that area again — soon led her to the conclusion that the estate was not entirely safe when it came to deliver a child.

Ai-Todor was too isolated. No modern midwife would willingly spend weeks on standby in such a remote location, waiting for the birth. The quality of the water was suspect, and if complications arose, their only hope would be that the village midwife was available and that traditional methods wouldn’t endanger the mother, the child, or both. Armed with her newfound knowledge about the place, it didn’t take Irina long to understand why, out of Grand Duchess Xenia’s seven children, only one had been born there.

Yet, as Irina had come to learn in the year since marrying Feodor, her husband wasn’t exceptionally skilled at seeing things from another’s perspective. He had a deep sentimental attachment to Ai-Todor and a fixed idea of how and where his children's birth should occur. No matter how often Irina argued about travelling to Petrograd for the delivery, Feodor refused to budge. When their discussions became too tense or he felt overwhelmed, he would simply walk away, retreating into long, solitary strolls around the estate.

The first time it happened, Irina was stunned. She came from a family where arguments were rare, mainly because her parents openly communicated their needs and concerns to each other—even in front of their children. Feodor, however, had grown up in a typical royal household, where vast palaces and sprawling estates across Russia and Europe provided plenty of opportunities to avoid confrontation. When his parents didn’t want to argue, they went their separate ways until they were ready to be in the same room again. It certainly explained why they both eventually found lovers yet remained married, even after being separated for nearly a decade.

For Irina, this dynamic was bewildering. She found it deeply upsetting that she could not express her feelings or opinions without her husband turning his back on her and returning hours later as though nothing had happened.

Fortunately, despite being more timid and hesitant than her siblings, Irina had been raised by the same determined parents who had defied their families and the Tsar himself to marry and build a life together. When it became clear that Feodor wouldn’t even listen to what she had to say, Irina decided to take matters into her own hands. She convinced the doctors to agree with her prediction that the baby wouldn’t arrive until early June, though she strongly suspected the actual due date was closer to mid-May.

Then, she found the perfect bait: the Olympics. Feodor loved sports, and her brother Dmitri was competing. With her entire family planning to attend and cheer him on, Irina knew it was the ideal excuse to lure Feodor out of the Crimea.

In the meantime, Irina made arrangements with her father to find a skilled midwife in Paris who could be on standby in case the baby “arrived a little early,” as she cautiously phrased it. Most would have found it unusual for her to turn to him instead of her mother, but Irina knew he was the one person in her family who truly understood the importance of having experienced help for such an occasion. After all, his first wife had died shortly after giving birth to Dmitri.

Additionally, Irina trusted her father’s discretion. Her mother, while loving and supportive, was so thrilled at the thought of her daughter becoming Grand Duchess Xenia’s daughter-in-law that she would have panicked if she discovered Irina was making plans behind Feodor’s back. Irina needed calm, not unnecessary alarm.

The idea of childbirth was already daunting, and Irina felt overwhelmed enough without the added stress of her husband’s inflexibility. If she had to face it, she was determined to do so in the best possible circumstances. Knowing she would be in the capital of one of Europe’s most advanced nations, with excellent healthcare at her fingertips, gave her a much-needed sense of reassurance.

“Are you comfortable?”

Her father’s unexpected question pulled Irina from her thoughts. She was stretched out on the leather chaise longue in his study while he sat at his desk, quietly working through a pile of correspondence. The baby, a restless little creature, had spent most nights somersaulting and kicking, making sleep nearly impossible. Tonight, as she wandered through the house in search of some relief, she had instinctively gravitated to the one place where she always felt safe: her father’s company.

Running her hand over her rounded stomach, she felt a sharp kick and sighed.

“It’s hard to feel entirely comfortable at this stage,” she admitted. “But I feel better here if you don’t mind. Sorry if I’m disturbing your peace.”

Her father shook his head with a small smile. “Natasha almost killing the Tsar of Russia and causing a geo-political catastrophe is disturbing. This is pleasant by comparison.”

Irina laughed softly, but the conversation shifted as her father put down his pen and turned toward her with a more serious expression.

“How are you feeling otherwise? Everything progressing as it should?”

The question carried an undercurrent of concern she had come to recognize. Her father rarely voiced it outright, but Irina knew his fears were rooted in the fact that he had lost his first wife to complications after Dmitri’s birth and had never forgotten the signs he’d missed—the moments when things had seemed off but not alarming enough to act on.

“I’m all right, Papa,” she reassured him gently. “A bit tired, and the baby has a habit of keeping me awake, but the doctors say everything looks normal.”

He nodded but didn’t seem entirely at ease. 

“If you notice anything—anything unusual, no matter how small—I want you to promise you’ll tell me immediately. Sometimes things can turn quickly, and I…” His voice trailed off, and he looked down at his hands. “I’d rather be overly cautious than take any chances.”

Irina smiled at him. “I promise, Papa. You don’t have to worry so much. I’ve been paying close attention, just like you taught me. And I also read all the books you sent.”

Her words seemed to calm him somewhat, though the shadow of his memories lingered. “Good,” he said quietly.

Her father watched her carefully for a moment, then hesitated before speaking again. 

“And… otherwise? Is everything all right?”

Irina tilted her head, puzzled. “What do you mean, Papa?”

He shifted slightly in his chair, choosing his words with care.

“I mean with Feodor. How are things between the two of you?”

She hesitated, her hand resting on her stomach as she considered how to answer. The truth was more complicated than she wanted to admit, even to herself. At times, she felt as though she had leapt into marriage without truly knowing the man she had chosen. Feodor was sweet and attentive in his own way, but he often seemed oblivious to her deeper feelings. He assumed that because he was content, she must be as well. Their new life together, though outwardly idyllic, had left her feeling out of place. How could she explain the strange loneliness she sometimes felt in her marriage? The way Feodor’s happiness, though genuine, failed to quiet the restless doubt that had grown within her?

Still, she was determined not to let her father see her uncertainty.

“Marriage has been… an adjustment,” she began carefully. “I wasn’t expecting to be on the family way so soon, and it’s been challenging at times.” She smoothed her hand over her belly, feeling a faint flutter beneath her palm. “But Feodor is kind and so excited about becoming a father.”

Her father studied her for a long moment, searching for something in her expression.

“That’s good to hear,” he said, although his tone was subdued. “I know how much he cares for you. But if you need anything, Irina, I hope you’ll tell me.”

Irina smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth tugging upward.

“Of course, Papa. You know I would.”

But as her father returned to his correspondence, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of guilt. He had always been her strongest ally, the one she could trust without hesitation, yet she couldn’t bring herself to admit the whole truth.

Chapter Text

Natalia

Although most people saw royals as a thing of the past and they were standing in the very city that had sent their Royal Family and aristocrats to the Guillotine in order to make way for progress, it was also a fact that there was still some allure and even fascination about them. The title of Grand Duke still held some weight within certain circles in Paris, which was probably why Natalia’s father had been able to rent the Hippodrome de Longchamp for Dmitri to practice horse jumping before the Olympics.

The Hippodrome was close enough to their home that they could have walked there if they wished, but only Dmitri had any inclination to do so. Since arriving in Paris, he had spent most of his days at the arena, devoted entirely to his training. Natalia, however, stayed away from it like the plague. While Dmitri’s love for horses was boundless, Natalia had avoided them her entire life—and not without reason.

To Natalia, horses were like oversized, unpredictable machines with an unnerving habit of breathing directly in your face. Their sheer size was intimidating enough, but their moods truly unsettled her. A horse could look serene one moment, only to snort loudly or flick its tail at you in a way that suggested it held some grudge. Then there was the smell—a mix of hay, sweat, and manure that seemed to cling to anyone who dared get close.

Beyond that, the whole culture surrounding them baffled her. Dmitri could talk about breeds and tack for hours in a way that Natalia found incomprehensible. Why spend so much time grooming an animal that would inevitably roll in the mud the second it was left unattended? And the idea of riding one—perching atop a living, breathing creature with a mind of its own—felt more like a gamble than a sport.

So, while Dmitri spent his days leaping hurdles at the Hippodrome, Natalia happily stayed away, preferring the much more refined art of finding the perfect dresses for the parties and receptions surrounding the grand event of the season in Paris.

Still, on that particular day, her father had been adamant that Natalia, Vladimir and their mother should go to the damn place to watch Dmitri’s final practice before the opening ceremony that would take place in two days. Irina, whose stomach was so enormous now she could barely walk two steps without having to sit down, was able to get away. It was possibly the only good thing that had resulted from her pregnancy.

None of them was particularly excited at the prospect of getting their feet dirty with that delightful mixture of mure and manure, but they also couldn’t avoid it forever, so, with reluctant sighs and tightly buttoned shoes, off they went.

The air in the Hippodrome smelled of leather and damp hay, mingled with that unmistakable barnyard aroma that no amount of distance or holding one’s breath could escape. The arena itself was full of obstacles—painted poles and tall hedges arranged in neat rows—like an elaborate playground for horses and the brave (or foolish) people who rode them.

Natalia perched on the edge of her seat, trying to make sense of what was unfolding before her. The horses thundered across the arena as their hooves pounded against the dirt. The riders leaned forward, shouting commands in a language that seemed only partially human. It was all very energetic and chaotic, and Natalia couldn’t quite decide whether she found it impressive or maddening.

Then there was Dmitri. Her brother was in his element, seated tall and graceful on his horse, navigating the course with an effortless precision that even Natalia couldn’t ignore. He looked fluid and commanding as he soared over the jumps like he wasn’t riding an unpredictable beast but rather pulling the strings on an extension of himself. As someone who could not even stand near a horse without feeling her stomach turning, she did find it somewhat impressive and clapped enthusiastically as he jumped over each obstacle.

It was always an interesting experience to watch someone excel at what they did, whether it was a sport, a painting, or a dance. Natalia couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact reason, but there was something almost transcendent about it. She decided it gave the artist—or athlete—a certain… aura. It elevated them just a touch above the rest of the mortals who muddled through life with no particular skill or talent to distinguish them.

Absentmindedly, she thought of Serge Lifar and the first time she had seen him dance. That memory had never entirely lost its hold on her—the way he had moved across the stage, as if gravity bent itself around him.

Inevitably, she found herself wondering if they might cross paths again during this trip. The thought sent a warm, pleasant sensation blooming in her chest, and she resisted the urge to glance around as if he might appear at any moment. Yes, it would be nice to see him again.

She had tried to push the memory of their dance aside after everything that had happened with Alexei and the long punishment she’d endured as a result. Five months of strict confinement back in Russia—no balls, no parties, no social gatherings unless her parents were there to keep an eye on her. It had been maddening. And yet, even then, the memory of Serge’s hand on hers and the way they’d moved together lingered in her mind's quiet corners.

Once the practice was over, Natalia and the rest of the family made their way over to the stables - the place she dreaded the most out of their little excursion. Just the smell was enough to make her want to scream. Dmitri, however, seemed to thrive in this environment, and his grin widened as he led his horse toward her. Natalia froze, already suspicious of the mischievous glint in his eye. He knew full well how much she despised these creatures, and Dmitri, being Dmitri, simply couldn’t resist turning the moment into a bit of fun—at her expense.

“Come on, Natasha,” he said cheerfully, stopping just a step too close for her comfort. “He’s perfectly harmless. Aren’t you, boy?” 

He gave the horse an affectionate pat, which it returned by snorting loudly and shaking its massive head, sending bits of slobber flying through the air.

Natalia shrieked and jumped back, her hands flying to her face in horror. Dmitri, thoroughly enjoying himself, only laughed.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” he teased. “He’s saying hello. Watch this.” 

He leaned toward the horse and whispered something conspiratorial into its ear. To Natalia’s dismay, the beast responded by lifting one hoof and stomping it onto the ground with a loud thud as if offering a formal bow.

“See? A gentleman!” Dmitri declared.

Natalia glared at him. 

“If that’s your idea of a gentleman, Dmitri, it explains so much about your social life.”

Undeterred, Dmitri chuckled and took it a step further, encouraging the horse to stretch its neck toward her. The massive creature sniffed audibly, blowing a puff of warm, earthy breath directly at her face.

“That’s it—I’m leaving!” Natalia declared, retreating with as much dignity as one could muster while fleeing a stable.

However, before she could go too far, Vladimir gently grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to stay, reminding her with a glare that the whole reason why they were in Paris at all was to support their brother. So, with a sigh, she stuck close to him and far from Dmitri to avoid more uncomfortable encounters with horses.

The conversation soon turned to lighter topics, mainly the preparations for the opening ceremony. They debated everything, from the schedule to the best vantage points for viewing the athletes' parade. Each family member offered opinions while Dmitri listened with half an ear, clearly more preoccupied with his next grand idea.

“Do you know who’s in town as well?” Dmitri asked their father. “Cousin Missy and Carol.”

The revelation made both Vladimir and Natalia lift their eyes towards Dmitri, albeit for different reasons. Natalia knew that her brother Vladimir had a very firm dislike towards Carol, so she assumed it was not because of him that he was interested, but instead for his wife. However, Natalia knew Olga wasn’t coming, as she was in England with Alexei, enjoying the family holidays that had to be postponed due to his fall. This, in turn, left Natalia wondering if they would bring any other member of the family to replace her. She quietly hoped Carol’s brother, Nicholas, was inside a boat as far away from Paris as possible.

Their kiss had been awfully tempting when they were tucked away in an alleyway in Montmartre, and he had those big, irresistible eyes staring directly at her, but as the months went by, Natalia started to understand more clearly why that sort of thing should only be done with complete strangers if one has no intention of being serious about any future relationship. The idea of bumping into Nicholas at a family gathering with the knowledge that they had shared that level of intimacy was more of a frightening and slightly embarrassing prospect now.

“Really?” Their father asked, genuinely interested, as Missy was one of his favourite nieces. “Do you think they would be able to come to the reception at the Ritz? It’s been so long since I last saw her, and she was so good to us when she got Natalia’s place at school.”

Dmitri shrugged. “I can ask her; I’m sure she’s also looking forward to seeing you.”

Their father’s smile was as big as Vladimir and Natalia’s eye roll.

Chapter Text

4 May 1924

The evening of the opening ceremony arrived, and despite the fact that she didn't particularly enjoy watching or playing sports, it was impossible for Natalia not to feel the contagious energy around the city. Every street had been decorated with flags from all the nations participating, and dancing and singing were performed well into the late hours of the evening. Their neighbours at Boulogne had even insisted on throwing a street party in honour of her brother Dmitri, for which they closed the street and laid a great table. It was supposed to last only for lunch, but everyone was having such a good time that it lasted until well past dinner time.

While the street party had been a warm and friendly show of neighbouring support, the opening ceremony showed the real scale of what Dmitri was going to be a part of. When Natalia arrived at the stadium, accompanied by her parents, Vladimir and Feodor, the atmosphere was as expectant as it was chaotic while everyone settled into their seats. There was the hum of hundreds of different conversations across the stands, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional call from vendors weaving through the aisles. Flags of every imaginable colour fluttered in the evening breeze, held high by enthusiastic spectators dressed in their nation’s colours.

Natalia made their way to the special tribune, reserved for the most distinguished guests of the ceremony, and took a seat next to Vladimir, who was given the task of distracting Feodor for the length of the ceremony. Her brother-in-law was feeling uneasy about leaving Irina behind for the first time since they arrived in Paris, especially because she was feeling exhausted and uncomfortable when they left the house, but Dmitri had promised that the opening ceremony was the was event - other than his own participation - that they really couldn’t miss, and so now here they all were.

From where she was sitting, Natalia got a glimpse of the Prince of Wales, possibly the most anticipated guest of all. Five years after Queen Marie left Paris at her feet during the Versailles Peace Conference, it was the future King of England whom everyone wanted to see and talk to. Natalia found him rather short, but he was undeniably handsome, and something about his presence and charisma was indeed magnetic.

Just a few minutes after Natalia and her family settled in, she spotted Grand Duke Michael arriving arm-in-arm with his wife while George and Tata followed along. Although Natalia didn’t find Tata’s mother particularly enjoyable as a person - and even held somewhat of a grunge over way because of the dismissive way she treated Tata - she had to admit that she was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women she had ever seen. With her emerald eyes and perfectly symmetrical face, she had the power to make every head turn in her direction.

Tata’s brother, George, was now almost fifteen and looked every bit like the awkward teenager that he was. His posture was still very slumped, and his face was stuck in the phase where it was trying its very hardest to develop a jawline but was reluctant about letting go of his round baby cheeks. To make matters worse, he was trying to grow a pencil moustache, and the attempt left his upper lip looking as if someone was trying to install a ragged carpet and forgot to finish the job halfway through it. Still, even if his grooming choices were questionable, there was no doubt that he was the spitting image of his father, and everyone around him hoped that he would eventually turn out as dashing as the Grand Duke.

He also happened to be in that insufferable stage where he thought he already knew everything about life and wouldn’t take advice on anything. Tata often complained to Natalia that the fact that he had always been spoiled rotten by both of his parents wasn’t helping her deal with him, and life at the Winter Palace was becoming a living hell.

Once Tata arrived at her side, Natalia held her for a moment and then forced Vladimir to switch seats so she could sit next to her friend.

“How’s Irishka?” Tata asked as soon as she was settled.

“Enormous,” Natalia replied. “The little creature has been keeping her up at night, and she was tired and uncomfortable all day. The other day, she could only stay at the street party for a couple of hours before she had to lie down.”

“You know you should probably stop calling the baby a creature at some point?” Tata asked, somewhere between amusement and concern.

Natalia sighed.

“Must I? Really small babies look like very strange little things to me. All red and wrinkled and unaware of their body functions. I can’t bring myself to appreciate them until they can stand and communicate.”

Tata chuckled and then glanced in the direction of her brother George.

“From what I’ve seen, teenagers can be a lot worse than infants, so we might as well refrain from having children altogether.”

“Sounds ideal to me,” Natalia laughed back.

After a moment, Natalia gestured subtly toward the Prince of Wales.

“Have you seen him? The Prince of Wales is just over there.”

Tata’s eyes lit up, and she turned to look.

“Oh, he is dashing,” she whispered, grinning. “I bet he’d be fun to dance with—not boring in the least.”

Natalia nodded.

“He has that lively look, doesn’t he? I imagine he could keep a conversation going for hours.”

Tata smirked mischievously.

“He looks like someone who hasn’t opened a book in his life, but honestly, that’s fine by me. I bet he knows every bit of gossip everywhere he goes.”

“Darling, he is the gossip.”

As the two giggled, Natalia caught Vladimir glancing briefly in the Prince’s direction. His expression darkened into a subtle frown before he returned to his conversation with Feodor. Unbothered, Natalia and Tata continued scanning the crowd for other potential sources of amusement, commenting on the various princes and noblemen they spotted.

“Oh, Prince Leopold of Belgium, I would definitely like to meet you,” Natalia commented when she spotted him walking near them. "Too bad he is a Catholic.”

“I’ve heard that Catholics tend to be more faithful, you know?” Tata countered. “The guilt of the sin and all that. You’ve already spent your childhood in a Catholic country. How different can it be?”

“I think the difference between Paris and Brussels is enough to make my stomach turn,” Natalia replied. “If your capital city is associated with the most revolting vegetable ever invented, then you have a serious problem in hand.”

“Wouldn’t you eat a few sprouts just to wake up to those eyes every day?” Tata teased.

Vladimir cleared his throat, and when Natalia glanced in his direction, she saw him frowning at them.

“I wonder,” he began dryly, “if you two have considered that not every prince in Europe needs to be dissected like his unfortunate subject of an anatomy class.”

Natalia arched an eyebrow.

“Why does that bother you? What’s the harm in a little admiration from afar? It’s not like we’re saying this to their faces.”

Tata, however, seemed to falter for a split second before recovering with a sly smile.

“We’re just appreciating the finer things in life.”

Vladimir’s expression remained impassive, though there was a tension in his posture that Natalia couldn’t quite decipher.

“Admiration is one thing,” he said evenly, “but reducing someone to their eyes or… vegetable metaphors seems a bit beneath you both.”

Tata gave a light laugh, waving a hand dismissively.

“You’re right, Vladimir. Next time, we'll focus on discussing their literary preferences and political inclinations.”

"Yes," Natalia joined. "We'll try to discover if they like Proust just by looking at their faces."

Vladimir didn’t answer that. Instead, he turned to the field with the scowl of someone who was in a mood. Natalia tilted her head, watching her brother with mild curiosity.

“You’re awfully serious about this. Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly decided to champion the honour of Europe’s eligible royals?”

His eyes briefly met Tata’s before he turned back to Natalia.

“Just trying to keep the conversation respectable. Someone has to.”

Tata shifted in her seat, her playful demeanour softening. 

“Don’t worry, Vladimir. I promise to behave until the next handsome prince comes along.” Natalia said.

The comment earned her a sharp glance from Vladimir, though he said nothing, turning back to his conversation with Feodor. Natalia shrugged, amused but puzzled by his reaction, before leaning closer to Tata.

The cheerful hum of the crowd continued as Natalia and Tata settled back into their seats, moving their conversation on to other minor amusements. The noise of the stadium was so all-encompassing that, at first, they barely noticed the man weaving urgently through the stands, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

It wasn’t until he drew closer, in hurried movements and a face flushed with exertion, that Natalia glanced up.

“What on earth—” she started, but the man was already closing in on Feodor.

“Feodor,” Vladimir said sharply, nudging his brother-in-law.

The man finally stopped before them, panting and red-faced as he extended the paper. His voice was rushed but clear. 

“It’s the Princess,” he managed. “She’s gone into labour.”

Feodor stared at him for a moment in disbelief and panic, not making a single movement.

“What? But it’s too soon—she wasn’t supposed to—” He faltered, clutching the note as though it might offer some clarification.

“Feodor,” Natalia interjected, stepping closer and placing a hand on his arm. “You need to go. Now.”

Vladimir, joining his sister, took a step forward.

“Come on,” he said firmly, steering Feodor toward the aisle. “We’ll help you get to her.”

Feodor blinked as if jolted from a daze.

“Yes, of course. I—” He turned back to the messenger. “How is she? Where is she?”

“She’s at the house,” the man replied quickly. “The midwife’s with her. But they said you should come immediately.”

“That means you've got to move, Feodor”, Natalia said with a gentle urgency, taking Feodor by the arm and urging him along.

As they began making their way out of the tribune, Natalia turned to Tata and pulled her into a quick but tight embrace.

“I’ll let you know how she’s doing,” she promised.

Tata nodded, now looking quite serious.

“Please do. And tell her I’m thinking of her.”

They hurried down the steps as fast as they could, feeling the weight of the crowd's gaze on them. Some people paused to ask if something was wrong, but their expressions brightened when they learned the reason for the rush. Natalia thought briefly to herself that there was nothing to be relieved or happy about, as having a baby was certainly not an easy thing for Irina—who would face considerable pain—but she thought it best to keep her thoughts to herself, especially since Feodor’s pale face showed just how much he was worried about what was to come. He didn’t need any reminders about the suffering his wife was going through.

They had almost made it out of the stadium when they suddenly found themselves face-to-face with three familiar figures. Queen Marie and her sons Carol and Nicholas had just gotten out of their car, admiring the building in front of them. But as soon as they saw the hurried group, all three of them lowered their gazes.

“Uncle Pasha?” Queen Marie called. “Is everything alright?”

Natalia’s father paused for a moment, caught between worry and politeness, before turning to greet his niece.

“Yes, Missy, I'm sorry for the rush,” her father explained quickly. “My Irishka is in labour at this moment. We need to get Feodor to her before he faints.”

Queen Marie’s face lit up with surprise and an amused smile. “On such a day, no less! What a delightful coincidence—this little one will have quite the story to tell. Give Irina my best—and my prayers.”

Maybe it was the adrenaline of the moment. Natalia was so focused on getting to Irina’s side and making sure she was alright that everything else faded into the background, including the fact that she was seeing Nicholas for the first time since they had kissed. The memory simply didn’t belong in that context where her parents were present, and her sister was just about to have a baby. Nicholas belonged in a dim bar in Montmartre, telling her the most outrageous things under his breath or in a corner looking intently at her with those crystal clear eyes.

Either way, she didn’t have time to acknowledge his presence or what it would mean when they inevitably met again. Maybe he didn’t even remember what had happened. They had both been half drunk, and Natalia hadn’t even been the only girl he had kissed that evening, let alone over the last five months. She brushed off the thought, raising a general wave toward his family as she hurried past them, unwilling to slow down.

But just as she turned her head, her eyes caught the faintest movement—the corners of Nicholas’s mouth curling into a devilish smile. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to make one thing clear: he hadn’t forgotten.

Chapter Text

Irina

It was difficult for Irina to explain. Maybe it was because she was still under the effect of the chloroform or the fact that she had endured the most excruciating pain in her life, and she was still trying to make sense of it, wondering if she would ever feel the same again after this. She couldn’t explain why she didn’t feel happy, why she couldn’t stop the tears from running down her face.

Thankfully, everyone around her mistook them for tears of joy, which spared her the awkwardness of admitting that she felt utterly hollow. How had women endured this for centuries and still described it as fulfilling? Despite all the preparation and help around her, Irina now understood with brutal clarity that there was nothing graceful or uplifting about labour—at least not for her. It had been harsh, raw, and unrelenting. The only comfort she could cling to was that it had happened here, in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by her family. She shuddered to imagine how terrifying it would have been at Ai-Todor, far from everything familiar.

“You did so well, my love. I’m so proud of you.”

Feodor’s voice reached her as though from a distance. He knelt beside her, holding her hand and gently stroking her damp hair. Her breath was still uneven, her heart pounding, but his presence brought her back to reality, even if she couldn’t help but resent him a little. After all, he had played his part in bringing her to this moment. And why was he proud? She hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Once she had a baby inside her, what choice had she but to endure this? She had simply let her body do what it was built to do.

“It’s a boy!” The midwife announced proudly from somewhere within the room.

Feodor immediately let go of her hand and went over to her to hold the small bundle that had been taken from Irina to be washed and clothed. She felt someone holding her other hand, and when she looked up, she found Natalia. The look her sister gave her let her know that she understood. Natalia didn’t offer platitudes or force smiles. Instead, her expression told Irina she understood—her pain, her tears, and the weight of it all. She understood that her tears were not happiness and that her pain was real. It was such a simple gesture, but it was enough for Irina to take a deep breath and, in that single moment, forget about all the differences and resentments that had been keeping them apart since Natalia had been so brutal about her pregnancy.

“Would you like to hold him?” Feodor asked next to her.

Irina looked up at the small bundle her husband was holding. He was doing it with such natural confidence that Irina couldn’t help but admire him despite it all. Because he had so many younger brothers, Feodor was probably more skilled at dealing with small babies than she was. She hesitated, wondering if she would know how to hold the baby properly, but Feodor didn’t wait for an answer and placed him in her arms.

The people gathered in the room were describing the baby's size and strength, saying that he already looked more like a three-month-old than a newborn. However, to Irina, he looked like the smallest, most fragile creature she had ever held in her arms. He had a mass of blond curls, and his eyes were closed, but he opened them as soon as he was placed in her lap. They were gray, like Feodor’s, but the nurse said the colour often changed.

Irina looked at him as if he were a stranger, but the baby returned her gaze with the calm and wisdom of someone who knew exactly who she was. Slowly, faintly, something warmer than the fear and exhaustion of labour began to rise within her. Then, the baby started to cry—a very low grunt, but still enough to make Irina wonder if she had done something wrong.

“No, not at all,” the midwife was telling her. “It seems that this big boy is hungry. Are you going to feed him yourself, or should I call the wet nurse?”

They had hired a wet nurse months in advance. She was a very competent woman who had been recommended by Feodor’s sister and who had travelled with them from the Crimea to Paris, just in case. The midwife had informed her that she was in the next room and that she could call her, but Irina found herself shaking her head.

“I think... I think I’d like to try and do it myself,” she muttered, not entirely sure of what she was supposed to do.

She could feel Feodor tensing slightly next to her. They had agreed beforehand that they would have a wet nurse, but now Irina simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wasn’t ready for this; she was terrified about making any wrong move that might hurt the baby, but this was her son. It still felt strange to even think about it, but it was true. This was her son, and she decided at that moment that nothing would be better for him than having his mother feed him.

“Alright, then,” the midwife said as if it were no big deal. I want everyone but the father to leave the room.”

She was a short woman who spoke in a high-pitched voice, but no one, except Irina’s mother for a moment, dared question her order.

Irina held the baby close, following the midwife’s guidance, and soon he began to feed. The sensation was odd but peaceful, far more calming than she had expected. The fear that had gripped her heart softened, and for the first time since her labour pains had started, the experience felt distant.

Feodor stayed next to her throughout the process, stroking her hair with one hand while brushing his fingers over the baby's cheeks. He didn't look upset that she had suddenly changed her mind, which also helped calm her nerves. With her son nestled against her, both mother and child drifted into a much-needed, restorative sleep.

Chapter Text

Natalia

Against her better judgment—and despite all her determined efforts—Natalia was warming up to her nephew. The little creature now had a name: Michael, in honour of Feodor’s grandfather. Natalia avoided holding him for the first few days, mainly because she didn’t know how. But one afternoon, when she was alone with Irina, her sister asked if she wanted to give it a try. With no audience to scrutinize her every move, Natalia decided to accept the challenge.

She held him awkwardly at first, unsure of her grip, but the baby didn’t seem to mind. Michael opened his grey eyes briefly, gave her a sleepy glance, then closed them again and drifted into a deep, contented sleep against her chest. Natalia was unprepared for the strange calm that followed. Over the next hour, she discovered that holding a sleeping newborn—feeling the gentle weight of his tiny body, listening to his soft breaths, watching the rise and fall of his little chest, and catching the faint, sweet scent unique to babies—was unexpectedly soothing.

Even more satisfying, though, was the fact that when Michael grew fussy, she could simply hand him back to Irina and go on with her day. Natalia wasn’t ready to confess her newfound fondness for her nephew to anyone else, but she could admit to herself that being an aunt wasn’t so bad after all.

Still, Michael’s timing left something to be desired. His arrival coincided with the opening ceremony of the Olympics, which meant Natalia had missed most of the events and parties that were happening around the city to celebrate the event. Tata, on the other hand, was attending everything alongside her mother and Grand Duke Michael. Every morning, Tata called her house to fill Natalia in on all the details, and their phone conversations often stretched to an hour or more—until Natalia’s father inevitably discovered how long the line had been tied up and promptly disconnected it.

“You know who was at the party last night?” Tata asked her one morning.

Natalia sprawled on a chaise longue placed next to the apparatus, rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh loud enough for Tata to hear.

“I can only guess,” she said. “Did you talk to him?”

Tata chuckled on the other side of the line. “It was more him who came and talked to me.”

Natalia gasped. “No! Did he try to flirt with you?”

Tata’s tone immediately turned defensive, slightly offended by Natalia’s question. “No, of course not! He came to ask about you—why he hasn’t seen you around.”

Natalia let out a sharp, frustrated grunt. “Jesus, I thought he’d just pretend nothing had happened. That would’ve been the polite thing to do.”

Tata clicked her tongue.

“And that,” she said pointedly, “is exactly why you should only have casual flings with people you’re absolutely sure you won’t bump into when your family is involved. It's a basic rule of survival, Natasha.”

Natalia groaned, pressing the receiver against her forehead for a moment. “Thank you for that brilliant piece of advice, Tata. I’ll be sure to write it down somewhere.”

“Well, you should,” Tata quipped. “You’re clearly terrible at this sort of thing.”

Natalia couldn’t help but laugh despite herself. “Oh, and you’re an expert, are you?”

Tata went quiet, so much so that Natalia glanced at the telephone as if checking for a broken connection.

“Tata? Did my father cut us off already?”

There was a faint sound, almost like a cleared throat, before Tata’s voice came through again. “Sorry, I’m here,” she said in a slightly distant tone, as if she’d been momentarily distracted.

“Were you daydreaming about your expertise in casual flings?” Natalia teased lightly, trying to pull her friend back into the conversation.

Tata let out a weak laugh, but it lacked her usual sharpness. 

“Something like that,” she replied vaguely.

Natalia’s brow furrowed at the odd moment but brushed it off, justifying Tata’s response to exhaustion or some passing thought. 

“Well, as your self-proclaimed hopeless pupil in such matters, maybe you can come up with a plan to help me avoid this mess entirely,” she joked.

Tata’s voice brightened slightly, though there was a faint eagerness to it now. 

“I’ll think about it. But for now, just stay hidden, Natasha. You’re not ready to face him yet.”

Natalia snorted. 

“Trust me, I have no intention of coming out of hiding anytime soon. Nicholas can stew in his curiosity.”

Because of their busy schedules, Tata, Grand Duke Michael, and George only came to visit Irina, Feodor, and the baby a few days after the birth. As Grand Duke Michael was Feodor’s uncle and godfather, he was particularly pleased to say that the baby looked more like his father than Irina. Although it irritated Natalia to admit it (after all, it had been Irina and not Feodor who had carried him for nine months and gone through all the unpleasantness of labour), he was right.

It was still a bit early to be certain, but from his blond curls to his grey eyes and distinct features, there was little doubt about who the father of this baby was.

Tata spent much of the visit in a quiet conversation with Irina, likely asking about her experience with childbirth and how she was managing the baby.

About ten minutes after the guests arrived, the door opened, and Vladimir entered the room. Natalia raised an eyebrow, surprised to see him again. He had already visited Irina earlier that morning and had been constantly reminding everyone how busy he was and how much he needed peace and quiet to "concentrate." She dismissed it, assuming he had come to see Grand Duke Michael, whom he greatly admired.

Eventually, Tata was ready to hold the baby. She handled him with ease, likely because she had carried George when he was little. As she gently rocked the baby, Vladimir moved slowly across the room in small and deliberate steps until he was directly behind Tata.

Natalia’s eyes narrowed as she silently questioned what her brother was up to. But Vladimir didn’t notice her. Tata remained focused on the baby, cooing softly about how big and heavy he was.

And then it happened.

To Natalia's shock, Vladimir placed his hand on Tata's back. Her heart jumped, and she parted her lips, expecting Tata to react with outrage — to shout at being touched so casually by her former tutor, of all people. Natalia prepared to join in the indignation, ready to see Tata spin around, scandalized.

But nothing happened.

Tata didn’t move. She stayed calm, still rocking the baby as if completely unaware of Vladimir's hand. No, Natalia thought to herself, not unaware — unbothered. It was almost as if... as if she was used to it.

Natalia’s eyes went wide, her breath catching in her throat. Her mind began connecting scattered pieces that suddenly fit too well together. Tata walking alone in the garden at night in only her nightgown. Vladimir's empty room when she had gone looking for him after Alexei's accident. His mood when he heard Natalia and Tata comment about the Princes at the Opening Ceremony just a week earlier. For a moment, she wondered if she was letting her imagination run wild.

But then Tata glanced up and noticed Natalia’s unsettled expression. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, silently asking, What’s wrong?

Natalia didn’t speak. She simply shifted her gaze toward Vladimir's hand. Slowly, Tata followed her line of sight.

The realization hit Tata like a lightning strike. Her eyes widened with shock, and her lips parted in a silent gasp. She tensed, and in that split second, Vladimir also seemed to realize what he had done. He panicked and snatched his hand away as if he had burned it.

But it was too late.

Chapter Text

Tata was the first to recover from the silent shock wave between her, Natalia and Vladimir. Although her cheeks were still slightly flushed, her movements remained remarkably calm. She adjusted the baby in her arms, gently patting his back as if nothing had happened. Then, with a serene smile — as though she hadn’t just been caught in a moment that made Natalia feel like the floor had dropped out from under her feet — Tata turned to Irina.

“Here,” she said softly, handing the baby back. “He’s absolutely perfect, Irina. You’re doing a wonderful job.”

Irina beamed, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Thank you,” Irina said, cradling the baby close.

Then, Tata turned back to Natalia.

“Shall we take a walk, Natasha? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

Natalia’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. A walk? Fresh air? After what she’d just witnessed? Her mind was still trying to make sense of what she had seen, replaying Vladimir’s panicked face and Tata’s almost blasé reaction. Before she could protest, Tata gently linked their arms and steered her toward the door. Still too stunned to resist, Natalia allowed herself to be led through corridors and doors until they were outside in the garden.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Tata sighed and said lightly, “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?!” Natalia hissed, pulling her arm free and spinning to face Tata. “That was my brother’s hand on your back! My brother, Tata! Who, by the way, used to be your teacher? And you… you didn’t even flinch!”

Tata folded her arms, tilting her head as if Natalia were the one behaving strangely.

“What was I supposed to do? Scream and send poor Irina into hysterics? I don’t have a flair for the theatrical.”

Natalia stared at her, incredulous.

“A flair for the—” She cut herself off with an exasperated groan, throwing her head back. “How long?”

Tata raised an eyebrow. “How long what?”

“Don’t play dumb!” Natalia snapped. “How long has this been going on? And don’t even think about saying it was nothing because I saw the look on your face when you realized what he was doing.”

Tata hesitated, but before she could respond, the sound of footsteps on the gravel made them both turn. Vladimir was striding toward them as if there was a fire, and he happened to have a hose just lying around.

“Oh, great,” Natalia muttered under her breath. “The man of the hour.”

He stopped in front of them, looking between the two women like a man preparing for battle.

“Natasha,” he said, nodding at her briefly before focusing on Natalia. “Let me explain.”

Natalia crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, I cannot wait to hear it.”

Tata stepped between them, clearly trying to keep the situation from escalating.

“There’s really nothing to explain, Natasha. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Natalia leaned to the side to glare at Vladimir.

“She says I’m being dramatic. What do you think, Bodia? Am I imagining things? Did I hallucinate your hand on her back? Or the fact that neither of you seemed remotely bothered by it?”

Vladimir opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked helplessly at Tata, who sighed.

“This is why I told you to wait,” Tata told him under her breath, earning a sharp look from Natalia.

“Wait for what?” Natalia demanded. “For me to suddenly stop having eyes and a brain?”

Tata and Vladimir exchanged a quick, telling glance — brief but potent. It was the kind of glance that spoke volumes, a glance that didn't just hint at familiarity but announced it with fanfare. Intimacy, worry, and just a flicker of shared amusement danced between them as if acknowledging the ridiculousness of being caught like this. If Natalia had harboured even the faintest doubt, that look obliterated it. Her eyes narrowed into slits.

Tata exhaled sharply, stepping back like a captain abandoning ship. Her expression clearly said, “Well, you got us into this mess, so you figure out how to row us out of it.” Vladimir shot her a betrayed look and was left in the spotlight, shifting on his feet like a schoolboy caught sneaking sweets before dinner. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but at Natalia.

“It’s, uh… it’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment,” he started, fumbling with his words. “I’d say it was… a lot of moments, really. Small moments, you know? Like, situations and encounters that just… led…”

“It was at Irina’s wedding,” Tata cut him off cleanly, arms folded, her patience clearly thinner than his.

Vladimir turned toward her, brows furrowed. “Well, officially, we might say that, but…”

“There is no official anything, Vladimir,” Tata said as if she were explaining the obvious to someone much younger. “Which is why we’ve kept it quiet. We didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression that this is… you know… serious.”

Natalia raised one hand, fingers splayed, unable to show anything but incredulity and exasperation in her face. “Stop. Stop talking.”

They stopped. Natalia took a long, measured breath, massaged her temples with her fingers, and then exhaled slowly. Her eyes darted from Tata to Vladimir, as if she were seeing them for the first time.

“You mean to tell me,” she said, her voice dangerously controlled, “that this has been going on for a year?”

Another glance between Tata and Vladimir.

“Has it been a year already?” Vladimir muttered, tilting his head in thought.

Tata frowned, thinking. “We technically didn’t see each other for five months while I was in Paris, so it’s hardly a full year.”

Natalia dropped her head into her hands with a long groan. “Oh, well, in that case, I feel so much better,” she muttered through her fingers. Her head shot back up, eyes blazing. “You’ve both been sneaking around for a year — a year — and not once, not once, did you trust me enough to tell me?”

Tata winced. "This has nothing to do with trust, Natasha.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Natalia snapped. “You’re my best friend; he’s my brother, and you both decided to keep me in the dark like I’m some blabbering gossip.”

“You are a blabbering gossip,” Vladimir mumbled.

Natalia whipped her head toward him so fast it was a miracle she didn’t sprain her neck. “I BEG YOUR PARDON?”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything!”

Tata rubbed her temples now, taking over Natalia’s role as the weary one. “Look, Natasha, it wasn’t about you. I just… I didn’t want to give you false hopes.”

Natalia blinked, caught off guard. “False hopes? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tata hesitated but eventually sighed. “I know how much you’d love the idea of me being part of your family. I didn’t want to encourage all those big, grand ideas. You'd start planning our entire lives before we even had one proper conversation about it.”

Natalia tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “I would not—” She stopped herself, eyes shifting as if playing out scenarios in her head. Her lips pursed, and then, slowly, her face softened, and her eyes gleamed.

“Okay, but listen,” she said as her voice shifted from indignant to scheming in a heartbeat. “It would be amazing, wouldn’t it? You’d be my sister-in-law! Your children would be my nephews! I could be godmother to your first baby, and then you could be godmother to my first baby!”

She clasped her hands together, eyes wide and sparkling with fake innocence. “We’d be like the perfect family.”

Tata shook her head slowly, lips pressed in a thin line. “Yes, that’s precisely the kind of long-term planning I was trying to avoid.”

Natalia turned sharply to Vladimir, hands on her hips and eyes brimming with mock indignation.

“And you!” she exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at Vladimir like he’d just ruined her grand plan. “Why do you have to be so boring?”

Vladimir blinked, visibly startled. “Excuse me?”

“No, no, don't look at me like that,” Natalia said, gesturing wildly as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re not bad looking, I’ll give you that. You’ve got the height, the face—your jawline is doing most of the work, let’s be honest—but why do you have to be so... so sensible all the time?” She tossed her hands up in exasperation. “If you were even slightly more interesting, this whole thing could actually work!”

Vladimir’s mouth fell open, and he stared at her like she’d just suggested he start breathing underwater. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to apologize for being a reasonable human being?”

“Yes, actually!” Natalia shot back without missing a beat. “Reasonable is dull. I’m thinking more... unpredictable. Dramatic.” She struck a theatrical pose, tossing her hair over one shoulder with flair. “You know, intriguing.”

Tata smirked, her arms folding with a theatrical air of satisfaction. “Well,” she said in a light tone, “let’s not forget that Vladimir did manage to seduce his student. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Vladimir froze, his face going beet red in an instant. He turned to Tata, wide-eyed and spluttering. “Excuse me?! Seduce my student?!” He pointed at her with such indignation it was almost comical. “Let’s set the record straight right now. You lured me. I was the one shamelessly manipulated! And I was always professional until the end! Nothing happened while I was still under my contract with Grand Duke Michael!”

Natalia’s jaw dropped in mock horror as she clutched at her chest. Her gaze darted to Tata.

“Did you lure my poor, innocent brother?”

Tata’s smirk grew wider as she shrugged, entirely unrepentant.

“He looked like he could use some fun.”

“See, Bodia?” Natalia asked, turning to him again. “You couldn’t even make yourself interesting in this part!”

Vladimir's face turned an even deeper shade of red, his eyes darting around like he was searching for an escape route. "Alright, that's enough," he said, raising his hands like a man trying to halt a stampede. "This is not the kind of subject we should be discussing in front of Natasha."

Tata tilted her head as her lips pursed in mock consideration. "He’s got a point," she admitted, though it sounded like it physically pained her to say it. "We probably shouldn’t be unpacking all this family drama in front of her."

Natalia raised an unimpressed brow. "Oh, please. As if I don’t already know more than I should about all of you.” She leaned forward, her eyes darting between them like she was watching a particularly juicy play unfold. "But sure, if it makes you feel better, I’ll pretend to be scandalized.”

Tata exhaled, turning to Natalia with a half-apologetic, half-resigned expression. “Look, for what it’s worth, I like your brother.” Her eyes flicked to Vladimir briefly, and a faint smile tugged at her lips. “I enjoy his company. I even enjoy that he’s…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “…boring.”

“Oh, thanks,” Vladimir muttered, glancing at the sky like he was praying for patience.

“No, I mean it,” Tata insisted, her tone sincere this time. “There’s comfort in boring. Stability. And I like that. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to rush into something just because you discovered it was happening.” She shot Natalia a look that was as direct as it was kind. “If there’s anyone to blame for this situation and for taking things as slowly as I possibly can, it’s me.”

Natalia blinked, clearly not expecting that. Her gaze flickered between Tata and Vladimir, her playful smirk fading just a bit. She clicked her tongue. "Well, that’s annoying."

"What is?" Tata asked, frowning.

“You taking all the blame,” Natalia said, waving a hand between them. “It’s very noble and self-aware, and now I can’t even be mad properly.”

Tata stepped forward, keeping her gaze steady but her voice softer than before. 

“Can you keep this between us for a little while longer?” she asked, carrying a quiet plea. “As a friend?”

Natalia narrowed her eyes, letting the weight of the request hang in the air. She glanced between Tata and Vladimir, arms crossed as if considering whether to grant them mercy or sentence them to public humiliation. Finally, she sighed with exaggerated weariness.

“Fine,” she muttered, dragging out the word like it physically pained her to say it. Her eyes flicked to Vladimir, sharp as a needle. “But please—don’t ruin this. Find a way to make it work.”

Vladimir blinked, caught off guard, and let out a short, breathy laugh. His gaze shifted to Tata, and his expression softened to something close to quiet resolve.

"I'm trying my very best," he said simply, his eyes lingering on her.

Chapter Text

Vladimir

After a few more minutes of heavy questioning about their relationship, Natalia seemed satisfied. She dusted her dress as if some invisible wave of dust had tainted it, told them she needed to do something and started to walk away, leaving Vladimir and Tata alone in the garden.

“You know she’s on her way to write every detail of what we’ve just told her to Alexei, right?” Tata asked with the barest hint of a smile, though her eyebrows were still creased.

“You think so?” Vladimir asked, unable to hide the sarcasm from his tone.

Of course she was going to do that. She would also throw Irina into the mix for good measure once she got a few seconds alone with her, but Vladimir trusted that she wouldn’t tell anyone else besides those two.

After his sister left, Vladimir considered if he should feel at least a flicker of hesitation about Natalia discovering his secret relationship with Tata. But he quickly came to the conclusion that he didn’t. Not even a little.

Instead, he felt a warm, fuzzy feeling, starting in his chest and radiating to the very tips of his toes — a lightness he hadn’t realized he'd been missing. Natalia knew. And, more importantly, she didn’t care. She wasn’t outraged, scandalized, or disappointed. No, her only grievance had been that they hadn’t told her sooner. If anything, she seemed more worried that he might ruin things than Tata.

That realization lingered, and Vladimir's lips curved into a small, thoughtful smile. She had given her blessing in her own uniquely chaotic, Natalia-esque way. And somehow, that mattered more to him than he’d expected.

His family had always been his foundation. Through every storm and upheaval, they’d managed to stay united, presenting an unshakable front to the world. Their house wasn’t just a house — it was a home in the truest definition of the word. No amount of status, wealth, or privilege could recreate that kind of harmony, and Vladimir had never taken it for granted. If he were ever fortunate enough to have a family of his own, he knew, without a doubt, that it would have to feel the same.

And on that front, there was no one better than Tata.

She fit. She had fit for years, seamlessly weaving herself into their family’s rhythm, understanding its quirks, unspoken rules, and sharp but loving humour. She could match Natalia’s wit, outlast Dmitri’s antics, and somehow, miraculously, make him feel like less of a stoic bore. No one else had ever managed that.

Once more, he let himself consider it — really consider it. The weight he’d been carrying for the past year, all that cautious restraint and second-guessing, suddenly felt unnecessary. If Natalia could see it, acknowledge it, and start plotting nursery plans with Tata as her sister-in-law, then maybe... maybe it wasn’t so impossible.

His eyes flickered to Tata, who was still watching Natalia’s retreating form with a bemused shake of her head. The afternoon sun caught in her hair, her face half-lit in gold, and Vladimir’s heart skipped for a moment.

“You like that I’m boring,” he whispered to Tata when he was sure Natalia was out of earshot.

He said it with a smile meant to be teasing, but he was sure he could not hide how happy her words had made him feel. Tata lifted an eyebrow and tried to hide how giddy the remark made her feel, but it was impossible not to see the red spots forming on her slender and very attractive neck.

“I was just trying to diffuse your sister. Don’t let that go to your head.”

Still smiling, Vladimir glanced around the garden to ensure they were alone. The distant crunch of gravel underfoot had faded — Natalia had returned to the house. It was just the two of them now, tucked into a quiet, sun-dappled corner of the world. His gaze returned to Tata, and he took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her fingers twitched, rising to rub the back of her neck — a telltale sign she was growing nervous.

"Don't," she warned in a low but kind voice. Her lips twitched at the corners, caught between a grin and a grimace. "Stay right there."

He didn’t stay. He took another step, and another, until he was right in front of her. His hand lifted slowly, giving her every chance to stop him, but she didn’t. His thumb brushed against her cheek, warm skin against warm skin. He felt her breath catch under his touch.

“No one’s watching,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he leaned in just a little closer. “And I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

Her lips parted, ready to argue — he could see the words forming in her mind — but he didn’t give her a chance. He tilted his head, letting instinct guide him, and closed the space between them.

Her breath hitched sharply against his mouth, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, she leaned into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. Finally, he thought, feeling her melt into him. He made sure this wasn’t a cautious, fleeting kiss. It was deep, unguarded, as if every wall between them had finally crumbled. He could taste the hint of something sweet on her lips, like berries or honey, and it was better than he remembered — better than anything he’d ever had.

But it wasn’t just sweetness. It was different. She was different. He could feel it in the way her hands moved to his collar, gripping him like she wasn’t quite ready to let go.

With a quiet growl of resolve, he pulled her closer, his arm sliding firmly around her waist, drawing her against him until her every curve pressed flush against his chest. She gasped into his mouth, a soft, startled sound that sent a sharp, wild thrill rushing through him.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his forehead rested against hers. Her eyes were still closed, her breath coming fast and shallow. Good, he thought. Let her feel it, too.

“I want to do this every day with you, Tata,” he whispered against her lips. “Every day for the rest of my life.”

Her eyes opened slowly, focusing on him like she wasn’t sure if she should laugh, cry, or push him away. He didn’t give her a chance to decide.

“I don’t care if it’s complicated,” he continued, his voice raw with honesty. “I don’t care if it’s hard or inconvenient or if people have opinions. I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out. You and me.”

“Vladimir…” she started, but he shook his head, brushing the tip of his nose lightly against hers.

“No,” he said firmly, his smile growing wider, more certain. “I’m not done.” His hands cradled her face, holding her as if she were something precious. His thumbs brushed the line of her cheekbones as his eyes softened with something dangerously close to devotion. “I don’t want to hide like we’re afraid of what people will think. I’m tired of that.” His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop. “I want you with me. Not in secret. Not in pieces. I want to wake up every day next to you, walk arm-in-arm with you at every public event, eat every meal with you — and I never want to hear you joke about eating Brussels sprouts with other men again, do you hear me?”

Her lips parted, a soft huff of laughter escaping before she could stop it. Her fingers gripped the lapels of his coat tighter, pulling him closer as she shook her head in disbelief.

“So you were listening?” she teased.

“Don’t mock me,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded but steady on hers. “I mean it. I want to know it’s me you’ll sit next to. Me you’ll argue with. Me you’ll dream with.” His eyes searched hers, unguarded and earnest. “I want you to know that you don’t have to hold back with me. Not ever.”

Her breath caught again, and her chest rose and fell like she’d just run a long distance. She blinked at him, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips, caught between disbelief and something much deeper.

“You sound ridiculous,” she said, but her voice broke slightly, betraying her. She tilted her head, studying him like she was searching for a crack in his resolve. “And maybe a little mad.”

“Then I’ll be mad,” he replied, tilting his head as if daring her to call him a fool. “I’ll be the maddest man in the world if that’s what it takes.”

Her eyes shimmered, and she bit her lower lip as if trying to steady herself. For a moment, it seemed like she might actually say yes. He could feel it. It was right there. Just one more word, and she’d be his.

But she pulled away. Slowly, carefully, she slid her hands down from his coat and stepped back, keeping her gaze steady but with a hint of sadness.

“Vladimir,” she began in a gentle tone. “You’re swept up in it right now because we haven’t seen each other in a while. We’ve both built this up too much in our minds.”

“No,” he started to argue, but she placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart. Not to push him away, but to still him.

“Listen,” she said softly, steadying her eyes on his. “Some things are better kept secret. Because real life?” She stopped for a moment, her lips curved into a rueful smile. “Real life is a bore, Vladimir. It’s messy. People with too many opinions stick their noses where they don’t belong. It’s routine, arguments over stupid things — and the little cracks start to show after all the excitement is gone.”

Her gaze flickered with a quiet sort of sadness, but there was defiance, too, like she’d already lived through it in her mind.

“You think this feels perfect right now, and maybe it does,” she went on, in a gentle but firm tone, like she was trying to keep him from walking into something sharp. “But give it a year. You’ll be annoyed every time I go out to a ball or a party, wondering who I’m dancing with, watching me laugh too hard at someone else’s joke.” Her eyes met his, steady and unflinching. “And I’ll be irritated too when you spend all your time at the Corps des Pages or locked away in some library, lost in your books. Or worse,” she added with a faint smirk, “when you leave your typewriter in the middle of the floor with your papers everywhere.”

His lips parted like he was about to protest, but she raised an eyebrow, daring him to argue.

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t,” she added, her voice so soft it might have been mistaken for affection. Her thumb moved, tracing an absent line across his chest. “It’s nice right now, Bodia. This is nice. It’s simple and sweet, and no one can ruin it but us.” She tilted her head, studying him like she was letting him in on something rare. “But if we try to drag it out into the light — into the real world — people will start picking it apart. They’ll ask questions, make comments, and suddenly it won’t feel as good as it does right now.”

Her eyes flicked between his, her gaze unshakable. "You know I’m right."

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand, his heart thudding loud enough that he wondered if she could hear it. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that none of that would matter, that he’d never get tired of her parties, laughter, and messes. He wanted to promise her that every typewriter page left in the parlour would be worth it if it meant having her there.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Not entirely.

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” he said quietly, his brow furrowing as if sheer willpower could make it true. “I’m not afraid of real life, Tata. I’m not afraid of your parties, my papers, or any of it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his gaze fixed on hers. “I’m only afraid of not having you.”

Her breath hitched, and something in her gaze wavered for a moment. She blinked slowly, her lashes lowering like she was trying to shut him out before he could push further.

“You say that now,” she murmured, glancing away toward the distant house. “But wait until it’s not exciting anymore. Wait until it’s normal, and I’m just another person you must live with.” She shook her head, her fingers curling against his chest like she didn’t want to let go but knew she had to. “I don’t want to be another boring part of your life, Bodia. I’d rather be your nice thing — the thing no one can ruin.”

He caught her wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to make her look at him again. His eyes burned with quiet intensity, his jaw set like he was prepared to fight the entire world if it meant keeping her there with him.

“You could never be boring,” he said, his voice low and sure. "Not to me. Not ever."

Her lips parted just slightly, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. For once, she couldn’t quite hide how her eyes softened, her resolve bending in the quiet.

But then, she slipped her hand free from his grip just like that. Her smile returned, small but steady as she’d already decided.

“Let’s think this over a little more carefully, shall we?” she said in a light, breezy tone, the kind people use when trying to make something seem less important.

Vladimir tilted his head, watching her closely. “I’ve thought about it plenty.” His eyes narrowed briefly, his lips pressing into a firm line. “And I’ll keep thinking about it. Every day, if that’s what it takes.”

Her smile twitched at the corners, but she didn't respond. Instead, she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze flickering to the house like she was already planning her exit.

“I’m serious, Tata,” Vladimir said, taking a small step toward her. His voice was quieter now but no less sure.

She glanced at him, her brow lifting as if she found the whole idea mildly amusing. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“I do.” His eyes softened, but his resolve didn’t. “And I'll just keep asking.”

Her gaze lingered on him, longer this time, her lips parting as if she might say something. But whatever it was, she seemed to change her mind. Her smile grew a little wider, but it was the kind of smile people wear when they know something you don’t.

“We’ll see,” she said finally, giving him one last look before turning toward the house.

Vladimir didn’t try to stop her this time. He stayed rooted where he was, his hands slipping into his coat pockets, his eyes tracking her every step. He watched until she disappeared inside, her silhouette vanishing like a dream one is not quite ready to wake from. He stood there a little longer, feeling the warm spring breeze, the scent of the roses filling his lungs, his heartbeat steadier than it had been in weeks. His gaze shifted to the empty space where she’d been, and for the first time in a long while, he smiled to himself.

“I can wait,” he muttered under his breath as if saying it aloud would make it real.

Chapter Text

Long after Tata left, Vladimir worked late into the night in the library. When he finally left after a long day, he heard his father coughing from his nearby study. Because of the late hour, Vladimir had assumed his father had already retired to bed, but the sound prompted him to make a detour to wish him a good night.

When Vladimir stepped into the room, he found his father seated at his oak desk, spectacles precariously perched on the tip of his nose as he scribbled something with quiet determination on a piece of paper.

“Are you planning on working late tonight?” Vladimir asked, cutting through the quiet.

His father paused for a moment, then replied without looking up, “No, no. I'll be up in a minute.”

Satisfied, Vladimir nodded and turned to leave. “Good night, then,” he said.

But just as he reached the door, his father's calm and steady voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Vladimir, just one more thing,” he began, still focused on his writing. "Do you intend to continue your activities with Miss Mamontova as they are, or are there any plans to make them official?”

Vladimir froze mid-step, his hand still gripping the doorknob like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off a cliff. For a second, he genuinely believed he’d misheard. Surely, surely his father hadn’t just said that. Slowly, he turned around with wide eyes and a slack jaw - the distinct expression of a man whose soul had just left his body.

“I... what?” he croaked, his voice cracking in a way that would haunt him later.

Grand Duke Paul didn’t even glance up from his desk. His pen scratched across the paper with maddening serenity as if this were a perfectly normal topic of conversation.

“You heard me, Vladimir,” his father said in that infuriatingly calm tone. “Miss Mamontova. Are you planning to keep things as they are, or do you have intentions of formalizing them?”

Vladimir’s brain stopped functioning. Heat shot up from his collar to his ears with such speed he thought he might spontaneously combust. His mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound other than a faint, pitiful wheeze. His mind raced, wondering how in the world he knew. Could Natalia have told him? No, she’d never betray Tata like that. His heart pounded like a drumbeat of doom. Was it Dmitri? No, Dmitri would just tease him mercilessly, not snitch. Then how—

“The windows, Vladimir,” his father said with exasperating patience, still not looking up. “They’re made of glass, not brick.”

Vladimir’s heart stopped. Slowly — painfully slowly — his gaze flickered toward the large study windows. It was dark now, but he didn’t need to see outside to know exactly where they were positioned. His entire body went cold as the realization hit him. The very same corner of the garden where he and Tata had been… talking… just so happened to be in full view of his father’s desk.

Full. View.

“Dear God,” Vladimir muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt like he’d been caught sneaking pastries from the kitchen — except this was infinitely worse.

“I was about to send a servant out,” his father continued, ever so casually, like this was a completely normal observation. “Just to check if the poor girl was still breathing.”

Vladimir’s face went from flushed to absolutely scarlet in an instant. His eyes snapped shut as if he could will himself into another plane of existence where this conversation wasn’t happening.

“Papa,” he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Please. I’m begging you. For both our sakes, can we just—” he gestured vaguely at the air, his voice strained with desperation. “—not do this?”

Grand Duke Paul finally set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin like a man with all the time in the world. His eyes, sharp and annoyingly amused, locked on his son with the precision of a master strategist spotting an opening on the battlefield.

“Oh, believe me, Vladimir,” Paul said with dry amusement, “this is me being merciful. It could be much, much worse.”

Vladimir braced himself, already dreading what was coming.

“How, exactly, could this possibly be worse?” he muttered, not really wanting to know but powerless to stop himself from asking.

Grand Duke Paul tilted his head toward the ceiling, the picture of patience.

“Your mother’s bedroom is directly above this study.”

Silence.

Complete, absolute, deadly silence.

Vladimir blinked once. Then twice. His face slowly contorted into an expression of pure, unfiltered horror.

“No,” he whispered as if his denial could somehow alter reality.

“Oh, yes,” Paul continued mercilessly, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “I suggest you light a candle or two to your favourite saint tonight. If your mother had been awake…” He trailed off with a light, knowing sigh. “Well, I’m not sure her heart would have taken it.”

Vladimir threw his head back, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed him. He let out a sound halfway between a groan and a why-does-God-hate-me prayer.

“Papa,” he said through gritted teeth, barely managing to stay polite. “Please. I am begging you. End this conversation.”

Grand Duke Paul leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together as if settling in for a very comfortable chat.

“I’ll stop in a moment,” he said. “But first, two things.” He raised one finger, his eyes sharp but his tone light, like he was merely pointing out a scuff on Vladimir’s boot. “One, your sister was not far from where you and Miss Mamontova were conducting your symposium on romance.” His brow lifted pointedly. “I’d rather she not be exposed to such… practical demonstrations of affection.”

Vladimir squeezed his eyes shut like it might block out the sound. Please, just strike me down, right here, right now.

“Understood,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Good,” Paul said brightly, as if his son had passed a particularly difficult spelling test. “Now, for the second matter.” He tapped a finger on his desk with a deliberate rhythm. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Vladimir frowned, lifting his head slightly. “What question?”

Paul arched a brow as though the answer was painfully obvious. “Your intentions with Miss Mamontova.”

Vladimir stiffened, suddenly feeling like a cadet being interrogated by a particularly stern commanding officer. “It’s… complicated,” he said reluctantly, the words tumbling out in a way that even he knew sounded unconvincing.

Grand Duke Paul sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t understand what that means,” he said bluntly, “nor do I care to learn the ways of your so-called modern youth. But,” he added, his tone lightening, “if it helps, I quite approve of the girl. She’s sharp, charming, and has just enough mischief in her to keep you on your toes.”

Vladimir blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. “You… approve?” he asked cautiously, as though testing the waters.

Paul’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I do. And I would be delighted if she joined the family someday. It would certainly be an improvement to the current entertainment around here.”

For a moment, Vladimir didn’t know what to say. His father’s words were unexpected, and though they should have brought relief, they only added to the weight pressing down on his chest.

“Thank you, Papa,” he managed finally, his voice quiet.

Paul nodded once, satisfied, before picking up his pen again. “Good. Now, go to bed, Vladimir. And remember—candles to your saint.”

Vladimir hesitated for half a second, then turned and left the study with as much dignity as he could muster. The door clicked shut, but Vladimir's muffled groan was still perfectly audible from the hallway.

Chapter Text

Natalia

However much Natalia wanted to hide from society while Nicholas of Romania was roaming the streets of Paris and every conceivable event of the Olympics, the day of Dmitri's equestrian competition soon arrived upon them, and she knew she wouldn't be able to escape that one.

Since they related to one of the competitors, they were given a place at a special tribune with a direct view of the field where the show-jumping competition would take place.

When Natalia and her family arrived, her half-sister Marishka, her husband and their little son Roman were already there, ready to support Dmitri. It had been a while since Natalia had seen her sister. She was always busy with her family, charities and hospital work, which she had never left since the war. They had never been exactly close, although Marishka always went out of her way to be kind. Natalia had always seen her as one of the “grown-ups”, someone from another generation who had little in common with her except for the fact that they shared the same father.

Dmitri also stopped by before the competition but was uncharacteristically nervous and didn’t look like his goofy, usual self. Although he sometimes made it seem as if his participation in the games didn’t matter and was just for fun, he was a true patriot who genuinely hoped to make a good impression and win a medal for his country.

Grand Duke Michael arrived with his family when the competition was about to start. For about three or four seconds, Natalia glanced awkwardly between Tata and Vladimir, wondering how they would act around each other now that she knew about their secret. But there was nothing to worry about. They greeted each other formally, and then Tata sat next to Natalia and started asking her about her day, which made it feel as if Tata hadn’t seen Vladimir since he stopped being her tutor. It was strange at first, but it didn’t take long for Natalia to get used to it. After all, if they hadn't been talented at this game, they wouldn't have managed to hide their feelings for an entire year.

Finally, the competition began. The riders entered the arena on top of their mounts one by one, trotting in perfect rhythm. There was a series of colourful obstacles that each rider had to face — vertical bars, oxers, and combinations set at precise distances that were meant to evaluate their technical precision. Natalia watched as the first few riders navigated the course, their horses launching into the air with tightly tucked legs, clearing the obstacles without a flaw or, in some cases, grazing the rails just enough to send them clattering to the ground. The crowd reacted to every drop with gasps and murmurs.

When Dmitri’s name was called, the stands erupted in applause. For the first time, Natalia felt a sharp jolt of nerves and locked her eyes on her brother as he rode in. She might not appreciate horses, but it was impossible not to feel proud of him at that moment as he entered the field with a straight and steady posture, holding the reins loosely with one hand. He was mounting a sleek bay gelding, which moved with fluid power as if it had trained each step to look a certain way and every shift in its muscles, to be precise. Dmitri tilted his head to the side, scanning the course as if he were memorizing every line and every turn.

Their father leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his cane. He didn’t clap like the others but watched with the sharp focus of someone who knew what to look for. After all, he had been one of the most accomplished cavalry officers in the Russian Army back in his youth.

The whistle blew. Dmitri gave a light tap of his heels, and they were off.

The first fence was a simple vertical, and Dmitri's horse sailed over it like it was nothing, his body perfectly aligned with the motion. The next obstacle, an oxer—a wider jump that required greater power—posed no challenge. They landed cleanly, the gelding's hooves pounding into the turf without missing a beat.

One by one, they cleared the course with machine-like precision. Dmitri’s body moved with his horse, and every shift of his weight was perfectly timed. His face was unreadable, but his hands were steady. Natalia could barely breathe as they soared over each fence.

“Beautiful,” Marishka murmured close to her.

Natalia nodded, barely able to blink. It looked flawless to her: every jump, every turn, every landing, but then again, she wasn't entirely sure what to look for.

Then came the second-to-last obstacle — a double combination. The horse surged forward, Dmitri guiding him into position for the first part of the jump. He cleared it cleanly, but just as they approached the second part of the combination, their stride was ever so slightly off. It happened in a blink. To Natalia, it looked fine. No rail fell, no obvious mistake. Dmitri’s face didn’t change. His hands didn’t falter. They cleared it like all the others.

But her father’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed once on the handle of his cane. It was barely a reaction at all, but it was enough for Natalia to see it.

“What happened?” she asked, glancing toward him.

“Hmm?” Her father didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on Dmitri.

“Nothing,” he said softly.

The final jump loomed ahead, and Dmitri approached it with the same calm precision. Horse and rider rose together, soaring high above the bright red bars. They hung in the air for a moment that felt just a little too long. Then they landed. Clean and smooth.

The stands erupted in cheers, hats flying into the air as people clapped and shouted Dmitri's name. Natalia jumped to her feet, feeling her heart still racing as she clapped along with everyone else. She glanced toward her father. He clapped twice, slowly and deliberately, before folding his hands over his cane again.

Dmitri raised a hand triumphantly as he trotted past the stands, smiling widely now as his goofy charm finally returned. He leaned down and patted the gelding’s neck as if thanking him personally.

“Flawless,” Tata said, still clapping.

Natalia glanced at her father. His eyes stayed on Dmitri, and although he looked calm, his expression was thoughtful.

“Almost,” Natalia muttered, watching him closely.

***

The crowd murmured with restless energy as they waited for the final results to be announced. Natalia sat at the edge of her seat, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She couldn't take her eyes off Dmitri, who was still standing with the other riders near the podium. His face was calm, but she could see his fingers tapping lightly against his leg. He tried to look unaffected, but Natalia knew him too well. He was waiting for the verdict, and he was nervous about it.

The crackle of the loudspeaker silenced the crowd. Natalia held her breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the results of the show-jumping final are as follows…”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

“Third place: Tommaso Lequio di Assaba of Italy!”

A burst of cheers erupted from the Italian supporters. The rider stepped forward, lifting his helmet and bowing to the crowd. Natalia barely registered it. Her eyes darted to Dmitri. Still standing. Still waiting.

She then turned to her father. Grand Duke Paul sat perfectly still, his cane resting against his leg, waiting patiently. He hadn’t clapped for Assaba. He didn’t even glance at him. His eyes were fixed solely on Dmitri.

“Second place…”

Natalia’s breath caught. Her fingers dug into her palms. Marishka glanced at her and offered a small, reassuring nod.

“His Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich of Russia!”

For a second, the speakers produced nothing but static. Then, as their collective breaths were released all at once, the arena erupted in applause and cheers. Natalia shot up from her seat, clapping so hard her hands stung.

“Yes! Yes!” she shouted, laughing with relief. She turned to Tata, who had risen too, and they both held each other and jumped around in celebration.

“Silver at his second Olympics,” Marishka said with satisfaction. She leaned close to their father. “Not bad, right?”

“Not bad at all,” their father answered. “If the hoofs hadn’t touched the barrier just near the end, he would have won golden. But the Swiss rider did perform like a machine.”

He had risen slowly, leaning on his cane for support. He wasn’t clapping like the rest of them, but there was something deliberate in how he stood as if his son’s victory had given him a few extra inches. He did not clap because clapping was not part of his nature, but he was proud of his son all the same.

Sure enough, just a few seconds after Grand Duke Paul had made his pronouncement about the Swiss rider, the loudspeaker cracked again, this time to announce the winner - Alphonse Gemuseus from Switzerland.

Down below, Dmitri had remained frozen in place for a brief moment. Then, slowly, his face split into a grin so wide it seemed to take up his whole face. He let out a short, wild laugh and tilted back his head, hands resting on his hips like he’d just conquered the world. He glanced up at the stands, and when he spotted Grand Duke Paul, his grin shifted into something more subdued. He blinked once as if to say, Did you see me?

Their father raised his cane slightly, not a grand gesture, but enough for Dmitri’s grin to return, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pressed his lips together, nodding back. He had been seen. And that was all he needed.

Natalia felt something tighten in her chest. Her eyes stung for reasons she couldn’t quite name. Glancing at Marishka, who was still smiling, she fixed her gaze on Dmitri with that serene, older-sister pride that only Marishka could manage.

Dmitri moved forward as the silver medalist was called to the podium. He kept his face serious now, but every few steps, his lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. He mounted the second-place platform, standing tall and straight as the official approached him with the medal. The ribbon was slipped over his head, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring down at it. His fingers brushed the cool metal before raising it over his head.

The crowd’s roar was deafening. The sound of clapping, whistles, and cheers echoed like thunder.

Natalia pressed her hands to her chest, her heart thudding against her palm. She glanced at her father. He was still watching Dmitri. Still quiet. Only his eyes moved, tracking every shift of Dmitri’s face as if searching for something. Looking for something.

"Do you think he’ll be disappointed when he discovers he could have won the gold?” Natalia asked her father quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. He tapped his cane once against the ground thoughtfully.

“He’ll think on it,” he said at last, his voice low and steady. “But I don’t believe he’ll be disappointed.”

Chapter Text

Natalia arrived with her parents, Marishka and Vladimir, at the Ritz Hotel, where the sun's last rays reflected on its cream-coloured façade. The street was buzzing with a line of cars that never seemed to end. With the Olympics in full swing, it was expected that the hotel would be completely booked and that all of its saloons would be rented for parties, much like the one Natalia and her family were headed to. It had been Dmitri who had insisted on coming to the Ritz in order to celebrate his triumph instead of just celebrating at home.

Natalia found the idea splendid. She loved to go out and mingle with others, but she knew her father wouldn’t feel comfortable and would try to leave as soon as possible. So she clung to her sister Marishka, hoping she would stay a bit longer, although she had her own son at home.

A doorman tipped his hat and greeted them with a courteous "Bienvenue, madame, monsieur" before leading them inside. The shift from the bustling square to the opulence of the Ritz was immediate. Smooth and cool marble floors stretched beneath their feet, and the murmur of conversations in several languages drifted from unseen corners.

A maître d'hôtel appeared as if summoned by thought alone. With a slight bow, he guided the family past velvet armchairs and low, gilded tables topped with porcelain vases of fresh roses. They reached the room where the party would be held, up a short flight of stairs and down a corridor lined with carpets. The glass doors were already open, leading them to an airy space with tall windows framed by silk drapes. The late afternoon light was spilling across the parquet floor, where the reflections of the chandeliers swayed gently. The tables had been set with millimetric precision — white linens so crisp they could have been paper, glassware sparkling.

The room was already filled with guests, most strangers to Natalia—friends of Dmitri, she guessed. He had a habit of collecting people like trinkets from a faraway market: poets, painters, and aristocrats who had too much money and absolutely no concept of shame. It was a relief, really. Small talk with strangers was easier than dodging someone she actually knew.

Someone like Nicholas of Romania, she thought, glancing nervously toward the entrance.

If she were lucky, he’d arrive after Tata did. Tata had a sharp tongue and an even sharper sense of timing, and Natalia desperately needed both tonight. With Tata, she could face Nicholas with the same breezy indifference she'd practised in front of the mirror that morning. Without Tata? It would be like going to war with no armour and a spoon for a weapon.

The evening wore on, and the chandeliers dimmed to a golden glow that made everything—people, jewels, and even the wallpaper—look softer, richer, more expensive. Natalia sipped her champagne, feeling more at ease now that she’d spotted some familiar faces from Paris. Childhood friends she hadn’t seen in years pulled her into rounds of laughter and memories of ridiculous escapades, most of which she barely remembered but pretended to for the sake of the fun.

Just as one of them was recounting a story about a disastrous picnic in the Bois de Boulogne, Natalia noticed the shift in the air. The faint, almost imperceptible change in energy that only ever meant one thing: royalty had entered the room.

She glanced toward the entrance, and sure enough, there she was—Queen Marie of Romania, glowing like a star fallen to earth in a gown that sparkled as if every sequin had been hand-kissed by the sun. She swept in with grand authority, flanked by her children like minor planets caught in her orbit. Natalia didn’t mean to stare, but it was like watching a parade march straight through a garden party.

Her gaze moved quickly over them. Elizabeth looked profoundly unimpressed as if being at the Ritz was some kind of punishment. George of Greece beside her, all politeness and patience, like a man well-practised in the art of enduring family gatherings. Ileana, bright-eyed and smiling as if she’d never seen a dull day in her life. Carol—good grief, that man always looked like he’d been forced into a pair of too-tight shoes. And then… Nicholas.

Natalia's breath caught in her chest like she’d just swallowed a button. He stood at the edge of the group, his eyes scanning the room with lazy, unbothered curiosity. He looked exactly the same, of course. The same easy posture and air of quiet amusement like he was in on some private joke the rest of them would never understand. The exact athletic figure, the same grey eyes that stared deep into her own and made her feel all sorts of strange, inappropriate things.

Her stomach did something deeply inconvenient: it recognised how he still looked every bit as attractive and charming as he did that night, even before her brain did the same.

She shook her head and scolded herself inwardly. Don’t panic. Don’t look at him. Act naturally. She yanked her attention back to her friends with the focus of someone disarming a bomb. Conversation, yes. Focus on the conversation.

“Anyway,” she said loudly, cutting across one of her friends mid-story, “did you hear about that gallery in Montmartre that’s only letting people in if they wear red? Apparently, it’s supposed to ‘heighten the artistic experience.’ Ridiculous, right?”

Her friends blinked at her, momentarily confused. “What gallery?” one of them asked.

Natalia floundered. “You know... the gallery. The one with the..." she waved a hand vaguely, "the...portraits of dogs. Very abstract. Quite controversial.”

One of them squinted at her. “Are you talking about La Galerie Rousse?”

“Yes!” Natalia said, pointing at them like they’d just solved a great mystery. “That’s it. The one with the dogs. Very scandalous. The critics were in an uproar.”

“That’s not a real gallery, Natalia,” one of them replied flatly.

“Isn’t it?” She faked a laugh and downed the rest of her champagne. Stay cool. Stay casual. Stay completely uninterested in the man currently walking directly toward you.

Her spine stiffened as she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision. No, no, no, absolutely not. He’s really coming over. She locked her eyes on her friend’s face with an intensity that could shatter glass. Look busy. Look extremely, wildly busy.

“So,” she said too brightly, “what’s everyone's opinion on modern hats?” Her voice climbed into the upper registers of polite hysteria. “Do we think they’ve peaked, or is there still room for innovation?”

Her friends stared at her like she’d just asked them to comment on the mating habits of squirrels.

“Are you all right, Natalia?” one of them asked, half-concerned, half-amused.

“Perfectly fine,” she said, her voice a shade too sharp. “Just curious about hats.”

“...Hats?”

“Yes, hats!” she barked, her eyes darting sideways. He was getting closer. She could hear his unhurried and steady footsteps, like a clock ticking toward something inevitable.

Her heart did a ridiculous flip that she firmly told it to stop doing. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night, and she certainly wasn’t going to let him walk in here like it meant something. It had meant nothing, obviously. It was just a stupid, alcohol-fueled kiss that had come out of nowhere and vanished just as fast. A blip in the timeline. A misplaced footnote. Barely even a memory. And yet.

"Well, I think hats are due for a comeback,” she said, speaking far too quickly. “Not enough statement hats these days. Bring back feathers, I say. Feathers for all occasions. Weddings, funerals, Tuesday afternoons—feathers!” She threw her hands for emphasis, and one of her friends laughed.

It was at that exact moment that Nicholas arrived.

“Feathers?” he said, all smug familiarity, his voice too close to her ear.

Natalia froze, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Slowly, with the composure of someone removing a large spider from their shoulder, she turned her head and faced him.

“Feathers,” she said, tilting her chin higher than necessary. “They’re timeless.”

“Are they?” He grinned like she’d handed him a gift. “I’ll have to get a few for myself, then.”

Walk away, she thought. Say something cutting and walk away. But he didn’t walk away. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes crinkled with amusement, and she realized—oh, he was enjoying this.

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” she asked.

“There’s no one else I enjoy bothering quite as much as you,” Nicholas replied, leaning in just a fraction closer, keeping his grin as cocky as ever.

She scanned the room again, hoping to see Tata sweeping in like a storm cloud, ready to barrel between them with one of her wicked one-liners. No luck. No Tata. No rescue. She would have to do this by herself.

“Will you all excuse us for a moment?” she said sweetly to the group.

Before anyone could respond, she seized Nicholas by the arm with the grip of a determined older sister dragging a mischievous little brother out of a candy store. He let out a soft, amused “oh?” but didn’t resist, following her with an easy, almost lazy stride, as if being yanked around by Natalia was a perfectly normal part of his evening plans.

She led him to a secluded corner of the room, partly hidden behind an enormous potted plant that smelled vaguely of citrus. The moment they were out of sight, she spun on him with the sharp precision of a soldier executing an about-face.

"What is wrong with you?" she hissed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. "You do not just stroll up to me like that in front of everyone."

Nicholas tilted his head as his gaze slowly dropped to her hand, still gripping his arm.

"Far from me wanting to contradict you, Natalia," he said casually, "but hauling me across the room like a sack of potatoes didn't strike me as a particularly discreet way of handling the situation."

Natalia yanked her hand back at once. Her eyes darted around the room to see if anyone had noticed. Nobody seemed to be looking their way, but she could still feel the imaginary eyes on her. Her cheeks flushed hot as she tried to win back the conversation, but of course, Nicholas wouldn't let her.

“Don’t be clever,” she muttered. “What happened between us was a one-time mistake. A lapse in judgment. A—a momentary lapse of all rational thought.” Her eyes darted back to him. “I would very much like to forget about it. And so should you.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, his lips twitching as if holding back a smile.

“All this feistiness because of one little kiss?” he asked, leaning in ever so slightly. “I must’ve done something right.”

Natalia gasped at sheer audacity.

“You did absolutely nothing; you just don't look like the sort of person who would be able to keep a secret. I'm just making sure we're clear about where we stand.”

Nicholas chuckled. “Clear as day. I'm a dark spot on your immaculate record, and I should keep my mouth shut about it. Got it.”

Natalia blinked, unsure if he was being serious or just using one of his tricks. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, waiting for some tell, some flicker of amusement, but his face remained infuriatingly neutral.

“Good,” she said as she started to turn around. “I’m glad we’ve clarified this. Now we can move on with our lives.”

Nicholas, however, wasn’t done.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, leading Natalia to look back at him again. And, just as she did, he dropped his tone to a low, intimate whisper. “What did you think I was going to do? Sweep you off your feet, pine you against the nearest pillar and kiss you in the middle of the room?”

The worst thing about Natalia's reaction to those words was that she knew exactly what he was doing. The smirk, tone, and imagery were all meant to shock her, to make her flustered. And it worked. She was feeling hot and flustered, but not in the way she had imagined, not out of embarrassment, but rather because the description was so vivid that she found herself playing it in her mind.

Nicholas looked exactly like the type of person who had vast experience pinning unsuspected women against pillars. Yes, she could almost feel the cold of the marble against her back, his hands firm on her waist, keeping her in place. That clean, sharp cedar-and-tobacco scent she remembered too vividly from that night made her head feel light. She could see the intensity in his grey eyes as he watched her, focused only on her, for once not grinning, just there. And then he’d dip his head, slow at first, testing the waters, close enough for her to feel the breath between them. Her own breath would hitch, but she wouldn’t push him away, and when she didn’t, his kiss would shift, firm and consuming, with all that pent-up energy he hid behind his endless sarcasm —

Her breath stuttered. Her cheeks went hot as fire. Stop it. Stop it right now.

She jerked herself back to reality, but it was too late. The feeling the image stirred in her lingered, uninvited, curling low in her stomach in a way she had never felt before. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and she asked herself over and over again what was wrong with her.

Nicholas’s grin widened, slow and wolfish, as he watched her wrestle with herself. His gaze flickered towards her, showing he knew exactly what she had been thinking. Of course, he did.

“Come now, Natalia,” he said softly, full of mock innocence. “Control those sinful thoughts.”

His eyes crinkled with delight, and he grinned at her unbearably smugly. “My mother and my sisters are here. Do you really think I’d do something like that? I'm on my best behaviour.”

Her nails dug into her palms as she forced herself to stay calm and collected. She had already lost this round, letting him read too much into the strange thoughts that crept into her mind anytime he walked into a room.

“You just might be the most infuriating person I have ever met in my life,” she hissed under her breath, preparing to turn around again.

“Actually,” Nicholas said, making her stop on tracks again.

When she looked at him, Natalia still had the slightest, the most flimsical of hopes that he was going to apologize for his behaviour. Say something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry, I was just teasing you, that's what I do. I respect you for setting your boundaries, and I won't cross the line ever again’.

“There really was an important thing I wanted to ask you when I walked up to you,” he continued.

Natalia raised her chin and felt her dignity slowly returning to her. Of course he had wanted to talk about the kiss, she wasn’t an idiot. It was a great kiss, and although it meant nothing in the long run, it was good that he was shedding his pretence of indifference and admitting that he had been affected by it. Natalia was going to be kind in her rejection after all there wasn’t anything wrong with him per se, other than his unbearable cockiness and -

“Do you think you could introduce me to your brother?”

Her thoughts screeched to a halt.

She blinked at him, her brow furrowing as she processed the words.

"...What?"

“Your brother,” he said, completely unbothered by her reaction. “I’ve been meaning to meet him. The way he rode today was just unbelievable. Incredible form. Sharp, precise, and completely in control. If it were up to me, he would have won the gold. The Swiss was very thorough, but he lacked emotion. The way your brother and his horse interacted, you could almost feel how much they respected each other.”

Natalia’s confusion deepened. She had stopped listening to the words coming out of his mouth, but it seemed to her that he was genuinely interested in Dmitri’s performance earlier. She blinked again, unsure if she’d misheard him.

"You... want to meet Dmitri?"

Nicholas nodded as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Yes, exactly. I was hoping you’d introduce me. I’d like to congratulate him. Maybe even get a few pointers.”

He smiled at her, almost kindly, though the sparkle in his eye was anything but innocent.

“I’m an amateur rider myself,” he added. “I feel like there’s always room to learn.”

Natalia stared at him, completely thrown.

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?” she asked, her voice slower, quieter this time, like she was afraid of the answer.

Nicholas tilted his head at her, his brows lifting in mild confusion. “Yes,” he said simply. “What else would it be?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. The air suddenly felt too warm, and she could feel her pulse in her neck.

Nicholas apparently took her silence as uncertain and added, “I figured you’d forgotten about that night anyway. We’d both had a bit too much to drink, didn’t we?” He let out a short laugh, light and breezy. “Honestly, I can hardly remember all the details myself.”

It was like the ground dropped out from under her.

Her heart gave a strange lurch, but she couldn't say why. This was good, wasn't it? If he didn’t care, then there was nothing for her to worry about. It meant it wasn't important if he didn’t remember the details. It hadn’t kept him up at night, so why should it keep her up at night?

But her hands, which had gone still at her sides, slowly curled into fists.

She had felt every single detail of that moment imprinted on her mind with vivid clarity. The exact tilt of his head, the rasp of his breath, the way he’d pulled her in like it had been inevitable. She could still feel it if she let herself. And now he was telling her he’d forgotten it? Hardly remembered the details?

Her face burned with fresh humiliation.

“Oh,” she said quietly, unable to keep her voice from sounding small. “Of course.”

She tried to sound unaffected like she agreed with a perfectly normal, rational statement, but she could feel the prick of something sharp beneath her skin. Her gaze dropped, and she focused on the buttons of his jacket instead of his face.

“Forget I brought it up,” she added, the words coming out too fast.

Nicholas's smile flickered for just a second — so quick she might have imagined it. But then it was back, smooth and easy as ever.

“Consider it forgotten,” he said cheerfully as if he were doing her a favour.

Her eyes darted back up to his face, searching for any sign of mockery, some hint that he was playing with her. But all she saw was him. Calm, relaxed, completely in control.

She hated him.

"Right, well," she muttered, her hands smoothing the fabric of her skirt with quick, agitated movements. "I’ll be sure to send Dmitri your way."

“Perfect,” Nicholas said, his smile growing a touch wider

He gave a polite nod of thanks, and before she could say anything else, he turned and strolled away in slow, deliberate and unbothered steps.

Natalia stood rooted to the spot, fixing her gaze on his retreating figure. Her heart was still thudding, but now it wasn’t from embarrassment.

She should have been relieved. She’d spent weeks dreading this exact moment — the inevitable conversation about that night — and now it had come and gone with barely a scratch. He didn’t care. He’d practically forgotten.

So why did she feel like she’d lost something?

Chapter Text

“He said he didn’t even remember the details. I mean… who the hell says something as insensitive as that?”

After finishing her sentence, Natalia gulped the rest of the contents of her glass of champagne. Tata had finally shown up to the party, and Natalia was filling her in on her disastrous meeting with Nicholas. They both sat in a corner, glaring at him from across the room. He was now talking to Dmitri, happy as a child, while he gestured with his arm up and down, seemingly mimicking the jumps Dmitri and his horse made on the field. ‘They are really talking about horses!’ she thought to herself, still feeling the wave of humiliation burning her face.

“Men are dogs, Natasha. I’m sorry that you had to find out this way, but the earlier you know, the more heartache you save yourself,” Tata replied, perched on top of a mountain of wisdom Natalia didn’t know her friend had built. “That’s why I dragged you away from him that night. Sometimes you just have to take a look at someone to know they’re bad news.”

Natalia sighed and played around with the empty cup in her hands as she glanced over at Nicholas again. At that precise moment, he didn’t look particularly dangerous. His full grin lit up his entire face and made him look like a little boy, but she understood what Tata meant. She was talking about the other Nicholas, the one who so confidently had lured her into a kiss and made her have unsavoury thoughts about pillars.

“He knew it was my first kiss,” she said quietly. Her tone was steadier now but no less wounded. “I told him. He must have known I’d always remember it. It’s not like I’d kissed anyone before him… and I haven’t since.” She gave a hollow laugh, her eyes still on Nicholas. “Of course I’d remember every detail.”

Tata’s gaze softened, and she leaned forward, nodding slowly as if she understood every unspoken word in Natalia’s heart. 

“That’s because it was important to you,” Tata said, her voice quiet but firm. “But men… don’t really see first kisses like we do. They’re always so busy pretending nothing affects them. But don’t you dare feel bad, Natasha. He’s the one who should be ashamed. Not you.”

Natalia’s gaze lingered on Nicholas for a heartbeat longer before she pulled her eyes away, letting out a breath she’d been holding. “Yeah,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “He should be.”

She remained silent for a long moment, then looked at Tata as doubt crept into her mind. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her glass, and she hesitated as she tried to find the right words to formulate her question.

“Tata,” she started slowly, glancing away for a moment before finally looking at her friend again. “Has Bodia ever… I mean, has he ever treated you like that?”

Tata’s eyes widened, undeniably surprised at the question. She blinked rapidly, and her cheeks flushed briefly before she composed herself. It wasn’t a subject they’d ever openly discussed, and it felt strange to do so now. After all, it had only been only a few days since Natalia discovered their relationship. But she made sure to show Tata that this wasn’t really about her and Vladimir—she was just trying to find answers in the confusing world of love and relationships.

“Of course not,” Tata finally replied firmly. “Vladimir is… different. He’s thoughtful and patient in a way most men aren’t. He actually listens—not just to the words coming out of my mouth but to what I’m not saying, too. When I’m upset, he doesn’t try to fix it for me. He just… stays. I know that if I need anything, he’ll come rushing to help.”

Her eyes grew distant momentarily as if she were replaying certain memories. “And he’s considerate. Even when I’ve told him he’s thinking too much about my feelings, he doesn’t stop. It’s like he’s trying to show me that he’s safe. He’s never tried to humiliate me. Not once. I think that matters more than people realize.”

Natalia’s eyes softened, and she smiled at the affection Tata was trying so hard to hide, but it was crystal clear in her eyes.

“That sounds wonderful,” Natalia admitted.

Tata’s gaze flickered, and her smile lingered longer than before, gentler this time. She nodded slowly, agreeing not just with Natalia’s words but with something she’d been thinking about for a while.

“Yeah,” Tata said softly, almost to herself. “It does.”

A pause stretched between them, not uncomfortable but thoughtful. Natalia’s fingers fidgeted with the fabric of her skirt, her gaze flicking to Tata’s face and back down again. She bit her lip before finally speaking, unsure if she should do it but daring to ask anyway because her curiosity was too much to contain.

“So why don’t you give him a chance?” she asked, glancing up nervously. Her tone was light but undeniably hopeful.

Tata’s eyes snapped back to Natalia’s, sharp but not unkind. Her smile didn’t fade, but it shifted into something more guarded, her brows lifting just slightly. She hesitated as if weighing her words carefully to avoid hurting Natalia.

“Because I don’t need to be taken care of, Natasha,” she replied simply, clearly but gently. “I need an equal. Someone who’s not afraid to challenge me or be challenged in return.” Her gaze grew distant again, her next words slower, more deliberate. “And… I have this strange feeling that the more people know about us, the more they’ll want to ruin it.”

Natalia nodded slowly. She knew Tata well enough to know that most of what she had just told her were just lies she told herself in order not to get too attached, but, unwillingly, Tata had revealed a glimpse of the real reason why she was so adamant in hiding her relationship with Vladimir. After a moment of hesitation, Natalia took a deep breath and asked the question she knew Tata didn’t like to answer.

“By ‘more people’, do you mean your mother?”

Tata’s entire posture shifted, her back stiffening as though bracing for impact. Her eyes darted away from Natalia’s, and her jaw tightened just slightly.

“No,” she said too quickly.

Natalia tilted her head and squinted at her friend, giving her a look that said ‘you can fool anyone you’d like, but you can’t fool me’. Tata understood the undertone, and her fingers drummed once on her knee before she exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together. She didn’t look at Natalia. Instead, she fixed her gaze on some distant, invisible point ahead of her.

“Maybe,” Tata finally admitted in a quick whisper. “Maybe a part of it is because of her, but not all.”

When she lifted her eyes, Natalia didn’t see their usual brightness or sharpness; she saw only exhaustion and sadness.

“She’d love nothing more than to ruin this for me,” Tata said bitterly. “You know how she is. She’s always needed to be at the centre of everything. If she’s not, she makes sure nobody else gets to be either.”

Her eyes flickered to Natalia for a brief second before darting away again.

“I can already hear her talking about how I’m ‘abandoning’ her and George, how I’m selfish for wanting something of my own. And it’s never straightforward, you know?” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “It’s just little things, little comments about how I’m looking tired, or how I’m getting too thin, or too careless, or too... something. I'm never good enough in her eyes. It’s like she’s planting seeds she knows will grow into doubts later.”

Tata stopped for a moment to catch her breath.

“And just the thought that someday Vladimir might find himself alone with her—” She stopped abruptly, inhaling deeply through her nose as if she’d said too much. Her eyes shifted to Natalia’s, and she saw the unguarded fear crossing her face. “I can only imagine the things she’d say to him. She’d smile sweetly the whole time, too.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she shook her head, clearly furious at herself for letting it slip. Natalia’s jaw tightened, her vision blurring red at the edges with each word Tata spoke. She’d always known Tata’s mother was difficult—self-absorbed, controlling—but this? This was something far crueller. The sheer subtlety of it made Natalia’s skin crawl. Her heart ached for her friend, for how much of this Tata had clearly been carrying alone. It wasn’t like her to talk about it, and the fact that she was doing so now told Natalia just how much it had been eating at her.

“But I’d be lying if I said it’s just that,” Tata added, glancing at Natalia with a wry smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You know as well as I do that Vladimir and I don’t have much in common. I’m not exactly the ‘quietly support your husband’ type, am I? He’s happy just grading essays and writing his latest manuscript while I’m out there looking for something—I don’t even know what, just... something more. I’ve spent so long under my mother’s thumb, I’m not in a rush to land in another cage, even if it’s one of my own making.”

She took a deep breath, and for the first time, she let herself look directly at Natalia, her gaze open and unflinching.

“I don’t know, Natasha. It feels like too much effort—facing my mother, disappointing everyone who’s rooting for us—just for something that’s probably doomed to fail the test of time. It’s just so much work, and for what? So I can hope, maybe, that this thing will survive?”

She let out a short, humourless laugh, shaking her head. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“No,” Natalia said firmly, but Tata didn’t seem to hear her.

“And it’s a shame,” Tata went on. “Because your brother might just be the most handsome, sensible, wonderful man I’ve ever seen in my life. I really just want to cuddle him every time he walks into a room.”

She tried to scoff, but the sound came out wrong, too soft and too sad.

Natalia’s chest ached at the sight of her friend’s barely concealed pain. She reached out and pulled Tata into a firm hug, wrapping her arms tightly around her. Tata held herself stiffly at first, like always, but then her shoulders began to tremble. Her breaths came faster, sharp little gasps against Natalia’s shoulder, and before long, her chest was rising and falling in quiet, broken sobs. Natalia didn’t say anything or try to tell her it would be fine. She just held her as tightly as she could. It was a good thing they were tucked away in a quiet corner, half-hidden from the party’s main path, or else she’d bet her life that Vladimir would already be rushing over to check if Tata was alright.

After a long moment, Tata’s breathing steadied. She pulled away, wiping her eyes with the side of her palm, shaking her head as if scolding herself for getting emotional.

“Well, look at us,” Natalia said with a grin, her eyes shining but dry. “Aren’t we the life of the party?”

Tata let out a small, breathy laugh that quickly grew into something fuller. It started quietly but gained momentum as they both realized how ridiculous they must look, standing here like two tragic heroines in their finest Parisian dresses while everyone around them was dancing and having a good time. The more they thought about it, the funnier it became until their laughter spiralled into something uncontrolled and breathless.

“I don’t know about you,” Natalia said, still catching her breath as she stood. “But I’ve been stuck inside my house for six months, and I’m not about to waste my first night out just because men are pigs or too sweet or whatever it is they do to drive us mad.”

She extended a hand to Tata, her grin bright and defiant. “Shall we drink one more glass of champagne and dance these idiotic thoughts away?”

Tata wiped her eyes again, grinning as she took Natalia’s hand, and they started walking back toward the party's heart. But just as they reached the edge of the crowd, Natalia stopped abruptly.

“Wait,” she said, turning to face Tata. Her face was serious now, though her eyes remained kind. “Can I just say something?”

Tata’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but there was a hint of amusement too.

“When have I ever been able to stop you?” she quipped.

Natalia huffed a small laugh, then tilted her head slightly. “I’m not trying to sell my brother here, I swear. You know as well as I do that he was born devoid of any sense of fun and still hasn’t figured out how to find it. But…”

At that point, Natalia looked deep into Tata’s eyes with the most serious expression she had ever conjured in the presence of her friend.

“If you want someone who won’t care what your mother is going to say and who is going to defend you and make you feel like you are the most amazing person in the world, then you don’t need to look anywhere else,” Natalia paused for a moment, to confirm if Tata was really listening to what she was saying and then she continued. “It’s not easy for him to let people in, but when he does, he’s all in. He doesn’t waver. If your mother dared to say even one bad word about you in front of him, he wouldn’t just walk away from her—he’d cut her off without hesitation. No second chances. He’d stand with you every single time, Tata.”

Tata looked at her wide-eyed, absorbing every word and breathing slowly. Almost imperceptibly, Natalia saw her gazing at the party, and she knew she was searching for Vladimir.

“That being said,” she continued with a sudden shift in tone, “you should know that he always buys two copies of the same book—one in Russian, one in French—and then reads them both on the same day. Don’t ask me why. He’s convinced he’ll catch some ‘subtle nuances’ in translation. He also disappears for hours to do it, and if you’re unlucky enough to walk past him while he’s at it, he’ll drag you in to point out every difference. Once, I spent an hour—an hour—listening to him debate whether a paragraph in an 1812 edition of Pushkin used an en dash or an em dash.”

Tata’s face broke into a grin, and her laugh came quickly, bright and honest.

“Oh, I’m not done,” Natalia said, dead serious. “He leaves his books everywhere. I’m not talking about a pile or two on a table. I’m talking about stacks and stacks of books in every room in which he spends more than two hours. My mother tolerates it because she birthed him, but anyone else would lose their mind. I’m just saying—you still have time to run.”

Tata nodded, her laughter still lingering on her lips. But as they reentered the party, her steps slowed. Her breath caught, and all the colour drained from her face.

Natalia noticed the shift immediately, glancing toward her.

“What—” she started, but the sudden rise of gasps and murmurs from the crowd stopped her cold. Her eyes darted to the growing circle of people just ahead.

Crown Prince Carol was at its centre—staggering back, his hand pressed against his jaw, eyes flickering with shock. His gaze darted to his attacker.

Vladimir.

He stood there, breathing hard, his fist still curled, like he was ready to strike again. His eyes followed Carol with an intensity that silenced every whisper in the room. No one moved, no one spoke. The stillness was absolute as if the entire party had been frozen in a moment of disbelief.

Chapter Text

Vladimir

The party had been going well. The music was pleasant, and Vladimir had the chance to talk to some of his old childhood friends from Paris who, in some cases, he hadn't seen in years. People who shared his interest in writing and with whom he felt he could have a fruitful conversation on the subject. That was what he loved the most about Paris: unlike in Petrograd, not every conversation centred on the army, politics or unbridled gossip. It was actually possible to discuss ideas, philosophy, writing styles and methods without the fear of being labelled as “soft” or “unmanly” for it.

He was mid-conversation, discussing the merits of unreliable narrators in fiction when the atmosphere shifted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone approaching. His friend, who had been animated just seconds ago, faltered mid-sentence. His eyes darted over Vladimir's shoulder, widening in a way that could only mean that someone important had arrived. Vladimir turned, tightening his fingers around his glass of champagne. And then, he nearly dropped it.

Standing behind him, sharp and unmistakable in a tailored midnight-blue suit, was none other than Crown Prince Carol of Romania.

“Well, if it isn't the Poet Prince!” He blasted.

Before Vladimir could react, Carol stepped in and clapped him hard on the shoulder, the kind of pat that wasn't meant to comfort. It lingered just a second too long, firm enough to be felt through the fabric of his jacket.

It took Vladimir a moment to understand if the scene playing out right in front of his eyes was real. He only had two glasses of champagne, which was not nearly enough to hallucinate, but still, he could not fully understand why Carol had come to him. He tried to think if they had ever been formally introduced but could not remember that ever happening.

“Don't look so surprised. I know I don’t look like the sort of man who enjoys poetry, but I’ve read all your books,” Carol explained in a tone that came across as condescending.

Vladimir’s first instinct was disbelief. He almost laughed at the thought of Carol reading poetry. It just didn’t fit the image he had created in his mind. This was a man who spent his life among officers and generals, men who could name every cavalry manoeuvre in Europe but wouldn’t know Pushkin from a pastry. But Carol was still watching him, still smiling, and that was when Vladimir knew for certain he wasn’t joking. He blinked once, slowly, as if to clear a fog from his mind.

“I’m flattered,” Vladimir said, schooling his voice into neutrality. “I didn’t think you had the time for those sorts of books.”

Carol chuckled low in his throat.

“I make time for things that interest me.” His eyes didn’t move. Not once. “Besides, my wife keeps them by her side all the time, and she’s a mystery to me, so I’d figure I should just read them to see what all the fuss was about. Trying to understand her a little better, you know?”

For a moment, Vladimir felt like he'd been struck in two places simultaneously. Although Carol kept his outward appearance of amusement and casualness, there was something ugly in his tone, something so bitter and small that it was impossible for Vladimir not to feel it. It was a veiled accusation disguised as praise, and he knew it all too well. But, at the same time, the bitter taste that Carol had left with his veiled comments gave way to the tender thought that, even after all these years, it was not only Vladimir who had kept a special place in his heart for Olga. Despite all appearances, it seemed that she had kept one for him, too.

“Did you get any answers?” Vladimir asked casually after a moment as if there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary with Carol’s curiosity.

“A few,” Carol said, his grin never faltering. “But not the ones I was looking for.”

Vladimir stayed silent, watching him with the stillness of a man unwilling to give away more than he had to. The pause stretched long enough for Carol to notice, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it only emboldened him.

“There was one poem in particular that caught my fancy, you know?” He asked, but Vladimir knew he wasn’t expecting an answer. “From your third book. In fact, if I may say so, your third book, in particular, always… ignites my imagination, so to speak.”

It was taking Vladimir all of his self-control not to gulp as he felt a tight knot forming in his throat. He had published five books so far, each reflecting a specific time of his life. He always poured his heart and soul into his poems; they were a reflection and a sort of therapy for all the emotions he had felt since his adolescence. Practically every poem in his third book had been about Olga, the void he had felt when she left for exile, and the guilt that had consumed him, knowing he had been partially responsible for her pain.

The great thing about poetry was how one could bend words and structures so that a message was perceptible only to the person it was meant to be sent. Up until that moment, he had believed he had been subtle in his approach, writing poems that only Olga would understand were meant for her, but now he wondered if Carol had somehow discovered the meaning behind them.

“There was one in particular,” Carol continued. “Something about August being cold, I believe, which I found particularly interesting.”

Vladimir knew he had frowned and hated himself for it, hated that he was giving Carol the satisfaction of a reaction, but the words hit too close for him to remain completely indifferent. Carol knew what the poems were about. Of course he did. Why else would he choose that poem in particular? He had written ‘That Cold Month of August’ about the only time he had ever kissed Olga, by the lake of the Alexander Palace. He knew it by heart:

Her eyes met mine, not with hope or regret,

Only the truth that one never forgets.

One kiss, like a thread pulled free from a seam,

Soft as the sound of a wing through the air.

The world stood still, a half-finished dream —

Gone as quick as a shadow laid bare.

I think of it often, that still, quiet shore,

Where the reeds knew more than they ever let on.

August will end, and the frost will endure,

But the warmth of her breath will never be gone.

“She’s exactly what you’d expect of a princess, you know,” Carol continued, tilting his head as if sharing some private insight. “Cold as a winter's day. Frosty smiles, polite indifference, and not a drop of warmth for her own husband.” He gave a low, humourless laugh before continuing. “Runs away to England to be with her family every chance she gets and then acts all surprised when others take over the place she leaves empty in her marriage bed.”

Vladimir tightened his fingers around the stem of the glass, trying to suppress the bolt of bitter, angry adrenaline Carol’s words were making him feel. Vladimir could take any swipe, any offence Carol was ready to throw at him without batting an eye, but humiliating Olga, talking of her with such a blatant lack of respect, was making every hair in his arms rise. He had to look around to remind himself that he was standing in the middle of a party, surrounded by dozens of people. He was there to celebrate Dmitri’s success, not to indulge in whatever little game Carol was playing.

“The way I see it,” Vladimir said, keeping his tone neutral. “If someone is happy, they don’t run away. Quite the contrary, they do everything in their power to protect that happiness because it’s so rare to come by it, isn’t it?”

The corners of Carol’s mouth twisted into a frosty smile.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that one can’t really be happy in our position. I mean… my position.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over Vladimir with disdain. “I imagine you don’t have to face these kinds of challenges. You could marry a farmer’s daughter, and no one would care. Nothing would change.” He paused, letting the words linger. “But in my case, one has to choose wisely. And let me tell you, at first, Olga seemed like quite a bargain. The eldest daughter of the Tsar. Not the prettiest by any means, but also not the worst-looking girl I’d seen.”

Vladimir’s breath came slower, deeper. The edges of his vision blurred for a moment as his focus zeroed in on Carol’s face, and his mind grappled with the sheer audacity of what he was hearing. His jaw ached—he’d been clenching it without realizing it. He took a sharp breath through his nose.

“At first, she was all affectionate and ready for fun,” Carol continued. “If you know what I mean.” He raised his brows as if they shared some sordid understanding. “She was pregnant before the wedding if you’d believe it. Didn’t mind it much at the time. I thought, well, better to secure the line sooner rather than later. But after Mircea was born, it was as if something froze over inside her. No warmth, no tenderness. Just coldness, every day since.”

Vladimir’s chest rose and fell steadily. Now, he heard his breathing louder in his own ears. Glancing down at the glass in his hand, he wondered if it might shatter from the force of his grip.

“And that’s another thing, isn’t it?” Carol continued. “You marry a princess, you think you’re securing your bloodline, guaranteeing something strong, something pure. But what do I get?” He leaned in slightly, his eyes glittering with cruel amusement. “A sick son. A fragile, brittle child who might not live long enough to inherit my throne. Isn’t that ironic?”

The words echoed in Vladimir’s ears, louder than the murmur of party guests, louder than the soft clinking of champagne flutes around them. He no longer saw the crowd. It was just Carol in front of him—Carol, sneering, smug, daring him to do something, to react.

"It’s funny how she acts all moral, like she is above me somehow. But, in the end, she chose me, didn’t she? She chose the crown and title. She could have chosen a dream, a poet, but no. She chose a king. Doesn’t that tell you all you need to know about her character?"

Vladimir didn’t realize he had dropped his glass until he heard its sharp snap against the marble floor. He saw shards scattered at his feet, and the world seemed to stop for a brief, breathless moment. All the air drained from the room, and every eye turned toward them just in time to see Vladimir’s fist crash into Carol’s face with a loud crack. Carol’s head jerked back violently, and he stumbled, stumbling and almost hitting the floor.

Gasps erupted from the crowd. Voices shouted in shock, and footsteps rushed toward them, but Vladimir’s gaze didn’t waver. His breathing was sharp, and his eyes locked on Carol, whose hand pressed against his face as he slowly straightened. His eyes were wide with disbelief and something darker, something colder.

“Don’t you ever,” Vladimir’s voice was low, hard as iron, “ever speak about her like that again.”

And then, he walked away. He saw Dmitri coming in his direction, probably thinking he needed to restrain him, but Vladimir shook his head, signalling that he was done and that he was already leaving. He could still hear Carol shouting after him, telling him to turn around and fight like a man, but he ignored it. He did what needed to be done, and he didn’t feel a shred of guilt over it.

The room was stiflingly quiet now. Every gaze fell on him —some wide with shock, others narrowed in judgment. He saw their faces as he passed: eyes darting, lips pressed into tight lines, heads tilting toward one another. The sensation of being on display, like some oddity in a window shop, made his skin crawl, but he kept his eyes ahead, his head high, refusing to grant them even the satisfaction of acknowledgement. That was until he saw Tata.

At least she was not alone; Natalia was holding her, and Vladimir was deeply grateful to his sister for that. Tata wasn’t whispering like the others. She wasn’t looking away. Her eyes were fixed on him, wide with something between disbelief and disappointment. Her lips parted as if she might say something, but no words came. She just stared at him, motionless.

The self-assurance that had carried him out of the room, the resolve that had stiffened his spine—it all faltered when he saw her. Carol’s taunts and the stares of strangers were meaningless compared to how her gaze cut through him, as if she was looking at some stranger she knew nothing about.

His steps slowed for just a moment. He turned his head, fully meeting her gaze. His face softened, his brows pulling together in a silent apology. They didn’t need to say anything; they had perfected the art of communicating through their eyes. For good measure, Vladimir also pressed his lips into a faint, remorseful line, just so she could fully understand how sorry he was that she had to see that.

Then he looked away, his jaw tightening once more. Without another pause, he continued toward the door, quicker than before, as if putting distance between them might lessen the weight pressing on his chest. His exit was as sharp as his arrival had been, and when the heavy doors closed behind him, the world inside the room felt suddenly colder, quieter, and infinitely more uncertain.

Chapter Text

Vladimir sat on the back stairs of the Ritz, his elbows braced on his knees and a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. The warm night air clung to his skin, but he paid no mind, letting it settle around him as he watched the cars and people pass by on the street below. His knuckles throbbed in a dull, persistent ache that he felt each time he flexed his fingers. He glanced down at them, the skin split and raw, and grimaced at the sight.

Why couldn’t he hold himself back? He’d known what Carol was doing—prodding him, testing his patience with every barb. It had been so obvious. And yet, all it had taken was one more remark, one more sharp twist of the knife, and he'd behaved like a fool who didn’t know how to control his anger.

His lip curled as he replayed it in his mind, the way Carol’s face had shifted from smug to shocked in an instant. There had been a flicker of satisfaction in the blow—that brief, brutal impact of knuckles against bone—but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

If Carol had said the same thing about any of his sisters, he’d have done the same. He reasoned that he’d have done it for any woman as his brow furrowed and he flicked ash from the cigarette. Respect demanded it. Honour demanded it. And yet, as he sat there, nursing his bruised hand, he couldn’t quite settle the doubt this whole thing had ignited in his mind.

Was it only that? Would he have reacted the same way if this hadn’t been about Olga? Had he really been defending her honour, or had something in that last provocation hurt his pride? He would be lying to himself if, throughout the years, that exact same thought hadn't crossed his mind more than once. Olga chose a future King over a poet, knowing from the start that she would probably never be happy with him. He was fully aware that it had been hard for her to forgive him after his role in the Coup, but was it all there was to it? Could there be some truth in what Carol had said?

He shook his head and took a deep breath, hoping to chase the dark thoughts away. No, Olga would not have chosen Carol if she didn't have a good reason, and he was certain that reason had nothing to do with ambition. She was most likely thinking of her family and how the match could help them. 

Once his thoughts about Olga were settled, though, his breath hitched as he thought of Tata, about the way she’d looked at him before he’d stormed out. He’d expected anger, maybe disappointment. But her gaze had been something else entirely - something sharper, deeper, and more unforgiving than any reprimand. It pierced him, leaving him hollow and aching in a way that no punch ever could.

The distant thud of a door opening pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as he peered back up the stairwell. He heard the unhurried footsteps echoing softly against the stone, and for a moment, he thought a member of the staff was coming outside to take a break. But he was wrong. It was Tata.

She stepped into view, carrying a small bundle wrapped in a linen cloth. Her gaze found him instantly, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. She descended the last few steps, stopping just short of him, and sat by his side. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air between them.

“You’re an idiot,” she said. There was no venom in it, only fact.

He gave a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head as he glanced away. “You’re not wrong.”

Without saying a word, she lifted his hand and examined it critically. He winced but didn’t pull away. She pressed the ice wrapped inside the cloth against his knuckles, the coolness biting into his skin, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Hold still,” she muttered, adjusting her grip. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.”

His eyes flicked up to her face. She was focused entirely on his hand, her brows drawn in concentration. He watched her for a moment longer than he should have, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes caught the light. She looked stunning as always in a sparkling silver dress that hugged every curve of her body, and he reminded himself how happy she had made him over the last year. How she had walked into his life like a Summer storm and brought joy back into it. Something to look forward to again.

“Tata,” he began, his voice quieter than it had been all day.

“I’m sure there is a context as to why you just punched the future King of Romania right in the face,” she said evenly, fixing her eyes on the block of ice. “I’m just not sure if I want to hear it.”

His throat tightened, and he could only watch her for a moment. Then he drew in a slow breath and nodded, more to himself than to her.

“I want to be completely honest with you,” he said.

She glanced up at him then, her eyes sharp but not unkind. Her expression softened for the first time that night, and she tilted her head, waiting.

“A long time ago, I fell in love with someone during the war. It wasn’t a grand romance, not even a relationship. We kissed once, and that was it.”

Her eyes searched his face, her breathing shallow but even. She didn’t say anything; she just listened.

“It was Olga,” he continued, his voice even softer now like the name itself carried something fragile. “Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna. It was brief and nothing in the grand scheme of things. But it felt… it felt like my soul had known hers for a lifetime.” He shook his head slowly, lowering his gaze for a moment before focusing on her again. “It wasn’t the type of love that grows slowly over time. It was something that struck all at once — sudden, unexplainable.”

Tata’s lips parted slightly, and her expression remained carefully neutral, but he caught the faint glitter in her eyes. She blinked quickly and took a deep, steadying breath, her shoulders straightening as if to steel herself.

“And is that why you beat Carol?” she asked.

Vladimir hesitated, feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten as he glanced away briefly and then back at her.

“Yes,” he admitted in a low voice. “But not because of what you might think. He said horrible things about her. Mocked her in a way I couldn’t stomach. I knew I should have been wiser, see it for what it was, but in that moment…” He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

Tata nodded slowly, processing his words. She didn’t reply immediately and kept her gaze low.

"So," she said softly, "do you still have the same feelings for her?”

Vladimir hesitated, understanding how the question could change everything between them. A few moments earlier, he had doubted his ability to answer, but now that Tata was holding his hand and caring for him, he felt more secure in his answer.

“Olga will always have a special place in my heart,” he said finally. “But my feelings for her have changed over the years. It was something brief that taught me about love, but it’s not… it’s not what I feel now.”

Tata breathed through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling slowly like she was trying to steady herself.

“I’m fully aware that I’m being contradictory," she muttered, glancing at him briefly before returning her gaze to the ice. "I know I told you I wasn’t interested in whatever this is a few days ago. But somehow, against my better judgment, your silky words managed to sneak into my head. And I found myself considering…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together to keep her voice from shaking.

She stopped herself again just as her voice was starting to crumble. She gulped, suppressing her emotions and trying her hardest to keep her voice steady.

"I found myself considering how pleasant it might actually be," she admitted. “Those silly things you said about wanting this every day. And now…” She let out a short, brittle laugh, shaking her head. “Now I feel like a fool.”

Vladimir got closer to her, slowly, like he was approaching a startled animal. Gently, he reached out and tilted her chin with his fingers, guiding her to look at him. Her gaze flickered with hesitation, but she didn’t pull away.

“You’re not a fool, Tata,” he said firmly, locking his eyes on hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "And I don't want to hide anything from you anymore. Not now. Not ever.”

He let out a breath, his shoulders easing as if releasing a burden he’d been carrying for too long. “I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to think I’m still chasing that feeling. I’m not.” His fingers tilted her chin just slightly higher as his eyes searched hers. “I’m here, Tata. With you. And I’m done pretending that I don’t know what I want.”

Her expression softened, her lips pressing together as she fought to keep her composure.

"You always do this," she muttered.

“Do what?” he asked, lifting his brow.

“Say things that make it impossible for me to stay angry at you.”

A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, it felt like the air between them shifted, softer now, less charged. He lowered his hand but stayed close, his eyes still fixed on hers.

"Then don't stay angry," he said simply. "Stay with me instead.”

Tata’s gaze flickered, her lips pressing together like she was holding something back. She took a step back, breaking the fragile closeness between them. Vladimir frowned, his expression softening as he studied her face. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

She hesitated, her hands curling into fists at her sides. It seemed like she wouldn’t answer for a moment, but then she drew in a deep breath and met his eyes.

“Since we’re being honest,” she began, “I want to tell you why it’s… difficult for me to let other people know about us.”

Vladimir’s brows knit together, but he didn’t interrupt, waiting for her to continue. Tata took a deep breath, her eyes momentarily darting away from Vladimir’s as though she was gathering her courage.

“It’s because of my mother,” she said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Vladimir tilted his head slightly. 

“Your mother?” he asked, frowning. “What does she have to do with this?”

Tata let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “I know it sounds strange, but it’s… complicated.” She hesitated, but her expression was resolute when she looked back at him. “She was neglectful when I was a child. She was hardly present, always caught up in her own world. I was raised by maids and nannies and spent most of my early years trying not to get in her way. But when I became a teenager…” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“She started taking an interest in me,” Tata continued, and Vladimir could hear the bitterness creeping into her tone. “Not in a way that most mothers would. She wasn’t guiding or supportive. She was critical and harsh. There was always something wrong with me. I was either too thin, or my hair was too curly. My French was terrible, and my conversations were boring. Nothing I did was ever good enough for her.”

Vladimir’s brow furrowed deeply, his eyes softening as he listened.

“She told me, over and over, that I would never fit into the world of the Romanovs or the Russian nobility. That I wasn’t sophisticated enough, charming enough. She said I’d end up marrying an impoverished artist or a lowly soldier and that when I did, she, Uncle Misha, and George would turn their backs on me.”

Vladimir’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head slightly as if trying to process the cruelty of her mother’s words. “Tata…” he began, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I know how it sounds,” she said quickly, her voice trembling slightly. “And I know I shouldn't let it affect me, but those words… they stuck. No matter how much I’ve tried to push them aside, they’re still here, like they've become so rooted that they are now part of who I am. I’m terrified that she was right. That I’ll never be enough, not for this world or you.”

Vladimir stepped closer with a fierce expression. 

“Your mother was wrong,” he said firmly. “Tata, you are more than enough. Nothing she said was true. You’re smart, brave, compassionate—”

Tata raised her hand, a small but deliberate gesture, as though his words stung more than they soothed. “Please, stop,” she said quietly, her voice almost trembling.

Vladimir froze, his brows knitting together in concern. “Tata, it's all a lie. You must know that…”

“She's my mother, Bodia. However much she has hurt me, I can't just ignore it and put it aside as if I just happened to hear it from some random person. She's supposed to be the person who knows me better in the world.” She shook her head and drew in a steadying breath. “I’m not ready to believe that it's not true. Maybe someday, but not now. Not yet.”

Vladimir didn’t press her. He only nodded slightly, his expression tender and understanding. God knew how hard it had been for her to let him in, to reveal what was tormenting her. She was always so careful not to show her fragile side. The only thing he could do was bring her closer, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly against his chest as if trying to shield her from the weight of her pain.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I do, Tata,” Vladimir whispered against her hair. “To me, you are like the sun. Everything was dark until you came along. It baffles me how you could ever think you’re not enough.”

Her composure broke then, and the tears she had fought so hard to hold back spilt over. A quiet sob escaped her as she clung to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Vladimir cupped her face gently, wiping her tears away with his thumbs, but her pain only made his heart ache more.

“I’m here,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then her cheek. “I’m here.”

Tata’s breath hitched as his lips brushed hers. It was so gentle and so full of love that it felt as if he was trying to kiss her pain away. He didn’t rush her, didn’t demand anything, only poured his heart into the way he held her and kissed her. Slowly, he could see the storm inside her begin to settle.

When he pulled back just slightly, his hands still cradling her face, his gaze searched hers. 

“Marry me, Tata,” he said softly, the words coming from somewhere deep inside him. 

It wasn’t planned; it wasn’t rehearsed. It was simply how he felt at that moment.

Her breath caught, and she blinked up at him, stunned. “What?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, with more certainty this time.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Tata seemed completely thrown off balance. She shifted back just an inch, her hands still resting on his chest, her gaze narrowing as if she were assessing his sanity. Then, with a faint scoff, she tilted her head.

“Alright,” she said, in a light tone, edged with disbelief. “I think that punch has left you with a little too much adrenaline in the blood. Maybe it’s best if we call it a night before you decide to join the swimming team and take a dive into the Seine.”

Tata started to get up from the steps as she said it, but Vladimir held her hand and gently guided her back to his side.

“I'm serious, Tata. You know that I am,” he said, pouring all his heart into the words so she could see just how much he meant them. “I don't have a ring or anything, but I'm looking at you right now, and I'm thinking how you have walked into my life and brought colour back to it when I thought I wouldn't be able to love someone or be happy again and I just can't imagine how I can get through the rest of it without you by my side.”

Tata’s teasing smile vanished. She stared at him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. But she still looked at him like he had completely lost his mind.

Her frown deepened as if she were wrestling with words, but nothing came out. She opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again, only to shake her head in exasperation. Finally, when her eyes met his again, something in them softened, though her tone was still full of bemused disbelief as she whispered his name.

“Bodia…” she said, her voice quiet, the way someone might speak to someone they were about to commit into an asylum.

He didn’t let her hesitation faze him. Instead, he reached for her hands, holding them firmly in his own and reassuringly squeezing them. 

“You just said my silky words were getting into your head,” he said with a quiet laugh, his tone playful but tender. “So maybe—just maybe—a part of you believes this could work as much as I do.”

Tata blinked, startled by his unwavering confidence. After a moment, she laughed softly and shook her head again.

“They got into a very strange place in my head,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing. “I did mention it happened against my better judgment, didn’t I? And now... hearing the words actually coming out of your mouth... it feels surreal.”

Vladimir chuckled quietly, a warm sound that filled the space between them. 

“Marry me,” he repeated, this time with an added softness. “Please.”

Her smile faded again as her eyes searched his, and for a moment, it looked as if she might accept. Then her expression was filled with doubt, and she hesitated for what felt like an eternity until she finally whispered, “I don’t want you to do this because you feel sorry for me or because you think you need to protect me somehow.”

“I don’t,” he assured her, shaking his head firmly. He then held up his swollen knuckles, laughing.

“If anything, I think it’s you who might be able to protect me because, from what we’ve seen today, my fist can’t take much of a fight.”

She laughed at that, a real, bright laugh that broke through the weight of their conversation. Vladimir felt something in him ease at the sound, the knot in his chest loosening. It was the best sound he’d heard in days—maybe in years.

But then it faded, and she covered her face with her hands, groaning softly. He watched her peek at him through her fingers, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

“I feel like a broken record,” she said. “But I have to remind you that we have nothing in common, and that's kind of important.”

“Well, I disagree,” Vladimir countered, staring deep into her eyes. “I'm not sure having something in common is all that important. What I do know is that you have made me a better person.

Tata scoffed, but Vladimir held her gaze, his expression still as serious as before.

"I don’t even know what to say," she murmured.

He leaned in slightly, in a low but steady voice. "You don't have to say anything right now. Just listen."

For a moment, he thought she might push him away—he saw it in the slight flare of her nostrils and the way her lips parted as though she was about to make a cutting remark. But then she hesitated, her gaze locked on his, and he knew he’d reached her.

"I'm so grateful to you for that, Tata. You have no idea," he continued, his tone firmer now. "The fact that you're so different from me has only brought me joy so far. You've pushed me to be bolder, say what I mean, and go after what I want. That's got to count for something."

Her breath hitched, and he saw her shoulders tense as if she was fighting an invisible battle within herself. She looked at him as though searching for a reason to hold back, but all he could see in her expression was the lingering doubt of someone on the edge of surrender.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. 

"What will your family think of me?"

“Are you joking?” Vladimir laughed, leaning back slightly to study her. “My family adores you. You know how thrilled Natalia and Irina would be. Dmitri’s been rooting for us since the beginning, and even my father says he approves of you.”

Tata’s hands dropped from her face, her cheeks flushing a deeper pink as her brows shot up in alarm. “Wait, what? How in the world does your father know?”

Vladimir hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Ah… he may have, uh, accidentally seen us kiss the other day.”

Her eyes widened, and she groaned again, covering her face once more. “Oh no, Vladimir. That’s mortifying.”

He chuckled, gently tugging her hands away from her face. “It’s not. He wasn’t mad, Tata. He was amused. And then he told me he approved of you.”

Tata stared at him with an unreadable expression as she processed his words. Slowly, her demeanour began to shift. The tension in her shoulders eased, and something soft flickered in her eyes. She hesitated, her lips parting as if to say something, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Vladimir leaned closer, his heart pounding. 

“Natalia,” he whispered just before he leaned in for another kiss.

It wasn’t a casual gesture; it was everything he hadn’t been able to say, poured into the way his lips moved against hers, into the gentle but firm way he held her face in his hands. She melted into him, and for a moment, the world faded away. When he finally pulled back, her eyes fluttered open, dazed and shimmering. She blinked at him as if still processing what had just happened, and then, in a whisper, he could only hear because he was standing so close to her, she spoke again.

Tata held Vladimir’s gaze, her breath steadying as her hands gently rested over his. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of the moment pressing down like a held breath.

“Promise me,” she said softly. “Promise me you really mean all of this. Because no one has ever shown me this much love before, and I… I don’t know if I should believe it.”

Her words were raw, almost painful to hear. Vladimir felt the ache in his chest deepen as he saw the fear in her eyes—fear of being hurt, of allowing herself to hope for something only to have it torn away.

“I’ve learned how to be fine,” she continued in a quiet tone, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I’ve learned how to deal with being on my own, move on, and keep going no matter what. But if I believe you and let you in, I’m afraid…” She swallowed hard, her voice trembling now. “I’m afraid I’ll get used to it. To you. To this. And if I lose it, I don’t know how I’ll survive that.”

Her vulnerability left him speechless for a moment. Vladimir cupped her face more gently now, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to slip down her cheeks.

“Natalia,” he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore. I swear to you, with everything I am, that I mean every word. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here because I want to be, and I can’t imagine a life without you now.”

Her lip trembled, and she seemed caught between disbelief and hope for a moment. 

“Do you really mean it?” she whispered.

“More than anything,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Let me prove it to you, every day, for as long as you’ll let me.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, her eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation or insincerity. But all she found was the truth. Slowly, she nodded, her lips curving into the faintest, most vulnerable smile he had ever seen.

“Okay,” she whispered.

For a moment, Vladimir froze as her words sank in. Then, his face lit up in pure, unrestrained joy. Without thinking, he let out a laugh, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her off her feet, spinning her in a jubilant circle. Tata squealed, half-laughing, half-protesting as she clung to his shoulders.

“Vladimir!” she cried, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her delight.

He set her down gently, his grin as wide as the sky.

“You said yes,” he murmured, almost as if testing the words aloud.

"I said okay," she clarified. "I'm still giving you time to think this through..."

Vladimir shook his head and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, neatly folded handkerchief.

“What are you doing?” Tata asked, eyeing him with amused suspicion as he unfolded it.

“Hold still,” he said with mock seriousness, carefully tying the handkerchief around her finger like an improvised ring. He stepped back to admire his handiwork with a playful and reverent expression. “It’s temporary, but it’ll do until I get you something worthy of you.”

Tata stared at the makeshift ring, then back at him, shaking her head with a laugh. “I don’t know, I kind of like this one.”

His smile softened as he reached for her hand again, running his thumb over the knot he’d tied. “Then I’ll make sure the real one feels just as special,” he said.

Her gaze held his, warm and bright, and for a moment, neither of them said a word. Then Vladimir broke the silence with a voice full of wonder. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my entire life.”

Tata’s cheeks flushed, but her smile didn’t waver. 

“Good,” she teased, leaning closer to him. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever been this mad in mine.”

And with that, she pulled him into another kiss, laughing softly against his lips.

Chapter Text

Paris, 3 June 1924

Dear Alexei,

What an unforgettable night! My voice is hoarse, and my hands are trembling (you might need a graphologist to decipher this), but I couldn’t wait to put it all down on paper before the details blur.

Bodia and Tata are engaged! Can you believe it? Even now, I’m struggling to wrap my head around it, but I’m absolutely thrilled—more than words can express. I had just discovered that they were even in a relationship, and before I could process that revelation—bam! They waltzed into the ballroom, hand in hand, for everyone to see.

The room froze for a moment, stunned, especially given the incident between Vladimir and your brother-in-law earlier in the evening (I’ll tell you about that later). But once the initial shock wore off, almost everyone seemed genuinely happy for them.

I think I might have dropped my glass when I saw them, but I'm sure I screamed loud enough to make a spectacle of myself. I was so excited that I started jumping around until my father sternly warned me that if I didn’t calm down, he’d pack me off to school again! He tried to appear proper and restrained, still a bit annoyed at Bodia for his earlier clash with Carol, but I could tell he was pleased. Papa’s always had a soft spot for Tata, given her absent father and her eccentric mother, so I’m sure he’s secretly delighted she’ll be part of the family.

(Can you believe it? Tata and I are going to be sisters-in-law! Not some dull, proper girl with her nose in books—Tata! Imagine how much fun we’ll have together!)

Uncle Misha and his wife were there, and their reactions couldn’t have been more different. Uncle Misha was beaming with joy. He pulled them both into a hug and admitted that when he chose Bodia as Tata’s tutor, he’d secretly hoped something like this might happen. He even joked that he’d been wondering why his plan hadn’t worked sooner! On the other hand, Tata's mother tried to look pleased, but you know how her expressions always come off as stiff and unconvincing—it ended up looking more awkward than joyful.

My heart breaks for Tata over this. She's the only person who can actually ruin this with her off-hand comments and that deeply annoying belief of hers that Tata cannot be in a better place or happier than she is now. I hope Bodia will know how to handle her…

As for my mother, well, her reaction was predictable. She wasn’t exactly brimming with excitement either. In her eyes, no one on this planet will ever be good enough for her “dear little Bodia.” The fact that he’s chosen the daughter of a woman she utterly despises doesn’t make things easier for Tata. But Mama isn’t blind to how much Tata means to all of us. I hope, in time, she’ll soften her stance—for everyone’s sake.

(Can you imagine? Tata’s children will be my nieces and nephews! And she’ll be an aunt to my children! It’s too much to take in all at once!)

Now, onto the other event of the evening—Bodia punching Carol square in the nose. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it happen. Tata and I were deep in conversation in a corner when the commotion broke out. By the time we looked over, Carol was already falling to the floor.

I do know that my brother has some unfinished business with your sister, but I was far too young during the war to pay any attention to it. At first, I thought that maybe Bodia did it because there could be some lingering feelings between him and Olga, but then he proposed to Tata, and he wouldn't do something like that unless he was certain of his feelings for her, so maybe the punch had nothing to do with your sister. Afterwards, when Bodia had walked away, and Carol left the party, Dmitri was saying that he didn't know what Carol had said or done, but he was sure he deserved the punch, so maybe he was just being unpleasant.

When Carol stormed out, he was full of bluster, claiming he’d been “gravely insulted” and was threatening to challenge Bodia to a duel. But honestly, no one was paying much attention to him. He doesn’t seem particularly well-liked here. I know he’s your brother-in-law, and I mean no offence, but there’s something perpetually sour about him—as if he’s caught a whiff of rotten fish and can’t escape it. I can’t blame Olga for steering clear of him whenever possible.

His brother Nicholas isn’t much better, if I’m honest. I truly don’t understand why you like him so much. He’s rude, self-absorbed, and seems to care very little about anyone else’s feelings. He likes to think he’s charming, but he’s just insufferable. You can tell him I said so the next time you see him—I won’t take it back. Honestly, I don’t know how Olga manages to tolerate this family.

Speaking of Olga, how is she? And the children? Is little Mircea recovering well from his fall? I can’t imagine how hard this has been for her and you, especially so soon after your own accident. Please know that you’re all constantly in my thoughts.

And how are you? Is your leg fully healed, or is it still giving you trouble? When are you planning to return to Russia?

As for me, it seems I’ll be staying in Paris a little longer. My parents and Bodia are heading back next week, but Irina and the baby aren’t quite strong enough to travel yet. I’ll stay here with them and Feodor for at least another month. After that, we might head to Cannes, and Irina has asked me to go with her to Ai-Todor for a couple of weeks to keep her company as she settles in with the baby. I’m not sure yet if I’ll go, but if you’re already in Petrograd by August, I’d love to see you. It’s been too long since our last meeting, so let me know your plans.

I’ll wrap up here—it’s far too late, and I’m sure this letter is already too long. I miss you dearly and hope you’re on the mend.

Ever your loving friend,

Natasha

P.S. Tata and I are going to be sisters!!!!

Chapter Text

Hertfordshire, 10 June 1924

My dear Natasha,

I’m not going to lie—I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Tata has actually agreed to marry Bodia. Of course, I’m absolutely thrilled for them both, and the more I think about it, the more I can see how their contrasting personalities could balance each other out. Still, it’s a bit hard to picture Tata in a committed relationship. You know how she’s always wrestled with finding herself and carving out an identity beyond her mother’s shadow. I can’t help but feel she hasn’t quite reached where she wants to be yet. Then again, Tata isn’t the sort to accept a proposal unless she’s completely sure about it. I suppose I’ll just have to wait until I see her in person in a couple of weeks to get a clearer sense of it all.

Speaking of proposals, you’re going to find this next bit absolutely hilarious. For the past few months, Prince Henry (yes, that Prince Henry—the third son of King George V) has been visiting my parents’ estate in Hertfordshire every chance he gets. Naturally, we were all a bit puzzled by his frequent appearances. The poor man never offered any explanation, and it was starting to feel like a proper mystery. My father was convinced Henry was being sent by the King to check in on how we’ve settled here and to see if we needed anything.

Well, it turns out my father couldn’t have been more wrong! Last Friday, Henry arrived with the intention of spending the weekend with us. But this time, before he so much as unpacked, he insisted on speaking to my father privately. Imagine my father’s shock when Henry confessed that he had developed feelings for none other than Anastasia and was seeking his blessing to propose to her!

The funniest part? Henry and Anastasia had never discussed this—not once! According to Nastya, they’ve barely exchanged more than a few words during his visits, and those conversations were always about turnips, pumpkins, or whatever vegetable happened to be in season. My father later admitted that he had to work very hard to keep a straight face while Henry poured out his heart. He told Henry that he’s a fine young man, that we’ve all enjoyed his company, and that he should absolutely try his luck with Anastasia. But he also warned him, gently, that her answer might not be quite what he was hoping for.

The poor man must have truly been smitten because, even after my father’s very sensible warning, he still took Anastasia aside after dinner to confess his feelings. The rest of us, of course, were shamelessly eavesdropping from behind the door. Nastya’s reaction was… well, entirely in character. She burst out laughing—not a polite chuckle, mind you, but her loudest, most uninhibited crackling laugh. She later claimed she genuinely thought he was joking, but I know her well enough to suspect she was laughing at him rather than with him.

Poor Henry left the room utterly red-faced and decided to return to London that very evening despite the pouring rain. I can’t help but feel bad for him. He and his brothers are all terribly shy, which likely explains why he hadn’t worked up the courage to express his feelings until now. For a day or two, Anastasia found the whole thing terribly amusing, but eventually, even she began to feel guilty. She ended up writing him an apologetic letter, though I doubt it did much to soothe his bruised ego.

My mother, of course, has latched onto this incident as a sign that her youngest daughter might finally be on the path to marriage. But I wouldn’t be nearly as optimistic. Anastasia seems perfectly content with her current situation. She’s settled into her little cottage on the estate, with only a small staff to manage, and while her life is far from the opulence one might expect for a Grand Duchess, she seems to prefer it that way.

Her days are simple and fulfilling. She walks to Masha’s house every day to spend time with her nephews, and she’s become an indispensable companion to my father. With my mother fully immersed in her religious and charitable pursuits, he’s often left to his own devices. Although he enjoys involving himself in the farm work, there’s no denying that Anastasia’s presence brings him comfort. They walk together daily and share tasks, and she’s become his steady anchor in this quiet life.

I suspect her leaving would cast a shadow over his spirits, even though he would never admit it outright. For now, I think we can count on her staying right where she is.

And now, before I delve into Carol's unpleasant business and how little Mircea has been doing, I have one more piece of happy news to share. After three years, it seems my sister Tatiana is finally expecting again! There has been a great deal of pressure from her husband’s family and even the government for her to have a second child, particularly since they’re hoping for a male heir. But I think, deep down, she also wanted a sibling for little Alexandra.

I know the real reason she hesitated for so long: like Olga, she’s deeply afraid of having a child with haemophilia. She put it off for as long as she could, but the fact that Masha has two healthy boys has given her courage. It’s a reminder that the illness doesn’t always pass to the next generation. Let’s pray that everything goes well for her. In any case, I’m confident that, even if the worst happens and the child is born with haemophilia, her husband will be far more supportive than Carol has ever been to Olga. Which, honestly, wouldn’t be difficult.

Now, on to the unpleasant matters—though I’ll ask you to keep this strictly between us, as Olga and my parents have asked for complete discretion regarding how things have been going with her and Carol. When we first heard that Bodia had punched Carol, I’ll admit we were shocked. Well, not all of us, to be fair. Anastasia was thrilled—I’ll share more about her reaction in a moment.

Of course, as a family, we don’t condone violence or public scandals, and my parents were mortified at first. But once the initial shock wore off, I must confess, your brother’s reputation took a marked turn for the better around here. If I’m completely honest, we never thought Olga’s marriage to Carol would be a fairytale. Then again, very few marriages in our circle are—my parents being a rare exception. Still, I don’t think any of us anticipated the sheer disaster it has become.

Carol is simply vile. I’ve tried—truly tried—to find something redeeming about him, but there’s nothing. Yes, he’s intelligent and cultured to a degree, but he’s also selfish, egotistical, and unbearably arrogant. I suspect even his own parents struggle to tolerate him.

Things have only deteriorated since Mircea was diagnosed with haemophilia. He was indifferent when Marie was born—tolerable at best—but this diagnosis seems to have made him bitter beyond reason. It’s as though he feels personally cheated by Olga and, by extension, our entire family. His behaviour has been cruel, and Olga has borne it all with remarkable grace, but it’s clear how deeply it weighs on her.

Carol was already spending most of his time away from home before, but now it’s worse—weeks at a time with his regiment or abroad, leaving Olga to manage everything alone. Given her disgust with his behaviour towards their son, you might think that his absence would be a relief, but the rare times he returns are worse than his absence. He constantly berates her, throwing cruel accusations—things I won’t even dignify by repeating here—about how unfit she is as a royal wife and how utterly boring he finds her.

His disdain for Mircea is even more painful. He refuses to see him as his son and avoids looking at him altogether, which breaks Olga’s heart. She loves that boy so deeply and feels the need to compensate for his father’s complete neglect by pouring twice the amount of love and attention onto him. But with his illness on top of it all, the weight has taken a visible toll on her. She’s become a shadow of her former self.

As if this weren’t bad enough, Carol’s vindictiveness knows no bounds. He seems to believe Olga should be punished for giving him a sick son, and his way of doing so is both cruel and public. He flaunts his mistresses shamelessly, parading them at the theatre, the opera, and parties across Bucharest. Worse, he ensures the press knows about it, likely tipping off journalists himself. Meanwhile, he tries to paint Olga as a religious fanatic who’s losing her sanity over Mircea’s illness, which is an outrageous and unfounded lie.

Olga’s approach to Mircea’s condition couldn’t be more grounded. She’s read every book she can find, consults specialists regularly, and keeps herself informed on the latest medical advancements. While her faith is important to her, she always prioritizes science when it comes to her son’s care. In fact, it was she who found the specialist who treated me in Paris.

To sum up, things between them are as dire as you can imagine. My parents refuse to speak to Carol directly anymore and only communicate through his parents, who are deeply ashamed of his actions. Olga has been spending extended periods here in England to escape the rumours and the pressure, but she’s still tethered to Romania. Mircea is, after all, the future king, and the government insists he must be raised and educated there. For now, as a toddler, she has the freedom to travel with him, but I worry about the day when his education begins. That will permanently tie her to Romania, and I don’t know how she’ll bear it.

As for little Mircea, I’m happy to share that he’s doing much better. The swelling on his knee has nearly disappeared, and he’s even trying to move about the house as best he can. It’s astonishing how resilient he is, even when the smallest bump can trigger an attack. Thankfully, he didn’t need a transfusion this time, which is a great relief to all of us. Olga was particularly anxious about keeping this incident under wraps, knowing that Carol might seize any excuse to forbid her from bringing Mircea on her trips to England.

Given everything, I think it’s fair to say that we all felt Carol fully earned that punch from Vladimir, and though no one would admit it publicly, we’re quietly grateful to him for having the courage to do it. Knowing Carol, I’m sure he was insulting Olga in some way, and considering the affection Vladimir once had for her, it’s no surprise he couldn’t stand by and let it happen. As you might expect, Anastasia has been particularly vocal about her approval. She said Vladimir deserves a statue in his honour and even lamented that she hadn’t been the one to punch Carol herself! She also announced that she had taken back all the times she had called Vladimir dull and now realized how wrong she was.

It was difficult to get a reaction from Olga, as she always keeps her true feelings to herself. However, when we got the telegram from Aunt Missy telling us what had happened, I saw how she couldn’t stop smiling. She tried to hide it and even acted offended and shocked, but I think, deep down, she was also grateful to your brother for standing up for her.

This letter has become quite long, and my hand is starting to protest, so I’ll try to be brief with the rest of the news. I’ll return to Russia in two weeks, though I won’t stay in Petrograd for long. Since this academic year at the university is essentially lost, Uncle Misha suggested I take some time to travel and get to know the country better. I’ll be spending the summer and part of the autumn exploring the Volga region, Moscow, and perhaps even a few parts of Siberia. Anastasia will accompany me as a travel companion and for safety. I can hardly wait—it’s a chance to see more of Russia and learn about the people in those remote areas I’ve always been curious about.

Oh, how I miss you! I would give anything to spend time with you, but it seems it will have to wait until winter at the earliest. In the meantime, I think you should absolutely take up Irina’s invitation to Ai-Todor. From what I’ve seen with my sisters, the early months with a newborn can be overwhelming, and while Feodor is delightful, I don’t imagine he’s particularly attuned to Irina’s needs just now. Your presence would be a blessing—for Irina, the household, and, most importantly, the baby.

It’s hard to put into words how much it pains me to write these lines. A part of me wants to dash across the Channel and pay you a surprise visit in Paris, but, alas, it’s not as simple as that. My schedule before returning to Russia is tighter than I’d like, and, more importantly, my mother seems determined that I steer clear of France for the foreseeable future.

But I miss you, Natasha. Very, very much. The world seems a little less colourful when you’re not around.

At the very least, let’s promise each other this—we’ll keep writing, won’t we? It’s a small consolation, but it will have to do for now.

Yours always,

Alexei

P.S. It’s unfortunate that you and Nicholas didn’t see eye to eye. Considering how different he is from his brother, I had hoped you’d get along better. Granted, Nicholas doesn’t have much of a sense of duty or responsibility, but his heart is good, and he has a way of bringing lightness to everything. He’s also endlessly entertaining, and we always manage to have a grand time together. I thought you’d share more common ground. Perhaps I was mistaken.

He’ll be visiting us next week, so rest assured, I’ll pass along your message.

Chapter Text

Natalia, June 1924

Natalia didn’t hear from Serge Lifar until after the Olympics. Only then did she learn that Sergei Diaghilev hadn’t been impressed with Serge’s performances during the Winter season and had sent him to Milan to refine his craft with some of the best teachers in the business. Now, Serge was back in Paris, preparing to rehearse for a new production.

She discovered all this from a letter that arrived unexpectedly one morning, just a few days after her parents and Vladimir had returned to Russia. The moment she spotted Serge’s name in the pile of letters on her desk, her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. It had been nearly seven months since they had last seen each other at her birthday ball, and she assumed he’d forgotten everything about her. After all, what reason would someone as talented and captivating as Serge have to remember a minor Russian princess in a city overflowing with royalty, aristocrats, and artists?

And yet, here she was, clutching his letter, reading how difficult it had been for him to leave Paris and return to his lessons when he believed he was ready to start his career. He had confided in her—her!—despite their having exchanged only a few words on the rare occasions they had met. Could she have made a greater impression on him than she had dared hope? The thought sent a delightful shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help pressing the letter to her chest as she smiled broadly. After the discouragement she had felt over her disastrous encounters with Nicholas, this was exactly the boost her confidence needed.

At the end of the letter, Serge invited her to the theatre to watch the rehearsals, which took place every afternoon. If Tata had still been in Paris, Natalia would have rushed there that very day. But Irina and Feodor were now staying at the house, and Natalia knew Irina wouldn’t be up for such an outing.

Irina was exhausted and overwhelmed with Michael, who was becoming a fussy baby. He struggled with tummy troubles and hardly slept, either at night or during the day. Feodor repeatedly encouraged her to rely more on the nanny they had hired for precisely such demanding tasks, but Irina insisted on doing almost everything herself. Natalia, who had never had a particular fondness for babies—and knew Irina hadn’t either—had expected her sister to be a more relaxed mother. But she couldn’t have been more wrong.

Irina had developed such an intense sense of care and protectiveness for her baby that she refused to leave him alone with the nanny at night. Knowing Michael was suffering from colic, she insisted on being by his side, offering comfort in any way she could.

Feodor, who was naturally averse to conflict—especially while living under someone else’s roof—seemed at a loss over how to handle the situation. He adored his son and was far more hands-on than most fathers, yet one evening, he confided in Natalia that he felt as though he had lost Irina.

“I can’t even remember the last time we had a proper conversation or were alone in the same room,” he admitted one afternoon, his expression weary as he cradled Michael. Irina had reluctantly agreed to take a nap, giving him a rare moment of quiet with his son.

“The midwife said it’s normal in the first few weeks,” he continued. “That mothers form a strong bond with their babies, and the lack of sleep only makes things harder. But I wasn’t expecting it to be this hard.”

Natalia had tried her best to cheer Feodor up, but there wasn’t much she could do. She didn’t know the first thing about babies or what mothers went through when they had them. In truth, she hoped to stay as far away from that world as possible for a very long time. She had never been particularly maternal, and watching her sister struggle with exhaustion and the unrelenting demands of a newborn who rarely stopped crying only strengthened her resolve.

After spending a couple of days deliberating on how to broach the subject with Irina and Feodor, Natalia decided it was time to gather her courage. She armed herself with her best arguments—and the comforting fact that Michael had spent the night feeling a little better—and approached them after breakfast.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Natalia began cautiously, glancing between her sister and Feodor. Irina, cradling Michael, barely looked up.

“What is it?” Irina asked, her tone betraying her fatigue.

“Well, I received an invitation to watch the Ballet Russes rehearse,” Natalia said, trying to keep her tone light. “I’ve always wanted to see them in rehearsal—it sounds fascinating. I thought it might be a nice break, and…”

Irina interrupted with a weary laugh. 

“A break? Sitting in a stuffy, noisy theatre, watching dancers stomp and twirl to music loud enough to make your ears ring?” She shook her head. “No, thank you. That sounds like the opposite of relaxing.”

Natalia hesitated, carefully rephrasing her request. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to come,” she admitted gently. “I know you’ve got your hands full here. But I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me borrow Sonya to accompany me. It would mean so much to me to go—it’s a rare opportunity, and you know how much I love the Ballet Russes.”

Natalia was referring to Irina’s lady-in-waiting, Sonya—a Ukrainian girl who had likely imagined that serving an Imperial Princess would involve more than mending socks and dresses. Irina adjusted Michael on her lap with a sigh, glancing briefly at her sister.

“Don’t you think the Ballet Russes might be a bit much for Sonya?” she asked, her tone teetering between teasing and genuine concern. “All those tights and costumes… It might be a bit scandalous for her.” Irina paused, switching her gaze from Michael to Natalia. “To be honest, they might even be a little much for you.”

Natalia rolled her eyes, unable to hide her exasperation. When had Irina become such a prude?

“Irishka, please. We’ve been watching the Ballet Russes since we were children, and we're still here in one piece to tell the tale.”

Irina pressed her lips into a thin line, drifting her back to Michael. It was a clear sign that Natalia’s argument had landed, though it seemed Irina wasn’t entirely finished with her objections.

“Why don’t you get your own lady-in-waiting, anyway?” Irina asked. Her eyes remained on Michael as she adjusted his blanket. “Mama has been worried sick that you still haven’t settled on any of the girls she suggested. You know you can’t keep putting it off forever, don’t you?”

Natalia scoffed, leaning back in her chair. 

“Irishka, do you really think I want someone hovering over me all the time, whose sole purpose is basically to keep an eye on me? It’s bad enough that we’re surrounded by guards and have half the staff at Tsarskoe Selo watching our every move. I don’t need another pair of eyes scrutinizing me.”

She paused for a moment and then continued in a softer tone. “Besides, the only person I would ever have chosen for that role is Tata. But now that she’s engaged, that’s off the table.”

Irina raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Instead, she let out a tired sigh and leaned her head against the back of the chair. “Well, good luck explaining that to Mama. You know how she gets when she’s set her mind on something.”

Natalia saw her chance and leaned forward, her tone brightening. “Well, in that case, I don’t see why Sonya can’t come with me. It’s not like I’m asking for anything outrageous. She might even enjoy herself! It’s Paris, for heaven’s sake.”

Irina opened her mouth, ready to protest, but before she could say a word, Feodor, who had been sitting quietly by the window reading a newspaper, chimed in.

“I actually think it’s a good idea,” he said, lowering the paper and glancing at Irina. “Sonya hasn’t been out of the house since Michael was born, and I’m sure a little outing would do her some good. Besides,” he added with a gentle smile, “it might be nice for us to have some time to ourselves for a change.”

Irina’s expression softened as she turned toward him, though her brow remained furrowed. “You think so?”

Feodor nodded. “Absolutely. Natalia’s not dragging her off to a cabaret; it’s the Ballet Russes. She’ll be in good company, and I’m sure Natalia will look after her.”

Natalia grinned, sensing victory. “Of course I will! And if Sonya doesn’t enjoy herself, I promise I’ll bring her straight back.”

Irina hesitated, her protective instincts warring with the logic of her husband’s words. Finally, she let out a reluctant sigh and waved a hand in surrender. “Fine. But if she comes back with a fear of tights, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

“Deal!” Natalia said, jumping up from her chair. “I’ll let her know right away. Thank you, Irishka, and thank you, Feodor! You won’t regret this.”

***

Irina

A rare quiet settled over the space as Natalia swept out of the room, taking her excitement with her. Irina adjusted Michael’s blanket once more, in slow and deliberate movements, stalling for longer than was necessary just so it would seem like she was busy. The stillness after Natalia’s departure brought an unease she couldn’t quite name, a sharp awareness of how long it had been since she and Feodor were sharing the same room with no one else around.

Feodor carefully folded his newspaper, setting it aside on the table beside him. The golden light streaming in from the window caught his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, and the way his hair fell slightly out of place. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth she hadn’t felt in months.

Irina hesitated, studying him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had really looked at him. Days, maybe weeks, had passed in a haze of sleepless nights and Michael’s cries. Their conversations had become little more than logistical exchanges about feedings and diapers. Somewhere along the way, Feodor had become a shadow in the background of her world, reminding her of all the frustrations that still lingered between them and which they still hadn’t had time to discuss.

“You’re staring,” Feodor said softly, in a teasing but careful tone, as if testing the waters.

Irina blinked, startled, and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “I didn’t realize.”

He tilted his head slightly. “What’s on your mind, Irishka?”

Her fingers traced idle patterns on Michael’s blanket, a nervous habit that betrayed her hesitation. 

“I was just thinking…” she started slowly, considering each word carefully. “I can’t remember the last time we talked. Really talked. Without being interrupted by—” She glanced down at Michael, who was finally sleeping soundly. “—everything.”

Feodor’s expression softened though a faint shadow crossed his features.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

For a moment, Irina didn’t speak. Instead, she let her gaze wander over him, the sunlight catching his features and making her chest ache with a strange mix of longing and frustration. She thought to herself how much she had dreamed about his face and how her body always reacted when Feodor walked into a room with his tall frame and his shy smile. He had been the only man she had ever loved, even before she knew what love was, and for a while, it seemed that the feeling had simply evaporated. But looking at him now, a spark of it returned with an intensity she wasn’t expecting.

“You’re still so handsome,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Feodor’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and then he laughed—a quiet, genuine sound that made her heart twist.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he said, leaving his chair and walking over to her. “I was starting to wonder if you even noticed I was here.”

Irina’s faint smile faded, and she looked down, feeling a knot of emotion tightening in her chest. “That’s the problem,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice. But it’s not just that.” 

She hesitated, then drew a deep breath. “I’m still upset, Feodor. About everything. The pregnancy, the delivery—I kept telling you I wanted to have Michael somewhere safer, and you wouldn’t listen. And then you barely spoke to me the whole time I was pregnant. It felt like you were avoiding me… like you weren’t there for me when I needed you most.”

Feodor straightened, and Irina saw guilt flashing across his face.

“I know,” he said after a pause, dragging his voice. “You’re right, Irishka. I should have listened to you. I thought Ai-Todor was a beautiful place to bring Michael into the world, but I wasn’t thinking about all the details, I was just so focused in paying homage to that place that I didn’t realize how much I was shutting you out in the process.”

Irina looked up, trying to keep her gaze steady, though she knew it was still tinged with hurt.

“It wasn’t just that you shut me out,” she said softly. “It’s that I felt like I couldn’t count on you. You were supposed to be the one person who understood what I was going through.”

Feodor leaned forward, resting his hand gently on hers. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong to dismiss your concerns, and I hate that I made you feel that way. Now that I’m fully aware of everything that goes into childbirth, I realize that was only making things harder for both of us for no good reason.”

Her fingers tightened slightly under his, and she let herself fully meet his gaze for the first time in weeks.

“You really hurt me, Feodor,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to keep holding on to that.”

Feodor’s thumb brushed over her knuckles as he gently squeezed her hand.

“I’ll do better,” he promised. “From now on, I’ll listen. I’ll hear you. No more shutting you out, I swear.”

A small smile ghosted across her lips, tentative but real.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For saying that. For… being willing to try.”

He reached out with his free hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

“Always, Irishka,” he said gently.

And as she looked at him—truly looked at him—for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt hopeful. Despite everything, she could see the man she had fallen in love with, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself believe in him again.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal was not as intimate as Natalia had hoped. It took place on the same grand stage where the Ballet Russes typically performed, and while the seats weren’t fully occupied, there was a sizeable audience. Most of the onlookers were well-dressed patrons whose generous support kept the company afloat.

When Natalia and a wide-eyed Sonya arrived, they were greeted by none other than Sergei Diaghilev himself, who stood near the entrance, overseeing the arrivals. Natalia suspected he hadn’t been expecting her—she hadn’t sent word of her visit—but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Ah, Princess!” Diaghilev exclaimed, seeming genuinely delighted. His sharp eyes sparkled as he extended a hand. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Natalia smiled warmly, charmed as always by his theatrical manner. 

“I hope we’re not intruding. I couldn’t resist the chance to see the company in rehearsal.”

“Not at all, my dear,” he said, his voice dropping into an intimate murmur as though sharing a secret. “It is always a privilege to have such distinguished company. And who is this lovely creature with you?” He turned his gaze to Sonya, who looked equal parts terrified and thrilled under his attention.

“This is Sonya, my sister’s lady-in-waiting. She’s been kind enough to accompany me.”

Diaghilev bowed his head graciously. “Then I must thank you, Miss Sonya, for allowing the princess to brighten our rehearsal.”

He turned back to Natalia, seamlessly transitioning into polite inquiries about her family. 

“And how is your dear father? And your sister—how is she faring with the little one?”

Natalia answered excitedly, grateful for his charm. He listened attentively, nodding at appropriate moments, and then, with a flourish of his hand, he offered to escort them to their seats.

They were led to prime positions near the stage, close enough to hear the murmur of conversations among the dancers, the sharp instructions of the choreographer, and the occasional laughter from the costume designers who worked on last-minute adjustments at the wings. It was a hive of activity, buzzing with energy and creativity.

As Natalia settled into her seat, she glanced at Sonya, whose eyes were wide with wonder as she took in the organized chaos. Diaghilev leaned closer to Natalia before retreating to his duties.

“Enjoy the magic,” he said with a smile. “This, my dear, is where the real brilliance happens.”

The atmosphere in the large hall was an interesting mixture of chaos and decorum. Most patrons in the audience behaved with the same grace and poise they always displayed during the spectacles, but the scene up on stage could not have been more different.

There were a lot of dancers there who, instead of the elaborate costumes Natalia was used to seeing them in, were wearing practical leotards and tights that allowed them to move more freely. Both the lower dancers from the Ballet Corps and the main dancers were there, mingling and talking to each other as if there were no differences in status among them. And, while all this was happening, other people working on the production walked around them in regular clothing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Stage managers and carpenters measured the stage to fit the sets later on. The choreographer barked orders to the dancers, reminding them which act they would start with while the musicians in the orchestra pit tuned their instruments. The stage was a massive machine that needed to be perfectly tuned to deliver the performances that blew so many people away.

In the midst of this controlled mayhem, Natalia took a moment to spot Serge. He stood near the back of the stage, stretching as the choreographer spoke to him. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his hands gesticulated animatedly as he nodded and occasionally added his own suggestions.

Natalia’s eyes scanned the area, almost instinctively searching for Anna, who she knew couldn’t be far. It didn’t take long to find her—she was unmistakable. Anna’s perfectly symmetrical face, framed by sleek dark hair, was turned toward a seamstress taking her measurements. Her penetrating grey eyes were steady and unflinching, and she kept her demeanour calm and composed.

Natalia couldn’t help but feel inferior in her presence. It was rare for her to feel less than anyone, but Anna had a way of commanding attention without uttering a word. Her beauty, talent, and the quiet determination in her gaze made her seem untouchable, someone who had seen the world and was unimpressed by it. Standing there, Natalia felt more like Sonya, who was beside her, wide-eyed and enthralled by every detail of the scene, her mouth slightly open like a child seeing something extraordinary for the first time.

While Natalia's attention was fixed on Anna, a movement in the corner of her eye pulled her focus. Turning to see what it was, she found Serge, now closer to the edge of the stage, looking directly at her. For a moment, the world seemed to fall away.

Natalia had always thought Serge was extraordinarily handsome, almost otherworldly, the kind of beauty Renaissance painters immortalized in their masterpieces. But Italy had elevated him even further. His skin was sun-kissed and glowing with vitality. He had filled out in all the right places—his chest was broader, his legs more defined, and every inch of him showed strength and purpose. It was as though his entire form had been sculpted for the stage, commanding attention without effort.

It took her a moment to register that he was waving at her. She had been so utterly captivated by him that it felt as if she had stepped into another realm. She tried to muster a casual wave in return, but her hand trembled slightly, betraying her. Her cheeks burned, and she knew there was no hiding the flush that spread across her face.

This feeling was unlike anything she'd experienced before. She tried to compare it to her fleeting attraction for Nicholas. That had been simple and lighthearted—something that was solely based on teasing and laughter before he decided to ruin it by acting like a jerk. But with Serge, there was no trace of humor or casualness. He left her utterly spellbound, and her admiration for him was so profound that it felt overwhelming, like a tidal wave she couldn’t hope to resist.

The awe she felt came with an unsettling undercurrent of inadequacy. Much like how Anna’s poise and confidence made her feel small, Serge’s brilliance and presence had the same effect. He seemed untouchable, an artist whose talent and magnetism drew admiration from everyone around him. What could she possibly offer someone like him?

As the rehearsal continued, Natalia quickly discovered that she simply couldn’t tear her gaze away from Serge. His movements had somehow become even more fluid and captivating than she remembered. He executed every turn and every jump with such grace and skill that it felt as though he had been born doing them.

But Natalia knew he didn’t. She could only imagine the hours of effort and dedication he had put into it. The injuries, the exhaustion. He had to be deeply passionate about his art to go through all the ordeals necessary to reach this high level of skill and be accepted into one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world.

It made her wonder if she had ever been this passionate about anything before, and it was frightening how quickly she came to the conclusion that she hadn’t. Not even close. In fact, as she looked back at her life so far, she saw how little she had ever been excited about anything. At least for things that really mattered or that would leave her mark in the world. It felt as if her fate had already been decided for her - marry, have children, maybe do some charity work, host some balls and tea parties - and there was little she could do to change it. She had never thought as deeply about her future as she did at that moment, and suddenly, the finality of it all sent a shiver down her spine.

She didn’t want a life that was fully mapped out for her. She wanted to do something different and feel passionate about it.

Natalia was brought back to reality when the music stopped and the Director announced that the rehearsal was over. The patrons left their seats, and the dancers began to trickle off the stage, chatting and laughing as they grabbed towels and water bottles. For a moment, Natalia was unsure what to do. Should she just leave like others? Wait to talk with Monsieur Diaghlieve? Wait for Serge? After all, he had invited her in the first place. 

Fortunately - or maybe not, considering how her heart began to pound against her chest, making her imagine for a moment that she was having a heart attack. When she looked at Serge, he was turning in her direction. At first, she thought it was a coincidence, but her stomach flipped when she was certain he was really heading her way.

By the time he reached her, Natalia’s mind was a blur, scrambling for something—anything—to say. But as he stood there, smiling warmly down at her, all words fled.

“Hi,” he said as if he’d saved all his warmth just for her. His presence was even more overwhelming up close, and Natalia could barely meet his gaze without feeling like her cheeks were about to burst into flames.

“I… uh… hi,” she stammered. She mentally cursed herself, gripping her hands together to stop them from fidgeting.

“You’ve been watching the whole time,” Serge said, tilting his head slightly. “Did I pass inspection?”

Natalia felt her blush deepen.

“I wasn’t… I mean, yes! You were… amazing,” she managed, the words tumbling out clumsily. “Not that you need me to tell you that—you must hear it all the time.”

He laughed softly, a sound that sent a warm shiver down her spine. 

“It’s different when it comes from you.”

Her breath caught, and the world seemed to stop again for a moment. She wanted to respond, to say something, but her tongue seemed tied, and the intensity of his presence drowned out her thoughts.

Serge glanced down, noticing her nervous hands clasped tightly together. His smile softened, losing some of its teasing edge. 

“I’m glad you came today,” he said gently. “It means a lot to me.”

Theoretically, Natalia knew she had a physical body made of flesh and bone, but after she heard those words uttered from Serge’s mouth, as he gave her the kindest smile she had seen on his face since she had met him, she could swear that she had turned into something liquid and had disappeared somewhere below the ground. But she hadn’t. She was still there, staring at him like a fool, so she shook her head and cleared her throat.

“Well… thank you… I… really, if I’m honest, I didn’t have all that much to do, and I…” she paused again, closing her eyes to regain balance.

This was going worse than she could have imagined. She had a full conversation with Serge in the past. It hadn’t been that difficult, so why was she struggling now? She looked to her side and saw Sonya glancing between them with a mixture of fascination and curiosity. She decided to change the subject.

“This is Sonya, by the way,” she said, nudging the girl forward. “She’s my sister’s lady-in-waiting. She let me borrow her for the day so I could come here.”

Serge’s eyes shifted to Sonya, and his warm smile turned slightly more amused. 

“Borrowed her?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone borrowing a person before.”

Natalia winced, realizing how strange her phrasing sounded. 

“That’s not what I—” she began hurriedly, but he cut her off with a soft laugh.

“I’m joking,” Serge laughed. “I get it. And it’s nice to meet you, Sonya.”

Sonya, who had been staring at him as if he were a mythological figure, suddenly snapped to attention.

“It’s an honour,” she said, a little breathless. She gave a quick curtsy, which made Serge chuckle again.

“Well, I hope I didn’t completely bore you both,” he said, returning his gaze to Natalia. “Rehearsals aren’t exactly glamorous.”

“Not glamorous?” Natalia’s voice found a touch of its usual steadiness. “That was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. The work you all put into it… it’s mesmerizing.”

His smile softened again, and for a moment, he seemed caught by her sincerity.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

A beat of silence passed between them before Serge glanced toward the stage.

“Listen, some of the dancers and I are heading to a café nearby,” he said casually but invitingly. “You should come. Both of you.”

Natalia hesitated, wondering how her heart was still firmly in place. The idea of spending more time with Serge in a more relaxed setting was both thrilling and terrifying, but God, did she want to try it. She glanced at Sonya, who nodded so enthusiastically that it was a wonder her head didn’t fall off.

“Sure,” Natalia said, trying to sound calm. “We’d love to.”

“Great,” Serge said. “Let me grab my things, and we’ll head out.”

As he walked off, Natalia turned to Sonya, who was positively glowing with excitement.

“I think he likes you,” she whispered, barely containing her glee. “You are so lucky!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natalia muttered, though her voice was unconvincing even to her own ears.

Still, as she watched Serge’s retreating figure, she did wonder if something had changed. He had never been this open before, this nice. What if the idea wasn’t that farfetched? Well, of course there could never be nothing between them, she had to remind herself of that, but what was wrong with a little flirtation? So far, it had done wonders for her soul, so why not try it?

Chapter Text

When Serge returned to their side, freshly bathed and dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, Natalia could feel her nerves spike. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he looked even more striking than before if that were possible. However, she quickly realized he wasn’t alone. Walking beside him was Anna, with her perfect posture and easy grace, along with two other female dancers from the company.

The sight of the small group gave Natalia an odd sense of relief. She had been worried about spending time alone—or nearly alone—with Serge, so the fact that others would be there would be a relief. At least their focus would be scattered, and no one would be paying too much attention to the fact that she was as nervous as a schoolgirl. Not to mention that, if any acquaintance of her parents happened to stop by, she would be part of a large group and most likely go unnoticed by them as well.

“We’re ready,” Serge announced with an easy smile, resting his eyes on Natalia for just a moment longer than necessary. “Shall we?”

Natalia nodded, feeling her cheeks warming under Serge’s gaze, and moved to stand beside Sonya, who looked as if she might burst with excitement. Meanwhile, Anna’s attempt at friendliness was lukewarm at best. Her lips curved into a smile that never touched her eyes, which remained as flat and expressionless as ever. Looking at her, Natalia had the distinct impression that Anna wasn’t particularly thrilled about including her in their little group.

The café was close enough to the theatre that walking seemed the obvious choice. However, as they set off, Anna made a passing remark to Natalia, keeping her tone light but her words sharp as a knife.

“You’re sure you don’t mind walking such a distance? I wasn’t sure if princesses ever walked.”

Natalia smiled at the comment, brushing it off as if it hadn’t landed.

“It’s fine,” she replied smoothly. “I enjoy a walk.”

What she couldn’t brush off, however, was Serge’s choice to walk beside her. Anna and the other dancers took the lead, chatting animatedly about the rehearsal, while Sonya trailed discreetly behind, maintaining enough distance to avoid overhearing. For a while, neither of them spoke. Natalia was too nervous to think of anything to say and focused instead on the way his shoulder occasionally brushed hers. The contact was fleeting but enough to send her pulse racing, and she couldn’t help but suspect it wasn’t accidental.

It wasn’t until now, standing shoulder to shoulder, that Natalia noticed Serge wasn’t particularly tall—about her height, maybe even a touch shorter. But his compact frame radiated strength, and the outline of his muscular arms beneath his shirt was impossible to ignore. She felt the heat rising to her face again and silently thanked the warm day, which gave her a plausible excuse for her flushed cheeks and damp palms.

Serge broke the silence first in a casual tone.

“So, do you visit the theatre often? Or was this… a rare outing?”

Natalia blinked, caught off guard. “Oh… well, I suppose I’ve been a few times,” she stammered, then quickly added, “My father only let me come after my sister turned eighteen, but we received so many artists in our home that I feel as if I’ve been enjoying these performances for as long as I can remember. I saw Anna Pavlovna and Vaslav Nijinsky performing in our ballroom, and I fell in love with ballet. I’m sure Monsieur Diaghliev must have told you about the scrapbook.”

“The scrapbook?” Serge repeated, glancing at her with interest.

Natalia nodded, feeling more confident. “Yes, I kept one as a child. I filled it with clippings, programs, sketches, anything about ballet. Monsieur Diaghilev found it charming and teased me about it endlessly.”

Serge chuckled.

“That sounds… fitting. Not everyone has the privilege of having Pavlovna and Nijinsky performing in their ballroom,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle edge.

Natalia stiffened, unsure if she should apologize.

“I—well, it wasn’t just for us,” she began awkwardly. “My father often held events for diplomats and guests. It was more for them.”

Serge’s smile returned, softer this time.

“I’m teasing,” he assured her. “I think the scrapbook is a charming detail.”

Natalia relaxed slightly, though her cheeks still burned.

“It was just a silly thing. I would probably embarrass myself if I showed it to too many people.”

“I doubt that,” Serge said with a shake of his head. “I think it’s wonderful to have something you’re passionate about, something that makes you light up when you talk about it.”

Natalia blinked at Serge and, without realizing it, slowed her pace. His words seemed to echo her thoughts from earlier when she had been sitting at the theatre, watching him and the other dancers and realising that she had never truly felt passionate about anything in her life. She had envied the dancers on stage, envied the fire and devotion they poured into their art. And now, here was Serge, standing beside her, speaking as if he had plucked that very thought from her mind. It was unsettling, almost as if fate—or something equally mysterious—had arranged for this moment.

“I… I think…,” she started hesitantly when she felt her voice returning, “I think there’s a difference between liking something and being passionate about it. I mean, I… I liked the ballet, but it never was something serious.”

The words felt untrue even as she spoke them. As a child, she loved ballet and all kinds of dancing. Even at that age, she was in awe of what the human body could do and how attuned those dancers were to the music. But neither of her parents ever allowed her to take classes in anything other than classical dancing. Ballet was considered too low for a Grand Duke’s daughter. It was something they watched, never something they would perform.

Serge glanced at her, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Why do you say that? You used to love it, didn’t you? You can still feel it, can’t you?”

Natalia shifted uncomfortably, drifting her gaze toward the ground.

“I suppose I did love it—when I was younger. But, well, it wasn’t considered proper. My parents never allowed me to take ballet classes. They thought it was beneath me. I was expected to focus on more... acceptable pursuits.”

Serge’s eyes softened, and he slowed his pace just enough so they were walking side by side again, closer than before.

“It’s a shame. Ballet takes a different kind of strength. It’s just as much about discipline and dedication as anything else.”

Natalia glanced up at him.

“I never thought about it that way. I suppose I didn’t really have the chance to. Not when everything was decided for me."

His words, so simple yet so true, made something shift inside her. For the first time, she felt a weight settle on her chest. That was it, wasn’t it? The reason she had never felt passionately about anything. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to. It was because she had never been allowed to. She had once dreamed of becoming an actress, or a ballet dancer, or pursuing something beyond the expectations placed on her. But what good would it have done to want any of those things? It had always been a matter of what was proper for a Grand Duke’s daughter, not what she actually desired.

Suddenly, it felt as if a veil had lifted. The life she had been leading, the one she had blindly accepted, seemed to fade into the background. It was as though she had been asleep for years, and now, with just a few words from Serge, she was waking up, seeing a reality she hadn’t even realized was possible.

Serge glanced at Natalia with a slightly furrowed brow.

“Is everything alright?” he asked in a soft tone, noticing the sudden shift in her mood. “You seemed... different just now.”

Natalia was startled out of her thoughts and quickly brushed it off with a nervous laugh.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, offering a small smile. “I was just lost in thought for a moment.”

Serge nodded, though he didn’t seem fully convinced, but he said nothing more as they continued walking.

Fortunately, the café was just in view, and the noise of the bustling surroundings, the clink of cups, and the low murmur of conversation quickly helped to break the tension. As they entered, the vibrant atmosphere surrounded them, and the deep conversation they had been having seemed to fade into the background for a moment.

Feeling the shift in mood, Serge turned his attention to Anna and the others. They began to chat about the rehearsal and the upcoming performance, a topic that sparked an animated conversation. Serge listened, adding his thoughts here and there, and for a few minutes, Natalia found herself in the background, trying to take it all in.

Then, with his usual grace and charm, Serge shifted the conversation to his time in Milan. He spoke of the city with a vividness that brought it to life: the grandeur of the architecture, the food, and the lessons he had learned from his teachers there. Natalia found herself drawn in, feeling her earlier gloom melting away. His talent for storytelling was undeniable, and she laughed along with the others as if she had walked those same streets and experienced the moments he described.

At one point, Serge caught her eye and smiled warmly.

“I have a few sketches from my time in Milan,” he said. “I think you’d appreciate them. They’re in my bag—come, I’ll show you.”

Natalia hesitated for a brief second, caught off guard by the directness of his request, but there was something disarming in the way he asked, and so she nodded, following him as he led her to a quieter corner of the café away from the animated group. The din softened as they reached a small table near the window, where the sunlight streamed in.

Serge reached into his bag and pulled out a leather-bound sketchbook, flipping through its pages.

“These were from my early days there,” he explained, handing it to her. “The city had so much character—it was impossible not to be inspired.”

Natalia took the book, brushing her fingers against his as she did, and began thumbing through the sketches. The first thing that struck her was the precision of his lines—technically, they were flawless, but there was also more to them: they looked as if Serge had poured his energy and focus into capturing every detail. A bustling piazza was depicted with such meticulous attention that she could almost hear the murmur of the crowd and the distant strains of a street musician’s melody.

In another, the façade of Milan Cathedral loomed with breathtaking intricacy. Serge had shaded each spire with care, making the stone appear as though it might crumble to dust or glow in the sunlight, depending on how you viewed it. As she turned the pages, Natalia saw more—sketches of narrow alleyways filled with laundry strung between windows, café tables scattered under striped awnings, and a lone violinist playing beneath an ancient arch.

She paused at a page depicting a pair of dancers mid-pirouette. Even in stillness, the figures seemed to spin, the fabric of their costumes swirling as though caught in a fleeting moment of motion. Serge had clearly studied their bodies' shapes and the rhythm of their art.

“Did you study art? These are fantastic!” Natalia exclaimed, unable to hold her excitement.

“Among other things,” Serge replied playfully. “There was a point in my adolescence when I was just about to become a professional piano player, can you imagine?”

Natalia laughed, not just because his amusement was infectious but because the image of him bent over a piano seemed to fit so naturally with the elegance he carried. Then her gaze flickered to his hands, and she could almost see it—his long, delicate fingers moving across the keys, coaxing melodies from the instrument as effortlessly as he dominated the stage with his dancing.

“And what made you turn to ballet instead?” she asked, emboldened now by the easy rhythm of their conversation.

Serge chuckled, and Natalia could see a touch of shyness softening his features in a way that made him even more endearing. 

“Ah, well,” he began. “The story is a little embarrassing, but bear it with me.”

“Oh, I’m all about embarrassing stories,” Natalia added, still laughing.

“Very well,” Serge began, smiling nostalgically. “I started piano lessons as a child at Bronislava Nijinska’s school in Kyiv. As you probably know, Nijinska is a choreographer for the Ballet Russes, and so there were also ballet classes at the same school. One day, when I was about fourteen, a friend of mine suggested sneaking into the room where the ballet lessons were happening…”

“To spy on the girls, naturally,” Natalia interjected with an amused smile.

Serge laughed. “Yes, I admit it was all very juvenile. We went there with no better intentions than to catch a glimpse of the girls. But what I found…” He paused, shifting his expression to something more introspective. “It ended up changing my life.

“The first time I saw them dancing was unlike anything I had ever experienced. My heart was racing, and it felt as though my soul had been shaken awake from a long, lifeless sleep. There was such beauty, such purpose in their movement. I felt tears sting my eyes—not out of sadness, but from sheer rapture. At that moment, I fell in love. Not with a person or a single dancer but with the art itself. I became a dancer that very day, even though I didn’t know how to dance and hadn’t the faintest idea about technique. But I knew, deep in my bones, that I would learn. And nothing—absolutely nothing—would stop me.”

Natalia listened to every word in utter fascination, barely able to breathe. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, feeling drawn to his voice's intensity and how his entire being seemed to come alive as he shared his story. It was as though he carried a light within him, one that illuminated everything he touched, and Natalia felt herself pulled closer to its warmth.

She couldn’t recall ever meeting someone like him—someone who lived so unapologetically, who allowed himself to feel with such depth and didn’t shy away from it. Everyone in her world seemed so careful, so restrained, bending society's rules. But Serge? Serge had found his path and chased it with unwavering determination, and it was impossible not to admire that.

Watching him, she understood that the familiar pull of attraction was deepening into something more profound. She had been captivated by his his elegance from the beginning, but now there was something else—a quiet awe growing inside her. She envied his freedom and ability to connect with his desires without fear of judgment.

When he fell silent, a faint smile playing on his lips, Natalia realized she hadn’t said anything for a while. She blinked, feeling her cheeks grow warm, and managed a small, breathless laugh. “That’s… incredible,” she murmured. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who feels so deeply or who’s brave enough to actually act on it.”

Serge’s smile softened, and his eyes had a touch of curiosity. “I don’t know about that,” he replied. “I think it’s more stubbornness than anything else.”

Natalia shook her head, her gaze lingering on him.

“No,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “It’s more than that.”

He held her gaze for a moment with an unreadable expression, and then he let out a quiet laugh as though to break the tension. 

“This conversation’s getting rather serious, isn’t it?” he teased.

Natalia smiled though her heart was still racing. She laughed softly, the sound escaping like a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The intensity of her emotions surprised her, but she pushed the thought aside. For now, it was enough just to sit with him, to bask in his presence and let the moment linger a little longer. She wanted to say anything to keep the conversation going, but Anna appeared at their table before she could find the words.

“Serge,” she said, leaning in slightly. “If we’re going to make it in time for dinner with Diaghilev, we should leave soon.”

Serge blinked as if he had forgotten entirely.

“Ah, of course,” he said, running a hand through his hair in mild embarrassment. “I lost track of time.” He turned to Natalia. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cut this short.”

Natalia smiled, though the idea of him leaving so soon left a hollow ache she hadn’t expected. “It’s alright,” she said. “I understand.”

Serge hesitated for a moment, studying her as if he wanted to say something more. Then, with a small smile, he asked, “Are you staying in Paris for long?”

“Another three weeks,” Natalia replied.

His face lit up at her response, and he leaned slightly closer.

“You’re welcome to come to the theatre anytime you like,” he said warmly. “We rehearse almost daily, and I’d be happy to show you around. Who knows? If you're interested, I might even teach you a few ballet steps.”

Natalia’s smile widened. “I might just take you up on that,” she replied teasingly.

“Good,” Serge countered with a grin that made her heart flutter. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Anna cleared her throat gently, reminding Serge of their impending commitment. Serge stood and offered Natalia a slight bow that felt charming and theatrical.

“Until next time, Natalia,” he said, letting his gaze linger on her for a moment.

“Until next time,” she echoed, watching as he and Anna exited the café.

As the door closed behind them, the lively chatter and clinking of cups faded into the background. Natalia leaned back in her chair, her gaze still on the door. Then, she covered her face with her hands and let out a deep sigh. Whatever she had once thought she felt for Nicholas—whatever foolish fluttering of the heart she had mistaken for affection—was nothing compared to this. Serge had left her reeling as if one conversation with him had upended her entire world. She already missed his presence, his laughter, the warmth of his gaze, and found herself counting down the seconds until she might see him again.

But then Tata’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and unyielding. “Sometimes you just look at someone and know they’re bad news.”

Oh, Serge was bad news, alright. She didn’t even need Tata to confirm it. An irresistibly charming ballet dancer with the hands of a piano player and the soul of an artist wasn’t just bad news—it was practically a scandal waiting to happen.

Natalia straightened in her chair. She had to stop this. Whatever this was. She needed to rein in her feelings before they carried her away entirely. This couldn’t go anywhere. It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t logical.

This resolution lasted approximately five seconds.

Then, as her fingers drummed idly on the table, she found herself wondering how she might manage to visit the theatre. Preferably without needing to drag Sonya along as a chaperone.

Chapter Text

Hertfordshire, June 1924

Nicholas of Romania

Nicholas spent most of his time travelling the world aboard British ships and studying at Portsmouth, which allowed him to remain detached from the family drama surrounding his brother Carol and his sister-in-law Olga. His visits to Romania were limited to Christmas and summer holidays, hardly enough to become well-acquainted with Olga or to fully grasp the extent of Carol's indiscretions.

This distance made him an ideal neutral party—a discreet envoy between the divided factions of his family. It wasn't a role he relished, but refusing would mean relentless pressure from his mother. He reluctantly agreed to these occasional visits to the former Emperor and his family to keep the peace. When studying at Portsmouth, the journey was relatively simple—a four-hour train ride followed by a short car trip. Now that he was about to depart for a year-long naval commission, his mother insisted that he should check in on Olga and the children before departing.

The former Emperor was one of Nicholas's godfathers—he was even named after him—and always treated him kindly. The same couldn't be said for every member of the family. He enjoyed Alexei's company, and they made the best of their limited time together. However, even during Alexei's rare visits to London, he was constantly surrounded by protection officers, leaving little opportunity for the kind of freedom Nicholas enjoyed.

Although Alexei was only a year younger, his sheltered life had left him with a certain naivety that Nicholas found endearing in private contexts. But in a place like Portsmouth, where the naval training was brutal, and the hazing from other students was part of everyday life, Alexei's innocence might have been his undoing. Even in more relaxed environments, like the London nightlife, Alexei had seen so little of the world that Nicholas couldn't imagine him navigating the vibrant, unpredictable chaos of it all, despite being only one year younger than Nicholas at almost twenty years old. On the other hand, Nicholas thrived in it like a fish in water.

Grand Duchess Marie didn't seem to mind Nicholas's presence, but that wasn't surprising—she was the type of young woman who got along with everyone. Beyond her, however, the Empress and the other daughters weren't particularly fond of him, and he was fully aware of it. Anastasia was the only one bold enough to voice her opinion, bluntly telling him she disliked his "smug face" and thought he was just as bad as his brother, albeit better at hiding it.

The others were more reserved in their disapproval, but Nicholas could easily imagine how little Olga must have been looking forward to seeing her husband's brother in the one place she considered safe and peaceful.

When Nicholas arrived at the estate, he was received by the former Emperor, his godfather. He greeted him warmly, with a firm handshake and a genial smile, giving the impression of a man who had long since set aside his crown for simpler pleasures.

"Nicky, my boy!" he exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's good to see you again. Come in, come in. Alexei's been eagerly waiting to drag you off to some adventure."

Sure enough, Alexei appeared moments later, his face lighting up when he saw Nicholas. 

"There you are! I was beginning to think you had ditched us for some more interesting company," he said with a grin.

However, the reception wasn't quite as excited as they walked inside. The Empress acknowledged him with a polite nod but kept her distance. Tatiana, who looked to be in the late stages of her pregnancy, offered a fleeting smile before resuming her conversation with the younger children. Marie was gracious and kind, while Anastasia shot him a pointed glare from across the room before turning away.

The room was overflowing with children. His niece Marie, who was turning three in October, was playing with her cousin Alexandra in one corner while Marie's eldest boy, Nicholas, ran around everywhere, causing havoc. Her younger son, Alexander, who was one and a half, tried to keep up with his brother, but his shorter legs made the task difficult. Then Nicholas noticed Mircea sitting quietly with a bandage wrapped around his knee. The sight triggered an immediate sense of unease. He was also his nephew, so when he saw him, he instinctively crouched beside the boy.

"What happened here, soldier?" he asked, gesturing to the bandage.

Mircea looked at him with wide, serious eyes and said, "I falled. Mama fixed it."

Nicholas's stomach twisted. Olga had mentioned nothing about Mircea being hurt, and although a simple fall might mean nothing to others, everyone in that room was very much aware that it could be extremely dangerous for Mircea. He wondered for a moment if he should press the issue with Olga. This was exactly the kind of detail his mother would want him to report on, yet he did not enjoy the thought of playing the spy.

He straightened, forcing a smile.

"Well, you're a brave one," he said lightly.

But as the boy shuffled away, Nicholas couldn't shake the nagging feeling that what was supposed to be a short, simple visit before he got off the hook and spent a year without any of these concerns had just turned into something else. He could feel Olga hovering nearby, most likely studying his reaction closely, considering if he was going to say anything. Nicholas had to suppress a groan. He hated being dragged to the middle of whatever this was, so he simply avoided looking at her and walked over to Alexei, asking how he had been.

After lunch, Nicholas and Alexei jumped into a car and took a drive around the estate. It was massive, with hundreds of acres of land, forests, farms and cottages spread all around. The Empress was building an Orthodox Church overlooking a lake, and there were women garbed in nun habits all around. Most of the food produced in the estate (cattle, chicken, fruit trees, and a wide variety of vegetables) went into the Empress's charity work. Alexei explained that she mostly helped poor, loyal Russians who had moved to England.

Nicholas was usually the one who did most of the talking when he met with Alexei. He had an abundance of tales about his escapades in the nightlife surrounding the naval academy and his occasional visits to London, which he knew amused his cousin. But, this time, he couldn't get the image of Mircea out of his head and was still silently debating with himself what he should do about it.

After a moment of silence, Alexei said, "So, I hear your meeting with Natasha didn't go off to a great start. " He then eyed him curiously.

The topic was cheerful enough to disperse some of the dark clouds. He glanced at Alexei with an amused smile, hoping he would give him more details, but Alexei kept his focus on the road ahead of them.

"Did she tell you that?" Nicholas asked, making sure he hid the eagerness of the question.

Alexei shrugged. "Not directly, but did she ask me to tell you that you may think you're charming but the truth is that you are insufferable. Among other things."

Nicholas laughed at that. A good, hearty laugh that instantly put him in a good mood. He hadn't talked to Natalia many times, but he could just imagine the indignation on her face as she wrote those words, the way her eyebrows would knit together and she would pout, thinking of their unfortunate rendez-vous at the party. It seemed he had succeeded in causing an impression. She wouldn't have bothered to write about it if he hadn't, and she certainly wouldn't have called him charming.

"She's quite something, let me tell you," Nicholas replied.

Now, it was Alexei's turn to laugh.

"To put it mildly," he said. "I was surprised that you two didn't get along. I think your characters are very similar."

Nicholas smiled faintly as his mind drifted back to that unforgettable evening at Montmartre. It had begun as nothing more than playful curiosity. Natalia had intrigued him from the moment he saw her at the school. Even in her plain uniform, she stood out—a vibrant, radiant presence that seemed to illuminate the room. She was witty, confident, and just unattainable enough to make the pursuit irresistible.

If he were honest, he hadn't expected much from the kiss. She was young and inexperienced, after all. But once her initial reservations melted away, she'd been as spirited and passionate as she was with everything else. And breathtakingly beautiful. Did he mention that? He'd tried in vain to find someone who could rival her looks, but even the most stunning women in England and Malta hadn't come close.

"I think we did get along for a while," Nicholas said with a touch of ambiguity. "The first time I saw her..." He let out a low whistle, shaking his head.

"She might be one of the most stunning women I've ever seen—the kind that would make a man fall to his knees," he added, glancing at Alexei with a smirk. "Not that you should do that, by the way. Never fall on your knees for a woman. They'll rip your heart out and leave you wondering what hit you."

Alexei's hands tightened on the steering wheel, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Nicholas noticed the subtle shift in his demeanour and hesitated. Of course—Natalia had been Alexei's best friend for years. The realization hit like a jolt of icy water, and he wondered how he hadn't seen it before.

"I'm sorry," Nicholas said cautiously. "I think I might be overstepping here. I should've realized you might have feelings for her—"

"What?" Alexei interrupted, slamming on the brakes so hard Nicholas nearly hit the dashboard. "Feelings? For Natasha? Are you serious?"

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, watching as Alexei scrambled for words.

"She's like... like a sister."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. Alexei had said the word 'sister' almost as if he was chewing on a piece of coal. It was the most insincere thing he had ever heard.

"Really," Alexei insisted. "I know that some people sometimes mistake our friendship for something else, but it's only because we know each other so well, you know? Like, I can look at her and know exactly what she's thinking and she knows me better than I even know myself, so, sometimes, we may look like an old married couple, but that's just a perception. It would never-- I mean, we would kill each other after the first few weeks if we ever--"

Nicholas nodded slowly. The car was stopped in the middle of a dirt road, and although the weather was pleasant, there was a chill in the air. Still, Alexei was sweating so profusely that one would think they had walked straight into the gates of hell.

"And, besides, it would be impossible," Alexei continued. "You know. Even if both of us went mad at the same time and decided to do something crazy like that, it wouldn't work. I can't marry a Russian, and, besides, the House Rules say that an Empress has to have a long line of royal ancestors, and Natasha's mother is a commoner, so... nothing to do there. She's free."

"Alright," Nicholas replied, biting his lips so he wouldn't laugh. "I didn't ask for a full explanation; I was just wondering. If you'd gotten to her first, I would have gladly backed away as a friend and as a gentleman. But she did say it was her first kiss, and I don't see any reason for her to be lying about it."

At that, Alexei turned to him with wide eyes as if he were seeing Nicholas in a completely new light. He could almost swear sparkles were coming out of his eyes. Truth be told, Nicholas wasn't entirely sure why he had said that last part. He guessed there was always some underlying sense of competition between men, even if they got along as well as he and Alexei did, and the opportunity had been too good for him not to flaunt his achievement with pride.

"It... it was you?" Alexei asked in a low whisper.

"Uh... she told you about it?" Nicholas asked, genuinely surprised. "She didn't seem like the kind of girl who would kiss and tell."

For a second, Alexei looked at him with such contempt that Nicholas wondered if he would hit him the same way Vladimir Paley had hit his brother. Then he saw him taking a deep breath and starting the car again as if nothing had happened.

"She only told me about the kiss; she didn't say who it had been with," Alexei clarified in a tone that sounded rehearsed, something he had practised for more diplomatic contexts.

They drove in silence for a long moment, the weight of the conversation hanging heavily between them. Nicholas could sense the gears turning in Alexei's mind, working overtime to process what had just been said and how to extricate himself from the awkwardness. It was as if Alexei had spent years guarding a secret, only for one careless conversation to bring it perilously close to exposure.

“So,” Alexei said suddenly, his tone bright and cheerful as if their earlier conversation had never happened. “I take it from Natasha’s letter that your latest meeting wasn’t exactly successful?”

Nicholas smirked, confidently placing his hands behind his head. “We’re just playing a little game of cat and mouse,” he replied casually. “Let me tell you something, my friend: women don’t like it when you offer them everything at once. You have to give it to them bit by bit. They like to play tough.”

Alexei shot him a sideways glance, his expression caught somewhere between scepticism and amusement.

“Just out of curiosity,” Alexei began, “how exactly did you apply this brilliant strategy with Natasha? If I may ask, of course.”

Nicholas chuckled, enjoying the opportunity to share his “wisdom.” He found Alexei’s mild naivety amusing and thought it wouldn’t hurt to give him a glimpse into his methods.

“Well,” Nicholas began with a sly grin, “let’s just say that when I sensed even the slightest hint of hesitation on her part, I decided to employ a risky technique—one that I believe will yield great results in the long run.”

He paused dramatically, waiting for Alexei’s curiosity to pique enough to ask.

“Are you going to tell me, or should I start begging?” Alexei asked a trace of amusement in his voice.

Nicholas leaned forward as if sharing a great secret. “I told her I didn’t remember the kiss all that well. You know, just to keep her on her toes, make her wonder what she could’ve possibly done wrong. Maybe she’ll want to fix it somehow. And when that time comes, I’ll tell her, ‘Wow, that was fantastic. I don’t know how I had forgotten about it.’”

Alexei stared at Nicholas for a moment before suddenly bursting into loud, uncontrollable laughter. He laughed so hard that he had to clutch his sides, leaving Nicholas confused and slightly offended.

“What’s so funny?” Nicholas asked, frowning. “That was brilliant. You could take notes.”

Alexei, still laughing, waved a hand as if to dismiss Nicholas’s indignation. “No, no,” he gasped. “It’s just… have you really taken a good look at Natalia?”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes, sitting up straighter. “Of course I have,” he said indignantly. “A very close look, in fact.”

Alexei, still grinning, shook his head. “Then you know exactly how beautiful she is. Do you honestly think you’re the only one who’s noticed?”

Nicholas frowned but said nothing, waiting for Alexei to continue.

“Half the aristocracy in Russia and half of Paris have noticed, Nicholas. And you think your little ‘I don’t remember the kiss’ trick is going to keep her fixated on you? Let me tell you what’s going to happen: she’ll feel bad about it for maybe a day or two. She’ll rant about you to her friends for a bit. Then, do you know what she’ll do?”

Nicholas tilted his head slightly, the frown deepening. “What?”

“She’ll move on, Nicholas. Happily, without giving you a second thought for the rest of her life. That’s what.”

Nicholas was silent for a moment, his confident smirk faltering ever so slightly. Still grinning, Alexei turned to the path leading to the old ruins they would explore for the rest of the afternoon.

"And you're going to be away for what? A year?" Alexei asked after a moment.

“That’s the plan,” Nicholas replied through clenched teeth.

Alexei’s grin only widened as he pulled the car to a stop and hopped out with a noticeable spring in his step. Nicholas followed more slowly, with stiff movements and a tight jaw. Once they were both standing, Alexei turned to him, his blue eyes glinting with playful mischief.

Before Nicholas could brush past him, Alexei placed a firm, almost brotherly hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop and meet his gaze. There was a trace of genuine warmth beneath the teasing.

“Do yourself a favour, Nicholas,” Alexei said. “Enjoy the ships you’re going to see during your little tour.”

Nicholas raised a brow, already anticipating the punchline.

“Because Natalia’s has long sailed away,” Alexei finished with a laugh, giving his shoulder a quick pat before stepping back.

Nicholas exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring at Alexei as he strode toward the ruins with an unmistakable air of triumph.

“I didn't know you were this funny,” Nicholas muttered under his breath, following reluctantly.

Alexei shrugged casually, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin. “I save my best lines for dire times,” he quipped.

Nicholas shook his head with a faint smirk, quickening his steps to catch up. “Well, I’ll have you know, I’m confident enough in my abilities to say that this is far from over,” he shot back.

Alexei chuckled, his grin widening as they fell into step. “Sure you are. And you know what? I admire that confidence,” he laughed. “It’s the kind of determination that makes for great explorers—and terrible romantics.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile tugging at his lips. The two continued their banter as they made their way toward the crumbling stones, and the tension from earlier dissipated into the hot afternoon air.

Chapter Text

After Nicholas and Alexei returned from their excursion, they found Olga pacing in the lobby. Nicholas noticed her immediately while he was still in the car, twisting her fingers and casting anxious glances toward the entrance. He sighed inwardly. Whatever this was about—almost certainly Mircea—he was certain it was something he’d rather not get dragged into.

As soon as he stepped out of the car, Olga made her way over.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked in a tone that suggested this wasn’t optional.

Nicholas glanced at Alexei, silently begging for support. But Alexei, who was always loyal to his sisters above everyone else, simply grinned faintly and disappeared into the house without a word. Nicholas muttered a curse under his breath but followed Olga when she motioned him toward a secluded corner in the garden.

After a few minutes of polite small talk—questions about his parents and sisters, with a very deliberate avoidance of any mention of Carol—Olga came to the point.

“About Mircea’s injury,” she began. “It wasn’t serious. He knocked his knee against a table and fell. We called the doctor and the haematologist immediately—he was already nearby because of Alexei. There was no transfusion, nothing alarming. Just a swollen knee for a couple of weeks. We are all used to dealing with this.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

“If it was nothing,” he asked carefully, “then why didn’t you tell Carol? Or at least our mother?”

Olga’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as if he’d just asked the most ridiculous question imaginable.

“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Nicholas stood his ground, not backing away from the question. He waited in silence, watching as her frustration simmered to the surface.

She scoffed, her expression darkening.

“If Carol found out, he’d never let Mircea come here again. He’s been waiting for something like this, Nicky. Any excuse to make things harder for me, to hurt me. And this? This would be perfect for him.”

Nicholas sighed, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He knew she wasn’t wrong. He’d seen enough of Carol’s temper and his need to assert control, especially where Olga was concerned. Still, neutrality had always been his safest course of action, and it wasn’t a habit he intended to break now.

“I’m not taking sides in this, Olga,” he said carefully. “You know that. I’ve done my best to stay neutral because I know how Carol can be. But you’re putting me in an impossible position here.”

She crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “What do you mean?”

“My mother is going to ask how the children were,” Nicholas explained. “And if I tell her they were fine, I’m lying. Is that what you want? For me to lie to her?”

Olga’s lips pressed into a tight line, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then she exhaled sharply, the frustration in her posture giving way to something closer to desperation.

“I just want to protect them from the terrible father and the awful environment they have at home,” she said quietly. “That’s what I want. And sometimes, yes, that means you might have to lie. Because if Carol catches wind of this—” She broke off, shaking her head. “You know what he would do. He would even try to take them away from me, just because he can and just because he knows how much that would hurt me. I can’t risk that, Nicholas. I can’t.”

Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck, sighing heavily. He didn’t like being dragged into these battles, but he also couldn’t deny the weight of her words or how right they were.

“All right,” he said finally, in a low voice. “I’ll handle it. But you need to understand that I don’t want to be in this position.”

“I understand,” Olga said curtly, though the gratitude in her eyes was unmistakable. “Thank you.”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked back toward the house, leaving Nicholas alone in the garden, deep in thought. As he stood there, staring at the distant trees swaying in the breeze, Nicholas felt the familiar ache of disappointment. He understood Olga’s position. How could he not? He’d witnessed Carol’s controlling, unpredictable temper too many times to count, and he couldn’t deny that she had a point. Carol wouldn’t just overreact—he would seize any opportunity to punish Olga, no matter how minor the offence was.

And yet, as much as Nicholas sympathized with Olga, part of him hated being put in the middle of this. It was exhausting to constantly navigate the minefield his family dynamics had become. Worse still, it was hard for him to reconcile the image of his older brother now with the one he’d carried for so long in his heart.

There had been a time in their childhood when Nicholas truly admired Carol. Back then, his brother seemed larger than life—strong, intelligent, and effortlessly charismatic. Nicholas looked up to him, even idolized him, convinced that Carol could do no wrong. But those feelings had been steadily eroded over the years by the harsh reality of who his brother truly was.

Now, every new incident—every petty argument, every calculated move to hurt Olga—chipped away at the last remnants of that childhood admiration. Nicholas hated seeing this side of Carol, not just because of what it revealed about him but because it destroyed the image of the invincible older brother he’d once adored.

With a deep sigh, Nicholas forced himself to focus on something else. He thought about the commission he’d just accepted and how it couldn’t have come at a better time. For twelve whole months, he would be away from this drama, away from the suffocating tension that seemed to follow his family wherever they went.

The thought of being at sea, surrounded by nothing but open water and fresh air, filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief. It was a chance to clear his mind, to remember who he was outside of all this.

Chapter Text

Natalia had, indeed, returned to the theatre. She had done so almost every day for two weeks, pretty much every time Irina didn’t need Sonya for the afternoon. Natalia had tried her best to devise a plan where she could go there without a chaperone - not that she didn’t enjoy Sonya’s company. Despite all their differences, she knew how to keep her distance, and she had never breathed a word about her closeness to Serge. But she longed to be alone with him, just so they have more intimate conversations and she could finally ask if he was indeed interested in her or if she was just imagining things.

However, she soon discovered that her father had ensured she wouldn’t repeat her past transgressions around the house. Now, there were always guards around the gates, even at night, and he was in the process of erecting a fence in the most vulnerable corner of the wall, where she used to slip away unnoticed.

Thus, her meetings with Serge remained frustratingly public. Each day, they followed the same pattern: She would sit beside Sonya to watch rehearsals, then join him, Anna, and other dancers at a nearby café. The group was ever-changing, with a rotating cast of lively personalities, and Natalia found herself equal parts enchanted and frustrated by the conversations.

Serge’s world was unlike anything she’d known—full of movement, expression, and freedom. He spoke of things that made her head spin and her heart race. He described the challenge of perfecting a pas de deux, how every step required trust, precision, and a deep connection between partners. He explained the history behind certain ballets, the stories that had inspired their creation, and the subtle ways choreography could convey emotion better than words ever could.

He talked of his gruelling training sessions, the discipline it took to shape the body into an instrument, and the ache of rehearsals that pushed him to his limits. Yet, for all the pain, his eyes lit up when he spoke of the stage—the thrill of the lights, the applause, and the fleeting magic of a perfect performance.

Natalia asked endless questions, soaking up every detail. What did it feel like to leap, defying gravity, with the orchestra swelling below? Did he ever grow tired of performing the same roles? Did he dream of creating his own choreography or even his own ballet company one day?

Serge, in turn, asked her about her life, though he rarely pushed when she hesitated to answer. He seemed genuinely fascinated by her sheltered, structured existence and teased her gently about her formal upbringing. He asked her numerous questions about the palaces, how many rooms they had, how many servants, where they slept and other similar things. He seemed as fascinated about her world as she felt about his, although, in her opinion, his stories always sounded more interesting than hers.

For the first time, Natalia felt like she saw the world in colour. It was as if Serge had lifted a veil she hadn’t realized was there, showing her a new reality filled with passion and creativity like she’d never imagined. And though she yearned for a moment alone with him, she couldn’t deny the thrill of these afternoons.

But as the days ticked by, her excitement gave way to an ache she didn’t know how to suppress. Her departure to Cannes with Irina and Feodor was just a few days away, and the thought of leaving this newfound world filled her with despair. How was she supposed to return to the suffocating dullness of tea parties and leisurely strolls along the promenade when she had tasted something so vibrant and alive?

On her last day at the theatre, the air itself felt different. Natalia could almost swear that Serge looked sad on stage. His movements seemed heavier and more calculated, and his gaze flicked to her more often than usual. Those glances made her heart race. Could it be that he was feeling as depressed as she was about her departure? Could it be possible that he regretted not spending more time alone with her? Whatever it was, it both saddened and thrilled her. The idea that she could provoke such a reaction in him, that she could matter to someone like Serge, sent a quiet rush of exhilaration through her.

After the rehearsal, as the dancers milled about, Serge approached her with Anna at his side. Natalia’s heart made its usual flip in her chest as he stopped in front of her, still not fully used to his dashing presence.

The second they arrived at their side, Anna turned to Sonya with an animated smile.

“Sonya, I need to ask you something about those earrings you wore the other day. You know, the ones with the tiny pearls?”

As Anna drew Sonya into conversation, Serge leaned closer to Natalia. Even after all the days they had spent together, his proximity still made her breath catch, and his warm, woodsy scent filled the narrow space between them, making her feel dizzy. 

She was still adjusting to his presence when he suddenly murmured in a low, conspiratorial tone, “Would you like to see something special?”

Natalia blinked, startled by the question. She looked up at him, at the way his piercing eyes seemed to glow with excitement, the faintest curl tugging at the corner of his lips. Her stomach twisted—not unpleasantly, but with a rush of emotions, she wasn’t prepared to unravel.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“There’s a private part of the theatre,” he whispered. “Where the dancers have their own rehearsals. It’s hidden from the public. Most people don’t even know it exists.”

Her breath hitched as her heart slammed against her ribs. The offer was tempting, but it also filled her with dread. She could feel her cheeks warming, her head swimming with the thrill of being singled out by him and the possibility of finally being alone with him. But just as quickly, a stab of worry pierced through her excitement.

“But... Sonya will notice I’m gone,” she said as she looked at her chaperone.

Serge followed her glance, keeping his expression calm and confident as he nodded toward Anna, who was now gesturing animatedly, drawing Sonya deeper into a discussion.

“Anna will keep her distracted,” he said smoothly. “I promise it won’t take long.”

Natalia hesitated for another moment, not entirely sure what she should do. Her pulse raced at the thought of following Serge, seeing a hidden part of his world, and sharing a secret with him that no one else knew. But what if Sonya noticed her absence? What if she told her father? The very idea made her stomach churn with anxiety.

Yet Serge’s presence made her feel alive. The warmth of his gaze and the effortless way he made her feel like she belonged in this vibrant, artistic world were intoxicating. She wanted to go with him, to let herself be swept up in his universe, even if just for a moment.

Her eyes darted back to him, drawn to the intensity in his expression, the subtle tilt of his head that urged her to trust him. The thrill of the unknown, of being with him, was nearly irresistible. Natalia’s fingers twitched at her sides as she weighed the risk, but the lure of the adventure was too strong and irresistible for her to fight it.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“All right,” she whispered, feeling her voice trembling.

A slow smile spread across Serge’s face, and Natalia felt the world tilt slightly as if she had just made a decision that would change everything.

“Come on, then,” he said.

He turned and motioned for her to follow. Natalia glanced over her shoulder one last time, her stomach flipping as she saw Anna keeping Sonya entirely absorbed in their conversation. Taking a deep breath, she stepped after Serge, following him through a backdoor that led into a large corridor with red doors on both sides. He explained that those were the dressing rooms, where the dancers prepared before going up to the stage. He showed her which red door was his, but he didn’t open it, nor did they stay there for long.

Although a fair number of people were walking back and forth along the corridor, it was clear that this part of the theatre was calmer, at least at that hour. Only a few dancers were heading in the opposite direction to where they were going, as well as a few carpenters and painters who working on the sets.

After walking for a few minutes, Serge stopped in front of a set of double doors at the end of the hall. He pushed them open, and for a moment, Natalia could only see the darkness inside. Then, Serge disappeared for a second to turn on the lights, and before her, Natalia saw a dancing studio with a mirror that covered the length of the opposite wall, a wooden floor and a barre. It was the kind of place Natalia had dreamt about as a child when she had longed to learn how to dance.

“This is where I spend a good part of my evenings,” Serge explained as he returned to her side. “I can concentrate better here than out there, with everyone staring.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Natalia replied.

She had been so distracted studying the space that she only realised that she was, at long last, alone with Serge after a few moments. The soft hum of activity outside had faded away, and in the stillness of the studio, she could hear nothing but their breaths and the faint creak of the wooden floor as Serge shifted his weight. Her heart began to race, her pulse thudding in her ears. She felt acutely aware of his presence beside her—the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the earthy trace of effort and movement.

Serge moved toward the barre, resting one hand lightly on it. 

“Are you still interested in that ballet lesson?” He asked.

There was nothing intimate about the question, but Natalia had watched ballet performances all her life and knew how close two partners could get on stage. In fact, that proximity, the physicality of some of the movements, and the tight costumes made ballet so improper for a Princess to learn. But she did want to learn it—not just for the dance itself but because Serge would teach the lesson.

“I’m afraid I won’t be very good at it,” she whispered hesitantly.

The slow, crooked smile that spread over Serge’s lips was her undoing. It was effortless, warm, amused—absolutely devastating. And it was directed at her. This was Serge Lifar, the ballet dancer she had watched perform with awe just months ago, a man who had barely acknowledged her existence then. Yet now, he was looking at her in a way that could make even the most self-assured woman reconsider everything she thought she knew about herself.

How could she possibly resist him?

“Nobody is good at first,” he said in a low voice, extending his hand toward her. “It’s wanting to try that makes the difference.”

Natalia hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, battling the last shreds of her conscience. She told herself she should leave. This was too close, too much. He was going to ruin her, and she was going to let him. But the warnings felt distant, inconsequential. She had already been caught in his orbit; no force on earth could pull her away now. Before she even realized what she was doing, she stepped forward and placed her hand in his.

Chapter Text

Serge’s fingers curled around hers, firm and sure. Glancing down at her feet, he suggested, “Maybe it’s best if you take off your shoes." His voice was light, but his gaze was unreadable. “Lovely as they are, they don’t look particularly comfortable.”

She nodded—too quickly, too eagerly—but at this point, what was the use in pretending? Without hesitation, she dropped to one knee as her fingers fumbled at her shoes' buckles. When she slipped them off, she was acutely aware of what she was doing, of how intimate such a simple action suddenly felt. A part of her whispered that she had no business removing any article of clothing in Serge’s presence, but the thought was drowned out by the sound of her own heartbeat hammering in her ears.

When her stockinged feet touched the cool wooden floor, she came to her senses for just a moment, enjoying the pleasant sensation, but it did little to steady the rapid fluttering in her chest.

“Better?” Serge asked, moving closer.

Natalia flexed her toes experimentally, nodding. 

“Yes,” she whispered because that was the only tone of voice she could manage at that moment.

“Good,” he murmured before stepping back and motioning toward the barre. “Since we don’t have much time, we’ll stick to the basics. Ballet starts with five fundamental positions. Everything you see on stage—the turns, the jumps, the lifts—it all comes from these foundations.”

She nodded again, drinking in every word. Not just because she was eager to learn but because they were coming from Serge, and she wanted to hear his voice and prolong whatever this was between them.

Serge stepped to the side and demonstrated the first position as if it had taken no effort. His heels touched, toes turned outward, and his posture was so impeccable that it was almost unnerving. 

“First position,” he said simply. Try it.”

Natalia mirrored him, turning her feet outward in the same way. To her surprise, the motion felt natural, familiar in a way she hadn’t expected.

Serge raised a brow. “Good,” he murmured, showing he was just as astounded that she pulled it off on her first try. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you I've been watching it since I can remember,” she admitted.

He said nothing, only nodded in quiet acknowledgement before moving on. “Second position.”

 He stepped into it, feet apart but still turned outward. Again, Natalia followed easily.

Serge exhaled a soft chuckle. “I was expecting more of a struggle,” he admitted. “It’s rare for someone to find their placement so quickly.”

Natalia didn’t reply—she couldn’t. Not when he was suddenly behind her, adjusting her posture with a light touch at her waist. His hands were careful, impersonal, but that didn’t matter. The second his fingers grazed her, every nerve in her body seemed to ignite. She was going to die. That was the only explanation. She was going to die from the sheer intensity of this moment.

“Relax your shoulders,” Serge murmured. “You’re holding too much tension.”

Natalia almost wanted to laugh. Relax? How could she relax when she could barely breathe?

He gently smoothed a hand down her arm, guiding it into the correct position. The sensation left a burning trail in its wake. Natalia clenched her jaw, fighting to maintain her composure. Serge, oblivious to her turmoil, stepped back to observe her form. His expression was neutral until the corner of his mouth quirked upward ever so slightly.

“You’re a natural,” he said.

There was something in his voice, something he was holding back as if he were only now realizing that there was something different in the air. Natalia held her breath as Serge took another step back, his hands dropping to his sides. His gaze flickered over her, assessing, but something had changed. He was suddenly careful and more distant than before. He no longer reached out to correct her posture, though she could tell he wanted to.

He felt it, too.

The realization sent a sharp thrill through her, more potent than she was prepared for. His control was impeccable, his restraint near perfect—but not perfect enough. His eyes gave him away. The heat in them, the way they lingered on her just a fraction too long. She wasn’t imagining it. For the first time since stepping into the room, she knew she wasn’t the only one struggling.

Serge let out a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair before shaking his head slightly. A wry smile played on his lips.

“You’re full of surprises,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t expect this from you. I didn’t even expect you to want to learn.”

Natalia tilted her head, watching him. “Why not?”

His smile deepened. “Because it’s scandalous,” he said simply. “A princess shouldn’t be caught barefoot in a ballet studio, letting a man like me put his hands on her waist.”

She should have been embarrassed and felt some kind of shame because he was right. Instead, she laughed softly, breathlessly, feeling her pulse hammering in her throat.

“It is scandalous,” she admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Serge arched a brow, intrigued. “You don’t?”

She shook her head. “Not at all,” she said honestly. “I only know that I feel lightheaded and imprudent when I’m around you. As if I could do something incredibly foolish and not regret it.”

Something flickered in Serge’s expression—something dangerous. He held her gaze for a beat too long, long enough for the air between them to turn thick and charged.

Then, just as quickly, he turned away.

“Third position,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost playful, but she didn’t miss the way his fingers curled into his palms before he clasped them behind his back. He was avoiding touching her.

The realization made her dizzy. She had expected the heat to be one-sided and had prepared herself for it. But this was new. And it was intoxicating. Serge remained still. For a fleeting second, Natalia saw something in his expression—something raw, unguarded. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, and he was back in full control of his features. But she wouldn’t let that continue for much longer.

“You’re not correcting me,” Natalia noted.

His brows lifted, but he said nothing. She took a step closer, narrowing the distance between them. “Is there a reason for that?”

Something crossed his face—maybe hesitation? Surprise? Whatever it was, it was rare. She had never seen him at a loss for words before. Serge Lifar was always in control, always knowing, always three steps ahead. But now, standing before her, he looked... unsure.

Natalia pressed further. “I’m sure I’m not doing everything right,” she said, tilting her chin. “You should be giving me more notes.”

That pulled a laugh from him, but it was softer than usual. Less teasing, more nervous. He exhaled, glancing away for a brief moment before meeting her gaze again. 

“Maybe,” he admitted in a rougher voice. “But maybe we’re venturing into dangerous territory.”

Natalia wasn’t sure how she was still breathing, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t know what she was doing—she had never done anything like this before—but something about how he was watching her and how his voice had dipped into something rough and uncertain made her bold. She wanted him to know how she felt. More than that, she wanted to provoke something in him, to see if he felt the same.

But the pause stretched long. Too long.

Serge didn’t move, didn’t speak. His posture was as controlled as ever, but there was tension in the way he held himself, a sharpness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He was weighing something, deciding something.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she took a breath and asked, “Is that something you’d like to do?”

His brows lifted just slightly. “What?”

She stepped closer. “Venture into dangerous territory.”

The words left her mouth before she could second-guess them. She wasn’t playing coy or trying to be clever—she was simply stating what she wanted. And yet, as the silence stretched between them, uncertainty crept in.

Serge didn’t answer right away. He only stared at her, and his expression remained unreadable. The longer he hesitated, the more aware she became of herself—of the warmth rising to her cheeks, of the way her pulse hammered beneath her skin. She had never done this before. She didn’t know if she was doing it right.

His fingers tapped absently against his thigh, his jaw tightening as if he were weighing something, turning it over in his mind. And then, at last, he exhaled, closing his eyes briefly before shaking his head.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he murmured so quietly she barely heard him.

Natalia blinked. That wasn’t the answer she had expected. But then again—what had she expected?

The only time she had ever been kissed was Nicholas, who had done all the work. He had been the one convincing her. Standing in front of Serge, waiting, hoping, she found herself on the other side of things, which was humbling. And the fact that her words didn’t seem to have the effect she had imagined—that they didn’t tip him over the edge—made something small and sharp twist inside her. Humiliation.

Serge seemed to sense it because, without warning, he moved closer to her—not quite touching but reducing the distance between them. His eyes locked onto hers, filled with a search for understanding and a hint of conflict. In that instant, everything changed.

Natalia saw it in his eyes. For the first time since they met, Serge was looking at her differently. Not as a princess. Not as someone off-limits. But as a woman. And yet, even as tension crackled between them, he held his ground.

“Natalia,” he said in a careful tone. “You are beautiful. And you have surprised me in ways I never imagined.” He hesitated like he was struggling with the words. “But we have to be careful. You know that.”

She swallowed hard.

He shook his head slightly as if trying to steady himself. “We are from different worlds. We have boundaries between us for a reason. And…” His voice softened. “We are about to be apart for a long time. Would it really be worth it to take this risk?”

Natalia knew he was right. She could see the reasoning in everything he said. But it didn’t stop the disappointment from settling deep in her chest, heavy and unshakable.

For a moment, she stood frozen between wanting to fight for this—whatever this was—and knowing she couldn’t. She had never chased after anything before, never put herself in a position where she might lose. And yet here she was, standing before him, feeling as though she was grasping at something that was already slipping through her fingers.

She exhaled softly and took a step back, forcing space between them, and she saw it—the briefest hesitation in Serge, the way his fingers twitched as if resisting the impulse to reach for her. He flinched.

That was all she needed to know.

Natalia swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She had prepared herself for rejection but hadn’t been prepared for this—for how it felt like a loss. So, when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost an apology.

“I don’t know how I’m going to live without seeing you.” She hesitated, then let out a breathless, almost self-conscious laugh. “You’ve made me feel alive in a way I never have before.” She searched his face as if trying to make sense of what was happening between them, of the force that had drawn them together despite everything. Then, softer, “Even if we can’t have anything… I feel lucky just to be in the same room as you. To see your talent in person.”

There. That was her justification. That was why she was letting go so easily—why she wasn’t fighting harder. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she understood that this was enough. Even if it didn’t feel like it.

Serge kept his eyes on her as a sad shadow of a smile played on his lips. His look seemed to say he understood and was thankful that she would want to love him if their circumstances had been different. Then, slowly, he weaved a hand through his and shook his head.

“It would be something if we could see each other in Russia, wouldn’t it?” He asked.

Natalia was caught unaware by the question and frowned at him. 

“What do you mean?” She asked.

Serge leaned back slightly as if forcing himself to put distance between them.

“Diaghilev has wanted to take us back to Petrograd for years. But the aristocracy—” He let out a short breath, shaking his head. “They think we’re too scandalous. Too disruptive.” He smirked, although there was no trace of amusement in his eyes. “The Crown would never grant us permission to go there.”

He stopped for a moment, measuring her reaction, before continuing. "It's something I've always wanted to do: return to my home country, to be closer to my family, to the stages where all my heroes performed. And I know it sounds foolish, but... now that I've met you, I feel like there's a spiritual calling for us to return. Like this was meant to be."

Natalia hesitated, the words catching in her throat before she could even fully form them. It did sound foolish. She had never believed in such nonsense about fate, but this was not an ordinary day, and Serge was not ordinary. A few months ago, she wouldn't have believed it was possible to feel this connected to someone she barely knew, and yet now here she was, craving for every moment of Serge's attention. So, who knew?

She knew she could make it happen. She had never asked Alexei for anything before. Their friendship had always been easy, free of expectations. She had never tested its limits, never put herself in a position where she might be denied. But this was different.

She knew what it would look like. She knew that Alexei would see right through her if she made this request. He would understand why and, more importantly, whom she was doing it for, and maybe he would end it before she could even begin. Maybe he would take one look at her and decide she wasn’t worth the risk anymore.

But the thought of not seeing Serge for such a long time was unbearable. The idea that this was the end—that after tomorrow, he would disappear from her life —made her chest tighten with something dangerously close to panic.

So she forced herself to speak.

“Maybe I can change that.”

Serge’s eyes widened, but he quickly schooled his expression to mild surprise. “How?”

Natalia swallowed hard, still unsure if she was making a mistake. 

“I can talk to Alexei.” She met his gaze, willing herself to be bold. “If there’s anyone who can lift the ban, it’s him. And… wouldn’t it be perfect? To perform at his coronation?”

Serge didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched hers, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something shift—an emotion she couldn’t quite name. Then, he exhaled softly and shook his head.

“Natalia, I don’t want you to think…” He hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want you to think I got close to you for this. That I was only looking for favours.”

Natalia shook her head almost immediately. “I never thought that of you.” Her voice was steady, certain. And she meant it.

For all the ways Serge could be frustrating, for all the times she had caught glimpses of something unreadable in his eyes, she knew he hadn’t sought her out for this. He hadn’t needed to.

Serge studied her for a moment before exhaling through his nose, a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Well, I can’t deny that the opportunity would be the chance of a lifetime.”

That was all Natalia needed to hear. A quiet thrill ran through her, knowing she could give this to him. She had never held power in this way before—never had the ability to change someone’s life with a few well-placed words. And now, to do it for him, to give him something he had dreamed of for years… it made her feel light-headed with happiness.

Before she could say anything, Serge closed the distance between them, pulling her into an embrace. It was meant as gratitude—just that. And yet, the moment his arms came around her, warmth spread through her body, fierce and undeniable.

His hold was firm but unhurried, his body solid against hers, and she had to fight the instinct to melt into him completely. The scent of him—warm, clean, with the faintest trace of cologne—clouded her thoughts. She had never been this close to him before, never felt his strength like this. It sent a rush of heat through her, an ache she barely understood.

Natalia shut her eyes briefly, willing herself to stay composed and prevent the moment from slipping into something else entirely. But her hands, resting against his back, clenched slightly, betraying her.

She wanted him. So much. And she had no idea what to do with that.

Chapter Text

Serge

Serge sat alone on the studio's wooden floor long after she was gone. He was happy - elated even - that everything in their plan was going smoothly. He had no doubt that Natalia would arrange their trip to Russia, that she would get them close to the Tsar. Now that he knew her a little better, he understood that there was nothing Princess Natalia Paley couldn’t get when she set her mind to it.

Still, some deep, annoying corner of his mind didn’t allow him to fully enjoy the moment. He was trying to make sense of it. He knew it wasn’t attraction, not really. It was only human nature that a man standing this close to such a pretty, naive girl like Natalia would sometimes find himself interested in her. He was simply an admirer of female beauty - he even envied the fact that he could never be as graceful as a woman - and Natalia was a fine example. He would have to be blind and have ice running in his veins for her not to have an effect on him.

But it wasn’t that. He was perfectly happy with Anna; she suited his personality and what he wanted much better than Natalia could. No. After a long moment of reflection, he came to the conclusion that it was his consciousness that was weighing down on him. It would be much easier to take advantage of Natalia if she was the type of privileged girl he was used to dealing with. Someone who thought herself above the others, who demanded reverence. But she was nothing like it.

In a way, he felt it was the opposite - she seemed to genuinely admire him, to want to learn from him. And, like Anna feared at the start, that did stroke his ego, however much he tried to lie to himself about it. An eager Princess, looking at him through her big, blue, innocent eyes as if he was some kind of deity as if it was a privilege to breathe the same air as him. It would take the strength of a giant not to let that affect him.

When a sharp knock on the studio door pulled him back to the present, Serge was still lost in thought. He straightened his posture instinctively and didn’t look up right away. Instead, he let his fingers drum idly against the wooden floor, schooling his expression into something easy, unconcerned. He knew Anna too well—the way she watched and measured people, stripping them down with nothing but her gaze.

When he finally lifted his head, he found her standing just inside the room. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, scanning him with an unnerving precision. She wasn’t speaking yet; she was assessing.

He met her gaze with a reassuring smile that had carried him through performances and negotiations. But Anna didn’t move closer. She let the silence stretch, keeping her expression neutral.

“You’re quiet,” she observed in a deceptively light tone.

Serge lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Just savouring the victory.”

Still, she didn’t move. She was studying him, searching for something—some slip, some sign that Natalia had affected him more than he meant her to.

“How did it go?” she asked finally, her voice even, but Serge caught the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides, betraying the tension beneath her calm exterior.

“It worked. Natalia is going to speak to the Tsar.” He met Anna’s gaze, letting the words sink in. “We’re going to Russia.”

A flicker of something passed through her expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or maybe just the confirmation of what she had already expected. But she didn’t smile. Instead, she watched him for a moment longer as if weighing whether to believe his voice's ease.

“Good,” she said simply.

After a moment to catch his breath, Serge rose from the floor. He wanted his movements to appear natural, but he quickly realized that he was in the middle of a performance as he made his way to Anna, as her cat-like grey eyes watched every movement. When he stood before her, he allowed himself a moment to take her in. She was stunning—the kind of beauty that turned men reckless, that inspired grand gestures and foolish devotion. He knew it all too well.

His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, following the smooth expanse of her marble skin. He had always loved this—the way her face felt beneath his touch, the way her gaze could swallow him whole. But the deeper he let himself fall into those eyes, the more he realized he was sinking into something cold. Anna never gave herself away completely. Even now, even when he was close enough to feel her breath, he could sense her calculating, her mind always working, always a step ahead.

His thumb brushed over her lips—full, painted red, warm beneath his touch. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, capturing them with his own. He had done this countless times before, but something was different.

He had meant for this to be a distraction for both of them. A way to steer the moment, to erase the lingering traces of what had just transpired in that room. But instead of losing himself in her, his mind began to wander.

What if he had played Natalia’s game until the end?

The thought crept in unbidden, curling around him like smoke. What if he told her he wanted to venture into dangerous territory? Would she have let him? Would he have kissed her?

And if he had… how would she have responded?

She would be passionate—he had no doubt about that. Eager, even. Would she have melted against him, let him guide her? Maybe she would have asked him to teach her things. The notion should have made him laugh, but instead, it sent a sharp thrill through him, unexpected and unwelcome. The sensation jolted through him so powerfully that he had to pull away before Anna could sense the shift.

Anna’s eyes flickered open. For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then, slowly, her eyes met his, sharp and suspicious.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “There’s something different.”

Serge let out a quiet chuckle, feigning amusement. “Different?” He tilted his head as if considering. “I’m exactly the same as I was this morning. I think you’re just trying to find something that will prove your wild theory that I’ll let this fail because of my ego.”

But Anna wasn’t fooled so easily. She crossed her arms, watching him like a predator sizing up its prey. “No,” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Something’s off.”

Serge sighed, shaking his head as he turned away, making a show of his supposed frustration. “I know what I’m doing, Anna,” he said in a light but firm voice. “I’m still fully committed. Just because a man finds someone intriguing doesn’t mean he’s going to throw everything away.”

A sharp intake of breath. Then, suddenly, a hand on his arm, fingers like iron.

“Turn around,” she ordered.

He hesitated.

“Turn around, Serge.”

He did. Slowly. And when he met her eyes again, he saw that her suspicion had hardened into something colder, more decisive.

“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Not for me. Not for us. I need to be sure that you are still in this. If you’re not, you must walk away before you do any real damage.”

Serge held her gaze, his jaw tightening. “Nothing happened.”

Anna didn’t move, waiting.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing,” he repeated, “except that it’s difficult for a man—any man—not to feel intrigued by her. It would help if she was colder, more haughty. But she isn’t. She’s open and eager. She believes in me.” His lips curled into something resembling a smirk, but there was no humour in it. “And when a girl like that looks at you as if you hung the moon, it’s… distracting. That’s all.”

Anna’s expression didn’t soften.

“You think you can control it?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said, her voice sharp as glass. “Because you’re going to have to force her to do things that will haunt her for the rest of her life. In fact, if everything goes according to plan, you are ruining her life forever. She’s the path to the Tsar. And when the time comes, she’ll be the reason we get close enough to kill him. Can you take all this without feeling any pity for her?”

Serge said nothing, but he felt his mind racing. When he had joined Anna in this plot, he had done it for fun; however much he tried to deny it. He hadn’t cared in the least about politics before she walked into his life, full of her beliefs, passionate to the point that she had dragged him into this. As time went by, however, as he went to more meetings and met more people from her world, his feeling of indifference began to change. He could see that they were right. In order for Russia to modernize and shed her past prejudices behind it, it needed a complete change. They had to chance to make that happen with almost no bloodshed.

The Tsar had to go, that much he understood, but if Zinoviev’s plan really worked, that would be it. The avalanche of consequences his death would trigger would be enough to change everything. That’s what Serge needed to focus on. Everything else was just vanity.

“There cannot be any emotional attachment,” Anna insisted. “None.”

Serge exhaled, slow and controlled. Then, finally, he nodded.

“There won’t be.”

Chapter Text

Petrograd, November 1924

Vladimir

The months that had followed since the Summer had been of pure bliss to Vladimir and Tata. There were, of course, some restraints placed on their relationship - after all, they were only engaged and not yet married - but there was a great feeling of relief and pride in being able to appear together in public and talk openly without studying every word or calculate every movement to avoid attention.

Although it had been five months since they announced their engagement, there was still no definite date for the wedding. According to Tata, however, the preparations were in full swing. In fact, her mother was insisting on preparing such a monumental trousseau for her that Parisian fashion houses had been commissioned to create gowns, linens, and accessories worthy of the highest-ranking Princesses in Europe, with even select ateliers in Petrograd contributing to the effort. The sheer scale of the project meant that deadlines were constantly shifting, and the growing complexity of the arrangements was one of the main reasons the wedding date kept being postponed. As it stood, they were hopeful for a ceremony in March—before the Coronation festivities overshadowed everything and forced them to wait until the Autumn.

Fortunately, the inevitable presence of a chaperone in their meetings did little to hinder their time together. More often than not, that responsibility fell to Tata's brother, George, who despised the role with such fervour that he could easily be convinced to disappear for a while. A few well-placed hints about a long ride or a leisurely stroll were usually enough to persuade him to disappear for a few hours, leaving Vladimir and Tata to enjoy the rare privilege of solitude, if only for a little while.

On that particular day, however, Vladimir's visit to the Winter Palace had little to do with Tata—though he would certainly make time to see her if the opportunity arose. His presence had been requested by Alexei, who had only just returned from his state tour across Russia a few days prior. The urgent summons left Vladimir to speculate endlessly about its purpose. He had gone over every possibility in his mind, wondering why Alexei would want to see him so soon after his arrival.

Given that he was now beginning the delicate process of assembling the names for his future household and advisors, Vladimir had reason to hope—perhaps even expect—that this meeting was about offering him a position. The prospect was an enticing one. Up until now, Vladimir had largely kept himself removed from the political sphere, preferring to focus on his writing and artistic pursuits rather than entangle himself in court affairs. However, the opportunity to serve in an official capacity, perhaps as a counsellor or even in a role within the Academy of Arts, was difficult to dismiss.

He told himself that, should the offer come, he would give it careful consideration before accepting. And yet, deep down, he knew there would be little hesitation.

Vladimir arrived at the Winter Palace just as a fresh wave of snow began to settle over the city. The crunch of his boots against the frost-covered stone steps was muffled by the steady hum of activity at the entrance, where footmen hurried to and fro, shaking off the cold as they ushered visitors inside. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, feeling the fur-lined collar brushing against his jaw as he made his way up the grand staircase leading to the main doors.

Inside, the air was noticeably warmer, carrying the familiar scent of polished wood, candle wax, and the faintest trace of pine. A liveried servant stepped forward to help him take off his coat, and Vladimir gave a small nod of thanks, shaking off the lingering snowflakes before handing it over. The momentary chill against his skin was sharp, but he barely noticed it as he straightened his jacket and smoothed his cuffs, focusing on the path ahead.

The palace corridors were quieter than usual, though not entirely empty. Courtiers and officials moved with purpose, in hushed voices as they exchanged pleasantries or disappeared behind closed doors. Vladimir knew his way well enough, having visited many times before, and he walked with confidence toward the private apartments where Alexei was expecting him.

As he passed a half-open doorway, a movement caught his eye. Before he could react, Tata slipped out into the corridor, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she stepped into his path.

"You're terribly predictable, you know," she teased, tilting her head as she looked up at him.

Vladimir's lips twitched, barely suppressing a smile. "Am I?"

She squinted at him, feigning offence, and took a slow step closer. "I hope you were planning on giving me a surprise because that's the only way I'll forgive you for coming here without telling me."

Vladimir glanced down the hallway, instinctively making sure they were alone. Even though their engagement was public, he was still careful not to do anything that might invite whispers—especially in the Winter Palace, where discretion was a rare luxury. Once he was certain no one was watching, he reached for her, pulling her into a quick but firm embrace. He pressed a brief kiss to her lips, fighting the temptation to make it linger.

"How did you know I was coming?" he asked, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Tata shrugged, smiling at him. "I happened to see your name on the visitor's list this morning."

Vladimir let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Of course you did."

Tata smoothed a hand over his shoulder, brushing off a stray snowflake. "How long will your meeting take?"

"That depends on what Alexei wants," he murmured. "But I'll find you afterwards."

"You'd better," she warned playfully, pulling him in for one last, fleeting kiss before stepping away. "I'll be here waiting."

Vladimir exhaled, reluctant to leave her, but he had little choice. Giving her a final glance, he turned and resumed his path toward Alexei's study.

Two guards flanked the grand double doors, their posture rigid and alert. One of them gave a curt nod at his approach before stepping aside to let him pass. The other reached for the handle, pushing open the heavy door to allow Vladimir inside.

As Vladimir stepped into the study, he was met with the warmth of a crackling fireplace and the faint scent of polished wood and ink. His eyes immediately sought out Alexei, but before he could greet him, he noticed someone else sitting comfortably in one of the chairs near the desk. Anastasia. Vladimir hadn't been aware that she had accompanied her brother all the way to Petrograd, but here she was in her old home for the first time in years.

She grinned at him, clearly pleased to see him, and before Vladimir could even bow in greeting, she stood and crossed the room toward him.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite Paley," she said, ignoring the fact that Alexei was right there. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to see you before you were swallowed up by whatever important business my brother has planned."

Vladimir arched a brow, glancing between her and Alexei. "I wasn't aware I had an appointment with you as well, Your Imperial Highness."

Anastasia waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, please. I won't keep you long. I just wanted to say—" she paused for effect, her blue eyes wide and bright, "thank you for punching Carol in the face."

Vladimir barely had time to react before Alexei let out a groan.

"For God's sake, Stasie—"

"No, no," she interrupted, turning back to Vladimir with obvious delight. "You don't understand how much joy it brought me when I heard about it. I only wish I had been there to see it myself."

Vladimir let out a quiet chuckle. "I didn't do it for anyone's entertainment, you know."

"I don't care why you did it," Anastasia replied cheerfully. "I just want to hear how it happened. Give me all the details."

Alexei sighed, rubbing his temples. "Ignore her. She's been pestering me about this for months."

Anastasia shot her brother a look. "And you've been utterly unhelpful." She turned back to Vladimir expectantly. "So? Was it satisfying?"

Vladimir shook his head, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. "It wasn't planned, if that's what you're asking. He insulted someone he had no right to insult, and I—" he hesitated, then shrugged. "—reacted accordingly."

Anastasia clapped her hands together. "Wonderful. Just wonderful. I hope it left a bruise."

Vladimir opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Anastasia's expression shifted slightly as if a new, even better thought had just occurred to her. She leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling.

"Did he cry?" she asked, barely containing her glee.

Vladimir blinked. "What?"

She grinned. "Carol. Did he cry?"

Vladimir let out a surprised laugh. "I— no, he didn't cry."

Anastasia sighed, looking genuinely disappointed. "Shame. That would have made it perfect."

Vladimir shook his head, still grinning. He wondered for a full second if he should utter the words that were forming in his mind. He vowed to himself that he would never think about Carol again after their confrontation, that he would focus solely on his happiness with Tata, and that would be enough. But Anastasia's eager eyes and the easygoing way she spoke of it encouraged him to throw a little dig at the man.

"He was humiliated if that helps."

"Oh, immensely," she said, brightening again. "That will have to do."

Clearing his throat, Vladimir glanced toward Alexei, who was watching the entire exchange with thinly veiled impatience.

"As much as I appreciate your support," he said wryly, "I do believe your brother actually summoned me here for a reason."

Anastasia sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. I'll leave you two to your important state matters." She shot Vladimir one last approving smile. "But, let me know if you plan to hit him again next time. I'd like a front-row seat."

With that, she turned and strolled toward the door, pausing only to ruffle Alexei's hair on her way out. Alexei swatted her hand away with a long-suffering look, waiting until the door had shut behind her before exhaling heavily.

"She's impossible," he muttered.

Vladimir smirked. "I don't know. I find her quite charming. I think siblings always help us to keep our feet firmly on the ground when the heads want to fly too high and we start to think too much of ourselves."

Alexei rolled his eyes. "That's because she's not your sister."

Shaking his head, he gestured toward one of the chairs opposite his desk. "Now, let's get to business."

Vladimir settled into the chair, but before Alexei could speak, he leaned back slightly and tilted his head. "Before we start—how was your tour around the Volga and Moscow?"

Alexei's face softened at the mention of his recent travels, and the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. "It was... illuminating," he admitted, folding his hands together on the desk. "The cities, of course, were beautiful. Moscow especially has a kind of weight to it, a history you can feel in the air. And the countryside along the Volga... I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. The river in the evening, with the sun setting behind the hills—it's something I won't forget."

Vladimir nodded, watching him closely. "And the people?"

Alexei's lips twitched in a small smile. "They were the best part." He leaned forward slightly. "I expected them to be formal, reverent, distant in some way. But they were nothing but warm. Really warm. People brought their children to see me, told me their stories, and spoke to me like I was one of their own. I think..." He hesitated for a moment, choosing his words. "I think I understand now why my father always said that being a ruler isn't just about governing from a palace. You have to go out there. See things for yourself. Listen."

Vladimir studied him for a moment before nodding. "I'm glad it made an impression on you."

Alexei exhaled a quiet laugh. "It did." Then, shaking his head as if snapping himself back to the present, he straightened in his chair. "But that's not what I called you here to talk about."

Vladimir watched as Alexei hesitated again, shifting in his seat with uncharacteristic unease. His fingers tapped lightly against the desk, his gaze drifting to the fireplace, then to the papers before him, then back to the desk as if searching for the right words among the grain of the polished wood. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he shook his head and flipped open a folder in front of him.

"There's another matter I'd like to discuss with you," Alexei began, measuring his words. "But I'll start with the good news."

Vladimir arched a brow, waiting.

"As you must know, I've been in the process of forming my household and governmental staff," Alexei continued, regaining some of his composure. "And as you've likely already guessed, your advice and companionship have been very important to me over the years."

Vladimir sat up straighter, folding his hands together on his lap as he listened.

Alexei exhaled and then finally looked him in the eye. "Because of that, I would like to extend you an invitation to join my staff as an official advisor."

For a moment, Vladimir said nothing, letting the words settle. He had hoped for something along these lines, but hearing it spoken aloud still sent a rush of surprise through him. His lips parted slightly, though no immediate response came.

Alexei, misinterpreting his silence, leaned forward. "Of course, I understand if you need time to think about it. It's not a position to be taken lightly, and I won't be offended if—"

"I'd be honoured," Vladimir cut in, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Alexei blinked, then let out a small huff of laughter. "Well. That was easy."

Vladimir smirked. "Did you expect me to refuse?"

"Not exactly," Alexei admitted, leaning back in his chair. "But I thought you might at least pretend to hesitate."

Vladimir chuckled. "I'll save the theatrics for another time." Then, after a brief pause, he tilted his head. "I assume this is the good news. Which means there's something else you want to talk about."

Just like that, Alexei's amusement faded. His posture stiffened, his fingers curling around the edges of the desk as though bracing himself for an impact. He exhaled slowly through his nose, nodding.

"Yes," he said quietly. "There is."

And with those words, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

Vladimir felt it immediately, like the sudden drop in pressure before a storm. The warmth and ease of their exchange evaporated in an instant, leaving behind only the weight of something bothering him.

Alexei hesitated. Not the kind of hesitation Vladimir had seen before—not the measured pauses of diplomacy or the carefully chosen words of someone accustomed to being on the public stage. This was something else entirely. It was a mixture of uncertainty and fear.

Vladimir had known Alexei since childhood, through every stage of his life—the sickly boy who defied expectations, the reluctant heir who had grown into a man with a quiet, steely resolve. He had seen him falter, had seen him doubt himself, had even seen him afraid. But he had never seen him like this. Whatever Alexei was about to say, it was something he had carried for years.

Vladimir remained silent, giving him the space he needed, though the wait was agonizing. He could see it—the way Alexei's hands tightened into fists before relaxing again, the way his jaw worked as if forcing himself to breathe. He was raging a war against himself.

The seconds stretched into an eternity. Vladimir could hear the soft ticking of the clock on the far wall, the distant murmur of voices beyond the door, the wind rattling faintly against the windowpanes. He could hear Alexei swallow and see his Adam's apple bob as he forced down whatever storm was brewing in his chest.

And then—finally—he spoke.

"I've decided," Alexei said, in a trembling voice, "after much consideration and after everything I came to discover about myself and the role that awaits me, especially during my convalescence and my tour around Russia... that I want to marry."

For a moment, Vladimir was pleasantly surprised.

Marriage had always been a looming question mark in Alexei's life, a problem no one knew how to solve—least of all, Alexei himself. That he had finally made a decision on the matter was a relief. It meant stability, a future, and a resolution to one of the greatest uncertainties that had followed him since childhood.

Yet... something about the way Alexei spoke—his tone, the way the words had trembled on his lips—left Vladimir slightly apprehensive.

He studied him for a moment, but then his smile returned, genuine and warm. If Alexei had found someone, then this was cause for celebration, wasn't it? A part of Vladimir felt relieved, even grateful. A couple of years ago, he had done everything in his power to prevent Alexei from falling into a dangerous path by convincing their father to send Natalia away to Paris when things between them had begun to stir. That chapter had long since closed.

This meant Alexei had moved on. That was good. That was what Vladimir had wanted.

"Well," Vladimir said, leaning back slightly, still smiling. "That's wonderful news."

Alexei remained silent, watching him carefully.

Vladimir ignored the slight tension in the air and pressed on. "So—who's the lucky lady? Someone from France? Or England?"

That was the logical answer. Alexei had spent months abroad, meeting people and gaining new perspectives. Perhaps there had been a quiet courtship, something careful and measured, something that had grown without interference from the pressures of the Russian court.

But the second the words left his mouth, Vladimir saw the shift.

Alexei closed off again.

His jaw tightened, and his fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. His stiff posture reminded Vladimir of their earlier conversation and the painstaking effort it had taken for Alexei to say that he wanted to marry.

A cold sensation crept up Vladimir's spine. This was not good. This was something else entirely.

The seconds stretched unbearably. Vladimir watched the internal war play out in Alexei's face—the hesitance, the resolve, the weight of whatever secret he was about to unearth.

At last, Alexei inhaled deeply, exhaled shakily, and spoke.

"It's complicated," he admitted. "I know it is."

Something in the way he said it made Vladimir's chest tighten.

"Who is she, Alexei?" Vladimir asked although he feared the answer.

Alexei lifted his gaze, and there was no uncertainty anymore. Only determination.

"It's Natalia."

The words crashed over Vladimir like a wave, drowning out all other sounds. For a split second, he didn't move, didn't breathe. And then—slowly, mechanically—he straightened. The relief he had felt moments ago was gone, replaced by a cold, hard realization. This wasn't over. It had never been over.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know if this comes as a complete surprise to you or not.”

Alexei’s voice broke through the tense silence, but Vladimir barely heard it. His mind was still reeling from the words that had just left Alexei’s mouth, and he felt his body frozen as if he had been struck. He blinked slowly, trying to steady himself, to pull himself back into the present, but all he could do was watch as Alexei leaned forward, his gaze burning with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

Vladimir had dreaded this moment for years. He had done everything to prevent it—convinced his father to send Natalia away, placed obstacles between them. And yet, despite all of it, despite three years of separation, here they were.

The words refused to come. He didn’t know what to say. The weight of his silence must have been unbearable because, suddenly, Alexei exhaled sharply and pushed himself up from his chair. The movement was so abrupt that Vladimir almost flinched. Alexei never moved without thought. And yet, here he was, restless, pacing to the window as if he needed the distance to breathe.

“I have loved Natasha for years, Vladimir.”

His breath trembled on the last syllable as he fixed his gaze on the snowfall outside.

“I didn’t recognize it for what it was, not at first. I only knew that whenever she was near, everything felt… lighter. Easier. That when she spoke, I wanted to listen. When she smiled, I wanted to be the reason for it. And when she left, I felt something inside me missing.”

Vladimir stiffened. Alexei wasn’t asking for permission. He wasn’t explaining himself—at least, not in the way Vladimir had expected. He was laying himself bare. Confessing. It was as though something had broken inside him, something he had been holding in for far too long, and now, there was no stopping it.

Alexei’s fingers curled around the window frame, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“She made me better,” he went on. “Without even trying. She didn’t know it, but she shaped me. She became the standard against which I measured everything.”

There was something in his eyes that unsettled Vladimir —a kind of helpless devotion, a certainty that left no room for argument. It reminded Vladimir of himself, of the way he had once loved Olga. And that realization made all of this so much worse. Because he knew that feeling and he knew exactly how impossible it was to reason with it.

“I spent years pretending this isn’t real,” Alexei continued, his voice breaking just slightly before he steadied himself. “I fought it. I fought it harder than I have fought anything in my entire life. I told myself it was impossible, that it was foolish, that it would pass. And sometimes, when we were apart, I almost believed it.” His breath hitched. “But the second I see her again, it all comes rushing back, stronger than before. Like I’ve been starving without even knowing it.”

Vladimir swallowed hard. There was nothing childish about this. No infatuation, no passing fancy. This was something deeper. Something that had been buried so long it had taken root in places too deep to cut out.

“I remember the moment I knew there was no point in fighting it anymore,” Alexei murmured. “It was just before I left for England. She was at Gatchina with Irina and Feodor. We spent the afternoon talking, and it was so easy to talk to her, and I—” he let out a breathless, almost helpless laugh, shaking his head “—I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. And then, as the sun was setting, she lay back on the grass with her eyes closed, and her face turned toward the light…”

He faltered, his expression softening in a way that Vladimir had never seen before. He wasn’t looking at Vladimir anymore. He was lost in the memory.

“She looked like something that shouldn’t exist,” he whispered. “Something sacred.”

The words sent a chill through Vladimir’s spine. Then, as if realizing just how much he had admitted, Alexei let out a bitter, breathless laugh.

“And I knew, in that moment, that I was finished,” he said, shaking his head. “If you had asked me then, I would have given up everything—England, my trip, my chance to see my family, my entire future—just to spend a few more minutes beside her.”

The room was unbearably silent. The fire crackled, shadows flickering across the walls. Vladimir felt like he was suffocating. He had tried to protect Alexei from this, from the consequences of what they both knew could never be. He had convinced himself that time and distance would change things. But he had underestimated the depth of it. Underestimated Alexei’s heart.

Alexei exhaled heavily as if saying it aloud had drained him. After a pause, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I have spent years being careful. But last year, after my fall...” He hesitated, forcing himself to meet Vladimir’s gaze. “When I was at my weakest, she wasn’t afraid. She carried me back to the house. Without hesitation. Without fear. And then she stood by my side, steady, like she’d done it all her life.”

His jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw.

“After that, I knew there was no one else.”

The words landed like a final blow. Vladimir exhaled, slow and quiet, his hands tightening where they rested on his lap. Even though he had feared this moment would come, he hadn’t been prepared. Because how could he be? How did you stop an avalanche already in motion?

Finally, he decided to speak, choosing his words carefully.

“If I may ask,” he said, looking up, “what has led you to make this decision now?”

Alexei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked outside again, curling his fingers into fists, searching for the right words.

“She’s coming back,” he said suddenly, the words escaping in torrents. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping the strands briefly before letting go. “She’s coming back, and I know what’s going to happen. I’ve been through this before. I tell myself I’m fine, that I’ve moved on, that I don’t need her. And then she walks into the room, and it’s like—” He broke off, shaking his head, frustration flickering across his face.

He looked up at Vladimir then, eyes dark and troubled. “It’s like I never had a choice. Like something—someone—just decided for me. And I know how ridiculous that sounds, I do.” He let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “But I swear, it’s the only way I can explain it. I don’t just want her—I feel like I belong to her somehow, like no matter what I do, I always end up in the same place.”

He returned to his chair and leaned back on it, drumming his fingers restlessly against the armrest. His voice dropped lower, almost hesitant. “And she’s not a girl anymore. People are noticing her. She’s starting to—” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “I see it happening, and I can’t just stand there and do nothing. I won’t.” He exhaled, running both hands over his face before letting them drop to his lap. “I don’t even know if she feels the same way, but if I don’t do something now, I’ll lose her without trying. And that—I can’t live with that.”

Vladimir inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. He wished—God, how he wished—that it could lead to something other than the inevitable disappointment. He had always liked Alexei. Loved him, even. He had watched him grow from a fragile, uncertain boy into a man who, against all odds, was preparing to bear the full weight of the Russian crown. He had always wanted Alexei to have the things that made him happy.

“Alexei,” he said carefully, weighing every word, “I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to tell you this is impossible because of who you are, tradition, and the expectations placed upon you. You already know all of that. You’ve lived under those expectations your entire life.”

Alexei’s expression darkened.

“But there’s something else you need to think about.” Vladimir’s voice softened. “And I know you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Alexei said nothing, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair.

“The coronation is coming up,” Vladimir said finally. “It’s just a few months away. No one will be ready to fight the battle for your unlawful marriage before you are crowned.”

Alexei exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “Things have changed. The war changed everything. The idea of a Russian consort is not as far-fetched as it once was. The people would prefer a Russian on a throne than a foreigner, someone who truly understands the culture…”

Vladimir sighed, staring at the ceiling. Alexei's theory looked good on paper, and there was even a semblance of truth in it, but, in practical terms, when it came to the real balance of power, it didn't fit their system. He was about to explain this to Alexei when he cut him off.

"My father approves."

Vladimir went rigid.

"When he met Natasha in Paris, he was… impressed." Alexei smiled proudly. "He told me as much when I returned to England. He said she was dignified and graceful, with just the right touch of diplomacy. That she would be a force to be reckoned with as Empress. And he was also touched by the way she cared for me in Paris. He knows as well as I do that it’s difficult to find someone who can deal with my illness as well as she does."

There was a pause, a moment of silence, as Alexei let the words and the implication of what they meant settle between them. And then—

“He’s willing to put it in writing.”

Vladimir inhaled sharply, his thoughts racing. That would have been huge a few years earlier, but now it meant nothing.

A written statement from the former Tsar would not silence the ministers or the courtiers. If anything, it could do more harm than good. There were many who still respected Nicholas II, of course, but there were just as many who saw him as a relic of a bygone era. The more Alexei leaned on his father’s approval, the more it would look like he was refusing to step into his own role as Emperor.

But Vladimir did not say this aloud. He couldn’t. He could not tell Alexei that his father’s word no longer carried the weight it once did. That was not a burden he wanted to place on his shoulders. So, instead, he exhaled slowly and chose his words carefully.

“You’re right in a way,” Vladimir said. “Things have changed. But not enough.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge of urgency in it now, a plea for Alexei to see reason. “Just think about this. You appointed me to your council. Someone who was born a bastard, the product of an affair between a married commoner and a Grand Duke. You know what the people will say. What sort of rumours this will lead to, even when everyone is unaware that you have feelings for my sister.”

Alexei’s lips parted slightly, but Vladimir pressed on.

“And there’s more.” He hesitated, but there was no sense in holding back. Alexei needed to hear this. “Everyone believes you’re about to appoint Feodor as Viceroy of the Caucasus.”

Alexei’s brow furrowed. “I am,” he confirmed. “Because it’s a logical choice. Feodor’s grandfather held the same title. He understands the region—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vladimir cut in. His voice wasn’t hard, but he said it meaningfully. “It doesn’t matter that he’s qualified. It doesn’t matter that he would do the job well. He's Natalia's brother-in-law; that's what people would see.”

Alexei's expression darkened further as he ran a finger through his jaw. Vladimir could tell he hadn't thought about all the nuances. 

Vladimir exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, frustration curling in his chest. “Don’t you see?” he urged. “Every decision you make involving my family will be considered a favour to Natasha. Every appointment, every opportunity given to someone connected to her—whether they deserve it or not—will be scrutinized.”

Alexei’s fingers curled into fists. “That’s unfair.”

Vladimir let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Maybe. But you know as well as I do that fairness has nothing to do with it.”

Silence stretched between them. Alexei’s face was tense, his expression shadowed by frustration, but Vladimir could see something deeper there, too—doubt. The flicker of realization that, despite everything, Vladimir was right. But Alexei wasn’t ready to concede. Not yet.

“You’re telling me that I should throw away the woman I love because of… optics?” His voice was quiet but tinged with steel.

Vladimir exhaled slowly, measuring his words. He didn’t want to wound Alexei, but he couldn’t let this conversation end without making him see the full weight of what he was asking—for himself, for Natalia.

"Have you really thought about what this would mean for her?" he asked, his voice softer now, though no less firm.

Alexei frowned slightly, but Vladimir pressed on before he could interrupt.

"You know her, Alexei. You know how much she values her freedom. Do you really think she would stand the scrutiny? That she would survive the kind of life she’d be walking into?"

Alexei straightened as his expression closed off. "She’s strong; she would adapt it brilliantly."

"That’s not the point," Vladimir countered, shaking his head. "You’re asking her to give up everything. To live under constant watch, to have her every word, every step, every breath analyzed and picked apart by people who will never see her as their Empress, no matter how much you try to make them."

He leaned forward, holding Alexei’s gaze. "Do you know that she hasn’t even picked a lady-in-waiting yet? She can’t stand the thought of having someone trailing her everywhere. How do you think she’ll feel when she has dozens of them? When she can’t move without permission, without someone whispering about it behind her back?"

Alexei’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Vladimir softened his tone just a fraction. "You’ve spent your whole life in this world, but she hasn’t. And if you love her—if you truly love her—then you need to ask yourself if this is what she wants. Not just the idea of being with you but all of it. The isolation. The duty. The weight of a throne that was never meant to be hers."

The fire crackled in the silence between them. Vladimir could see it now—the moment of doubt flickering across Alexei’s face, brief but undeniable. For a long moment, Alexei said nothing. He only stood there with his shoulders rigid and his eyes fixed on the fire. Vladimir could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled against his knees as if holding something in.

Finally, his voice came, quiet, strained. “I don’t know what to do.” His hands opened, then closed again. “I only know that the thought of seeing her with someone else—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It would kill me, Bodia.”

Vladimir didn’t speak right away. He recognized that kind of despair—the feeling that love was the centre of gravity, that without it, the world would tilt and never right itself again. He had lived through it himself.

He had seen Olga marry another man as if he had meant nothing in her life. Even though she had left Russia and he had not been forced to see her happiness with his own eyes, the hurt had been unbearable. For a long time, it had felt like nothing would be beyond that loss. But time had surprised him.

“It won’t always feel like this,” he said at last. “I know that doesn’t help now, but it’s the truth. When you allow yourself to move forward, things shift. Life is not a straight line. There are turns, unexpected corners, moments you don’t see coming.”

He let out a quiet breath, keeping his gaze thoughtful. “When Olga married, I thought that was it. That my world had ended.”

Alexei’s head jerked up, and his frown deepened. “Olga?” He asked in disbelief. “You—” He broke off, staring at Vladimir as if seeing him for the first time.

Vladimir gave a small nod. “Yes. Your sister.”

Alexei blinked, clearly trying to reconcile this revelation with everything he had assumed about Vladimir. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking almost at a loss.

Vladimir only shrugged. “It was a long time ago. But I felt everything you’re feeling now.” He paused, then admitted, “And for a long time, I thought I would never get over it. But years later, when I wasn’t even looking—when I wasn’t expecting anything—Tata walked into my life.”

A ghost of something softened his expression. “And I could not be happier.”

Alexei stared at him as if he still wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or sceptical. He said nothing, but Vladimir could see the thoughts running through his mind, the first signs of something shifting, however slightly. Then, to Vladimir’s surprise, Alexei tilted his head, studying him.

“If it’s all in the past,” he asked, “then why did you punch her husband just a few months ago?”

Vladimir stilled.

Alexei didn’t look away, keeping his gaze steady, almost challenging. “Is that something a man completely over someone would do?”

Vladimir let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers together as he leaned back slightly in his chair. He hadn't expected Alexei to bring that up—hadn’t even considered that he would connect the two. And yet, of course, he had.

He gave a short chuckle, trying to deflect the importance of what had happened. “The fact that I’m over someone doesn’t mean I can stand there and do nothing when they are being disrespected. I think you can understand that.”

Alexei said nothing, but something in his expression changed. His challenging gaze softened just enough to show that he understood. But that understanding also meant he was taking another step toward letting Natalia go—a step Vladimir could see he wasn’t quite ready to take.

After a moment, Vladimir spoke again. “Look, you already have enough to worry about. Right now, and for the next few months, your focus should be on the coronation. That will be the defining moment of your life—the moment you give yourself to Russia completely.”

Alexei lifted his eyes slowly, absorbing Vladimir’s words with a grave expression. He understood his duty; that much was clear. But he also understood the sacrifices that came with it. He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly.

“When my father was crowned nearly thirty years ago, at least he had the woman he loved by his side,” he murmured. “Through all the highs and lows, she was there. She shared his burdens, his joys. I can’t help but feel a great sense of loneliness when I think of that day. The weight of it all feels… unbearable.”

Vladimir felt Alexei’s pain deep in his bones as if it were his own. He wished he had something more comforting to offer, something to ease the burden. But there was no escaping it. The weight of the crown and the empire rested solely on Alexei’s shoulders. Though he would have advisors and ministers, no one else could take on the sacrifices required of him. The system depended on him alone.

“I wish I could tell you you’re wrong,” Vladimir said quietly, “but you’re not. This is yours to bear, Alexei. It’s bigger than you or any of us. And with it come the most painful sacrifices.”

Alexei nodded slowly as if even that small movement was painful. Some defiance still lingered in his eyes, but the fire Vladimir had seen in him when he first entered the room had dimmed.

“Thank you, Bodia,” Alexei said, rising from his chair at last. Vladimir followed suit. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Though I can’t say how much of it I’ll hold on to when Natasha returns.”

Vladimir hesitated, feeling apprehensive. Natalia was set to return from Crimea in a few days, and if Alexei wasn’t certain he could handle seeing her, perhaps it was better if they didn’t see each other at all.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Vladimir asked carefully. “If you need more time, I can arrange for her to go with Feodor and Irina to Cannes. She doesn’t have to return just yet.”

The way Alexei’s eyes widened at the suggestion made Vladimir stop short. It was rare to see him angry, but at that moment, Vladimir had no doubt that Alexei would throw him to the ground if he pushed the idea any further.

“I haven’t seen her in almost a year, Vladimir,” Alexei said in a low, almost menacing tone. “I'm not saying it's going to be easy to see her again, but I can manage my own feelings. I asked for your advice, not for you to interfere.”

Vladimir stilled. He had never seen Alexei like this—so sharp, so unyielding. It wasn’t just defiance; it was something deeper, more visceral. It unsettled him, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

He considered saying something for a moment—softening his stance, explaining his concerns—but he knew it wouldn’t help. Alexei had made up his mind, and if Vladimir pressed further, he risked something greater than an argument. He risked losing his trust. And that, more than anything, was something he couldn’t afford.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Understood.”

Vladimir turned to leave, but Alexei's voice stopped him before he reached the door.

“I would appreciate it if you kept this conversation between ourselves. Don’t mention it to anyone, not even Tata. She’s aware of some things, but Natasha is her best friend, and I’m afraid she would intervene if she knew how serious I am about this,” Alexei said firmly.

Vladimir glanced back at him, his expression unreadable. “That goes without saying. You can trust me on that.”

And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Vladimir was no stranger to difficult situations. He had made his way through a successful military career even though he didn’t have a violent bone in his body and achieved a prestigious position at the Corps de Pages even though he had started his journey there as an 11-year-old boy who barely knew any Russian and even stood toe to toe with his father in arguments that left both of them furious but begrudgingly respectful. He was good at handling people—reading them, anticipating their moves, knowing how to press forward or retreat when necessary.

And yet, as he left Alexei’s study, the weight of their conversation still heavy on his mind, he felt exhausted in a way he rarely did.

It wasn’t just that Alexei was making a mistake in feeding the fantasy of a relationship that could never work—though he was. It was that he understood him. That desperate kind of love, the kind that made logic irrelevant, that made a man willing to tear down walls, burn bridges, and risk everything just for the chance to be with the person who had become the centre of his world—Vladimir had been there once. And he had lost.

He exhaled, rubbing his temple as he made his way down the Winter Palace corridors. The only welcoming thought from the storm in his head was the fact that Tata was nearby, and he was about to see her. He had always known love to be complicated, but once Tata and he had overcome their barriers, it felt simpler—or at least, it was supposed to. If Alexei’s problems had no solution, at least he did. He just needed to see her, to remind himself that not everything in his life was an impossible fight.

He quickened his pace, eager to reach the drawing room where he had last seen her a couple of hours before. But the moment he stepped inside, that small hope was lost. The room wasn’t empty, but Tata wasn’t there either. Instead, Countess Brasova, her mother, sat alone in an elegant posture as she sipped a cup of tea.

Vladimir hesitated. It was only for the briefest moment—a fraction of a second—but it was there. A rare, unguarded pause as his mind processed the situation and every red flag that came with it. He had never been alone with the Countess before. And he had never wanted to be.

Tata had told him enough—too much, really. Tales of a mother who could smile at you like you were the most precious thing in the world while slowly chipping away at your self-worth. Who could make you doubt yourself without ever raising her voice. Who would hold you close, whispering reassurances while making you feel like you were less than you had been before.

Tata had spent years fighting to free herself from her mother’s hold. And though she never said it outright, Vladimir had long since gathered that the Countess viewed her own daughter as a disappointment, a burden, a failed project rather than a person in her own right.

And now here he was, standing before that same woman, alone.

The Countess set her teacup down gently, tilting her head with an air of pleasant curiosity. “Ah, Vladimir.” Her voice was light, warm—too warm. “What a wonderful surprise.”

Even well past forty, the Countess remained one of the most beautiful women in Petrograd. Her deep green eyes, luminous and unreadable, seemed to catch the light just so, framed by dark lashes that had lost none of their fullness. Her dark hair, still rich and lustrous, was swept into a perfect chignon, revealing the graceful line of her neck. Age had only refined her beauty—sharp cheekbones, smooth skin, an elegance that made younger women seem unfinished by comparison. But it was not just her looks; it was the way she carried herself, with a poise so unshakable it made others feel small without her ever needing to say a word.

Tata had inherited little from her. The same slim frame, the same dark hair—but where the Countess was all polished perfection, Tata was something else entirely. She was striking in her own right, with bold features and energy that drew people in rather than holding them at arm’s length. If her mother was marble, cold and flawless, Tata was fire, impossible to ignore. And yet, when Vladimir looked at her, what stood out most was something her mother would never possess—sincerity, warmth, the ability to be truly known. The Countess’s face was an ice mask, her expression so perfectly composed that it was impossible to tell what lay beneath.

He schooled his features, pushing aside his unease as he inclined his head in greeting. “I was looking for Tata,” he said, scanning the room once more as if she might materialize from behind the curtains. “Is she not here?”

The Countess let out a soft, amused chuckle as if she found his question charming. “I sent her on a small errand,” she said, waving a delicate hand. “Nothing too important, just something to keep her occupied for a while.”

She paused, then gestured to the chair across from her.

“But since you’re here, why don’t you sit for a moment?” She smiled, eyes gleaming. “We’ve never had the chance to properly get acquainted.”

Vladimir hesitated again. It wasn’t rational. The Countess was just a woman, sitting in a well-lit room, offering him tea and conversation. There was nothing outwardly threatening about her. And yet, something in him recoiled. Still, refusing outright would be impolite. And Vladimir had been raised to handle people like her—people who wore charm like armour, who wielded words like weapons.

So, suppressing his unease, he forced a polite smile and stepped further inside.

“I suppose we haven’t,” he said, careful to maintain his tone neutral. “Though I imagine Tata has told you plenty about me.”

At that, the Countess’s smile widened just slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Oh, yes,” she said, gesturing for him to sit. “Although she always seems reluctant to share those sorts of things with her mother.”

Vladimir settled into the chair across from the Countess, keeping his posture relaxed but measured. The warmth of the drawing room made it deceptively cozy, especially as he watched the snow fall heavily outside. He allowed himself to adjust for a moment, schooling his expression into something polite, neutral, and carefully unreadable.

The Countess poured him a cup of tea with graceful and studied movements. “I must say, Vladimir, I’m delighted we finally have a moment to talk.” She smiled, setting the teapot down. “Tata speaks so fondly of you.”

Vladimir accepted the cup with a nod of thanks, his fingers curling around the delicate porcelain. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“And I hear you’ve been quite busy lately,” she continued, stirring a lump of sugar into her own tea. “I imagine teaching at the Corps des Pages is no small responsibility.”

Vladimir allowed himself a small smile. “It keeps me occupied, certainly. But I enjoy it. The cadets are bright and eager. It’s rewarding to see them grow academically and as young men preparing for the future.”

The Countess tilted her head, watching him with quiet interest. “And yet, from what I understand, you may not be a professor for much longer.”

He raised a brow, feigning mild curiosity. “Oh?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Come now, Vladimir. Everyone is talking about it. The Tsar has been surrounding himself with men he trusts, and he trusts you. There are whispers that you’re about to be appointed to the Council of State.”

Vladimir exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Rumors travel quickly around here.”

“Rumors often hold a grain of truth,” she countered smoothly, watching him over the rim of her teacup.

He hesitated for a beat before answering, choosing his words carefully. “His Majesty has consulted me on certain matters. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

The Countess hummed in amusement as if she had expected such a measured response. “A diplomatic answer. How very statesmanlike of you.”

Vladimir offered her a polite smile but didn’t elaborate.

She set her cup down and leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the armrest of her chair. “And what of the wedding?”

Vladimir straightened slightly at the change in topic. “What about it?”

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t be coy, my dear. Are you looking forward to it?”

The question was innocent enough, but there was something in the way she asked it—something light but pointed, as if she were testing the sincerity of his answer.

Vladimir didn’t hesitate. “Of course I am.”

The Countess smiled approvingly. “I had a feeling you would say that.” She reached for her tea again, taking a small sip before continuing. “It’s rare to see a match where both parties seem so well suited. I must say, I was relieved when Tata told me of your engagement. You’re a man of fine reputation, intelligent, well-spoken, well-connected… A true asset to her. It was a surprise to me that she was so sensible in her choice.”

Vladimir inclined his head slightly. “I’d like to think we complement each other.”

“Yes,” she mused, her gaze sharp despite the warmth of her expression. “And yet, Tata has always been so independent. I do wonder how she will adjust to marriage. A husband, a household, duties…”

Vladimir studied her for a moment, taking a sip of his tea before replying. “She is strong-willed, yes. But that’s something I admire about her. I have no desire to change that.”

The Countess smiled again, this time with a touch of amusement. “Ah, you say that now. But men often find strong-willed women to be… exhausting.”

Vladimir’s lips twitched. “Perhaps they simply aren’t strong enough to handle them.”

She let out a quiet laugh at that, shaking her head. “Well said.”

For a moment, the conversation almost felt pleasant. Almost normal. But Vladimir wasn’t fooled. This was a woman who had spent a lifetime masking barbs in silk, wrapping her true thoughts in ribbons of charm and sophistication. And he had the distinct impression that, beneath the pleasantries, she was circling him. Waiting for the moment to strike.

Then, the conversation stalled after that, and the silence stretched between them just a little too long. Vladimir reached for his tea, already considering how best to excuse himself, when the Countess spoke again—lightly, almost idly, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“And how is your brother these days?” she asked.

Vladimir blinked. “Dmitri?”

She nodded, stirring her tea leisurely.

Slightly thrown by the shift in topic, Vladimir took a moment before answering. “He’s probably somewhere around Krasnoe Selo, grooming a horse.”

At this, the Countess laughed—really laughed—as though he had just told the most amusing joke. The sound was rich, almost musical, but something about it made Vladimir’s skin prickle.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, pressing a hand lightly to her chest as if to steady herself. “That is so like him.”

Vladimir frowned faintly. “You know Dmitri?”

The Countess tilted her head, watching him with something almost like amusement. “Oh, yes,” she continued. “He was terribly devoted to me during the war. Followed me like a lovesick puppy. It was too funny, really.” She gave another soft laugh as if remembering something particularly charming. “Boys can be so foolish at that age.”

Vladimir said nothing at first, gripping the delicate porcelain of his teacup a little tighter. Dmitri had been almost twenty-five when the war started, so it could hardly be said that he had been a boy at that age. And he had never mentioned this. Not once. Yet, something about how she said it—the way she watched him, waiting for a reaction—made his stomach tighten.

The Countess watched him with that same lingering amusement as if savouring his unease. Then, with a small, deliberate tilt of her head, she said, “You remind me a bit of him, you know. Dmitri, at that age. You two look very much alike.”

Still resting against the delicate porcelain of his teacup, Vladimir's fingers went briefly still.

The Countess swirled the tea in her cup, eyes flicking over him as though assessing something. “But you are much more refined, of course,” she added, her voice almost absent. “Dmitri always had that sickly look about him. So pale and drawn. There were moments when it almost made him… unbecoming.” She exhaled a soft, indulgent sigh as though lost in some distant recollection. “A shame, really.”

Vladimir did not immediately respond. His expression remained composed, but something inside him twisted—not at her words about Dmitri, but not because of him in particular. It was about the fact that this woman—who sat here in all her elegance, wrapped in silks and smiles—was married to Grand Duke Michael, a man Vladimir admired. A man of principle who had been cast out of favour for the choices of marrying her but had at least stood by them. To hear his wife speak so carelessly, with such casual amusement about another man’s devotion—about many men’s devotion—felt wrong. Disrespectful.

The Countess, oblivious or simply indifferent to his reaction, tilted her head slightly. “Tata may not have the best taste in most things in life,” she mused, “but she certainly has good taste in men.”

There it was again—that carefully placed remark, wrapped in silk but sharp underneath. A compliment wrapped around a slight.

Vladimir gave a small, polite smile, though his patience was wearing thin. “It’s been a pleasure, Countess,” he said smoothly, “but I should be going. I still need to stop by the Corps des Pages to collect some papers before I head home.”

The Countess set her cup down with a soft clink and lifted her brows. “Oh, but wouldn’t you like to stay a little longer?” Her voice was warm and inviting, but there was something in the way she watched him—like a cat toying with a bird. “Tata shouldn’t be much longer now.”

Vladimir did not hesitate this time. He rose to his feet, adjusting his cuffs with unhurried ease. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other in the hall,” he said lightly.

The door to the drawing room creaked open. The sound was quiet, almost hesitant, but it made the air shift. Vladimir turned just as Tata stepped inside, balancing a basket of needles and thread in her arms. She took a single step before stopping short.

She looked at them silently, her hands tightening slightly around the handle of the basket. Vladimir was standing near the settee while the Countess was still seated with her teacup, and she looked satisfied.

The colour drained from Tata’s face. For a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Then, ever so slightly, her expression shifted to something wary, something almost stricken. Vladimir felt it in his chest before he could fully name it. She looked horrified.

Without a word, Tata stepped forward and carefully set the basket onto the sofa. Her movements were steady, but there was something almost mechanical about them—like someone forcing themselves to go through the motions. She straightened and turned to Vladimir.

Then, in a light but not quite natural tone, she said, “What are you still doing here? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

Vladimir blinked, caught off guard. “I—”

But before he could answer, she had already reached for his arm. Her fingers curled around his sleeve—not tight, but firm—and, with quiet insistence, she steered him toward the door.

“Tata—”

She ignored him. The transition from the drawing room to the hall was seamless, almost practised as if she had done this before—removing people from situations before they had time to resist. Before they had time to think. She finally stopped only when they had put some distance between themselves and the drawing room. She let out a breath, slow and deep as if she had been suffocating.

Vladimir studied her for a moment, taking in the faint tension in her posture, the way she still seemed to be bracing for something.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Tata shook her head a touch too quickly. “Nothing.”

He didn’t look away.

She exhaled again, rubbing her temple briefly before folding her arms. “I just…” She hesitated. Then, more softly, “I don’t like it when you’re alone with her.”

Vladimir’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Tata’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because I don’t trust the things she says.”

There was no dramatic flourish, no visible anger—just a quiet certainty in her voice, low and controlled as if she had spent years learning to keep it that way.

Vladimir watched her closely, noting the tension in her shoulders and the slight unease flickering behind her eyes. This wasn’t just resentment or irritation; it was something deeper.

She had told him enough things about her mother to worry him, but this seemed to be something serious, traumatic, something she was not ready to talk about. Tata must have seen the question forming in his mind because she beat him to it.

“I just…” She hesitated, then forced a small, almost dismissive shrug. “She twists things. She makes people doubt what they already know and gets in their heads. I don’t want her to say something about me that isn’t true and leave him doubting about which one of us is lying.”

Her voice was steady, but he noticed her fingers curled slightly against her arms, deeply upsetting her.

He frowned. “Tata—”

“Just trust me on this,” she interrupted quickly, meeting his gaze. It wasn’t quite pleading, but it was close. “Please.”

Vladimir hesitated, carefully considering her words, feeling that something was weighing on her mind, but she kept it out of reach. He wanted to push. To press. To unravel whatever it was she wasn’t saying. But his head ached—a slow, dull throb from too many conversations, too many thoughts. First Alexei, now this. He wasn’t sure how much more his mind could take today.

Instead, he let out a slow breath and reached for her. His hands settled lightly on her arms, keeping his touch firm but reassuring. She stiffened for half a second before finally leaning into him. Vladimir held her. Not tightly, not as if he expected her to fall apart, but enough that she might find some comfort.

And maybe, just maybe, enough that she would believe him when he finally spoke.

“Alright,” he murmured against her hair. “I can’t say that I was looking forward to having another conversation with her anyway. I know she is your mother, but...”

Tata shook her head against his shoulder, asking him to stop talking about it.

“I know, Bodia,” she whispered. “Trust me, I know.”

Chapter Text

December 1924

As Vladimir’s car rolled to a stop in front of his sister Marianne’s townhouse in Theater Square, a familiar sense of guilt settled over him. It had been far too long since his last visit. They lived in the same city—in fact, they were practically neighbours—yet he had found every excuse to avoid making the short journey. And now that he was finally here, it wasn’t out of brotherly affection but because he needed a favour.

The truth was, he and Marianne had little in common. They had never been close, even as children and time had done little to bridge the gap between them. All their siblings knew and had long accepted that Marianne was their mother’s favourite. She was the one who looked most like her, both in face and temperament, and no matter what she did—no matter how reckless, scandalous, or even dangerous—it was never met with anything but indulgence. Their mother had excused her every folly, including her part in Rasputin’s murder as if she were incapable of doing wrong.

Marianne, of course, had embraced this favouritism without a second thought. Witty, charismatic, and utterly fearless, she lived her life as if it were a stage, playing the lead in an endless performance of decadence and amusement. Her parties were infamous, whispered about in salons and shouted about in the gossip columns, filled with artists, poets, foreign diplomats, and anyone else who could keep up with her insatiable appetite for entertainment.

In 1917, she married her third husband, Count Nicholas Constantinovich von Zarnekau, earning her the title of Countess Zarnekau. Under that name, she had cemented her reputation as one of the city’s most celebrated and most scandalous hostesses. And it was precisely because of that reputation that Vladimir had come to see her today.

He hadn't been able to relax since his conversation with Alexei, always fearing the moment he would find himself alone with Natalia and say something he shouldn't. Since then, he had had an urgent need to find a way—any way—to keep them away from each other. He had turned over the possibilities in his mind, and the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that Marianne might just be his best way out.

If any place in Petrograd could offer Alexei an escape, it was her house. It was one of the few places in the city where the lines between rank and class blurred, where the high and lower-born mingled without pretence. And maybe that was exactly what Alexei needed—a glimpse into a world beyond court life, beyond duty, beyond the expectations that had been set for him since birth.

If Alexei could be pulled into that world, if he could meet new people, be exposed to different ideas, maybe even stumble upon passions he hadn’t considered before, then perhaps his attachment to Natalia would begin to fade. Perhaps he would finally open himself to the possibility of someone else.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was a start. And if there was one person who could make sure Alexei’s attention was thoroughly occupied elsewhere, it was Marianne.

A servant escorted Vladimir to the door and then led him through the dimly lit corridors of the townhouse. The air still lingeringly smelled of perfume, tobacco, and the previous night's excesses. Even in the daylight, the house felt like an extension of Marianne herself—decadent, unpredictable, and slightly disordered.

They ascended the staircase in silence, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets, until they reached a set of double doors. The servant knocked once before pushing them open.

The curtains were drawn inside, darkening the room in a dull, bluish haze. A faint trace of last night’s revelry clung to the air—spilt wine, stale smoke, something floral but fading. Marianne lay draped over a chaise longue, an arm thrown over her eyes to shield them from what little light seeped through the heavy drapes.

"Your Excellency," the servant announced softly. “His Serene Highness, Prince Paley.”

Marianne groaned. "God, not so loud."

Vladimir closed the doors behind him, glancing at the champagne flute left abandoned on the nearby table. "I do wonder if I’ll ever walk into this room and find you up and ready for the day," he said, unable to suppress an amused smile.

"Mm," she murmured, still not moving. "I’ve never understood people’s obsession with mornings. There’s nothing particularly exciting about them." She exhaled slowly, then cracked open one eye to peer at him. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Surely you haven’t come just to check on my well-being. We all know my liver will not last forever."

Vladimir leaned against the table, arms crossed. "I didn’t come just for business, you know." He paused, then added, "How’s Nikolai?"

Marianne let out a dramatic puff of air and rolled her eyes as if discussing her husband was a tiring task. "God knows. I think he left for some hunting trip last week." She sat up with some effort, pressing her fingers against her temples as if to steady herself. "Who in their right mind goes hunting in the middle of December? I have no idea. But I stopped asking a long time ago."

She managed a small, lopsided smile before shifting her attention back to him. "What about you? How are the wedding preparations going?"

Vladimir shrugged at that. “On my end, I think they are going well. As far as I know, all I have to do is take a bath, put on a uniform, show up on time and know the words. Things seem to be a little more complicated for Tata.”

“Tell me about it,” Marianne said, rolling her eyes again. “I was trying to order a few new dresses for the season in January, and all the decent houses are busy with her trousseau. You’d think it’s the Queen of Sheba who’s getting married. I never thought her monster of a mother would go to such lengths…”

Vladimir tensed at the comment. He knew the remark was aimed squarely at Tata’s mother and not at Tata herself, but still, it made him uncomfortable. For all her faults, Countess Brasova was his future mother-in-law, and no part of him wanted to wade into that mess. Fortunately, Marianne was perceptive enough to notice his hesitation.

“Sorry,” she added quickly, softening her tone. “I didn’t mean to offend Tata—she’s a sweetheart. Honestly, anyone who grew up with a mother like that deserves to be a saint.”

Vladimir exhaled, relaxing slightly, but despite himself, curiosity took root in his mind. He knew things had always been difficult between Tata and her mother, but just how much of that was common knowledge?

Against his better judgment, he leaned forward. “What do people say about them?”

Marianne arched a brow, smirking slightly at his newfound interest. “About Tata? Not much. She’s got a solid reputation. People barely hear anything about her that isn’t perfectly respectable.” She tilted her head slightly, considering. “Of course, that might be because she works so hard to stay out of trouble. She doesn’t make waves and doesn’t give anyone a reason to talk. If she had any missteps, I certainly never heard about them.”

That didn’t surprise him. Even in her wild ways, Tata had always been careful not to be discovered.

“And her mother?” he prompted, knowing he would regret it but unable to stop himself.

Marianne’s lips curled into something between amusement and distaste. “Oh, well. That’s another story.” She shifted in her seat, lowering her voice just a fraction as if sharing a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “There have been plenty of scandals, of course. But then, everyone expected that from her. She’s always looking for the next big thing, for a position that would benefit her even more than the one she holds now.”

Vladimir frowned slightly. “What kind of scandals?”

Marianne hesitated for a moment before giving him a pointed look. “You really want to know?”

He nodded.

“Well,” she drawled, leaning in just slightly, “for starters, she had a mild flirtation with Dmitri during the war.”

Vladimir stiffened, though not out of shock. Tata’s mother had already hinted at that during their conversation. after all. But what irritated him was that Marianne knew. That meant other people knew, too. And yet, Dmitri had never once mentioned it to him.

“Our Mytia?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Marianne hummed in affirmation. “It wasn’t anything serious, mind you—not that Mytia wouldn’t have entangled himself with a married woman, even if she was Grand Duke Michael’s wife, but even he thought she was just a tiny bit too forward, and he just wasn’t in the mood for that at the time. But that didn’t stop her from trying.” She let out a short, amused breath.

Vladimir leaned back slightly, pressing his lips together. He should have expected this. He knew Dmitri kept his own secrets and played his own games. But still, it rankled him. Of all the things his brother had chosen to keep from him, this—this ridiculous entanglement—had somehow never come up. And if Marianne knew, who else did?

Marianne watched him, clearly enjoying the moment. “I take it that’s not something Dmitri ever mentioned?”

“No,” Vladimir admitted, exhaling through his nose. “Not once.”

She grinned, tilting her head in amusement. “How very like him.” Then, after a beat, her smile sharpened slightly. “But what I find even more amusing about that time is that Tata herself had a bit of a crush on Mytia. Did she ever mention that?”

Vladimir blinked, thrown off guard. “What?” He let out a startled laugh, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Tata had a crush on Dmitri?”

Marianne nodded, clearly relishing his reaction. “Oh, completely innocent, I assure you. She must have been, what, twelve? Thirteen at most. But it was a proper, girlish infatuation. She even wrote one of those little stories girls her age come up with—you know, knights in shining armour, daring rescues, all very dramatic.”

Vladimir shook his head, half-laughing as he tried to picture it. The idea of his poised, sharp-witted fiancée once mooning over Dmitri like a schoolgirl was so absurd he almost couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“And,” Marianne continued, her tone turning almost wicked, “her mother, being the truly horrid woman she is, not only told Dmitri about it—she showed him the story.”

Vladimir’s amusement faltered. He inhaled sharply, his brow furrowing. “You’re joking.”

“Not in the slightest.” Marianne gave a theatrical sigh. “I cannot imagine the humiliation. Poor Tata. I don’t think she ever fully recovered from it.”

Vladimir let out a low whistle, shaking his head again. “That’s—” He didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. Appalling? Cruel? Typical of the Countess?

Marianne smirked. “Dmitri, to his credit, didn’t mock her for it—at least not publicly. But you know how he is. I’m sure he had his fun with it.”

Vladimir exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That woman never fails to outdo herself.”

“Oh, indeed,” Marianne agreed, sipping her drink. “But Tata grew out of it soon enough, and now she’s marrying you. So, in the end, all’s well that ends well.”

Vladimir gave her a look. “You enjoy this far too much.”

She grinned. “Of course I do. Family gossip is the only true art form left in our society.”

Vladimir gave Marianne a long, scrutinizing look before shaking his head. “And how, exactly, do you know all of this, anyway?”

Marianne laughed, a rich, knowing sound that made him instantly suspicious. “Oh, that’s easy,” she said, flashing him an impish grin. “Because I was the one having a fling with Dmitri at the time.”

Vladimir’s brain stalled. He blinked once. Then twice.

“You—” He cut himself off, his mind scrambling to process the sheer absurdity of what she had just said. “You and Dmitri?”

Marianne’s smirk widened. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized, Volodya. It was ages ago, and it wasn’t serious.” She waved a hand as if swatting away his shock. “It was during the war when everyone was either too bored or too frightened to behave properly. And besides, it was also around the time we were all planning to murder Rasputin, so we saw each other quite a lot.”

Vladimir let out a breath through his nose, staring at her as if she had just admitted to plotting a revolution herself. “You and Dmitri,” he repeated, more to himself than to her.

She rolled her eyes as though his reaction was entirely unnecessary. “Oh, do relax. You act as if I just told you I had an affair with the Pope.”

Vladimir pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to move past this revelation. He wasn’t even sure what unsettled him more—the fact that Dmitri and Marianne had been lovers or the fact that Marianne still referred to the murder of a man as if it was just another normal Thursday. He decided he didn’t want to know any more details. Some things were best left untouched.

Exhaling sharply, he dropped his hand and straightened. “Well,” he said, pointedly steering the conversation away from whatever other secrets she might be harbouring. “As fascinating as your past love life may be, that’s not why I came here.”

Marianne chuckled, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh? Then what did bring you to my charming company today?”

Vladimir exhaled, finally regaining his composure. “I need a favour from you.”

Marianne arched a delicate brow, amusement flickering across her face as she lounged back against the chaise. "You need a favour from me?" she mused. "Now, this is interesting. What could the ever-righteous Vladimir Paley possibly need from my wicked little world?"

Vladimir ignored the jibe, exhaling through his nose. "I need you to invite the Tsar to one of your soirées. Or thé dansants, or whatever you’re calling them these days."

Marianne burst out laughing. "Oh, Bodia," she drawled, pressing a hand to her chest. "Surely you're joking. Poor Alexei would be miserable in my salons. He’d have a heart attack the moment someone showed a bit of leg."

Vladimir fought back a smirk but shook his head. "I know," he admitted, leaning forward. "That’s why I need you to tone it down for the occasion. Less scandal, fewer mistresses draped over married men, fewer debates about nihilism and revolution—just enough charm and wit to make him feel at ease."

Marianne tilted her head, intrigued. "And what exactly is your goal here? You think exposing him to a bunch of aristocratic layabouts will somehow prepare him for the throne?"

Vladimir sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not quite. I just… I don’t think he’s ever really lived, Marianne. His entire life has been about surviving—his illness, his duty. Now he’s about to be crowned, and I’m worried he’ll take it all too seriously. He needs to meet new people and have a bit of fun. See that life isn’t just duty and protocol."

Marianne studied him for a moment, tapping a manicured finger against the fabric of the sofa. "You’re afraid he’ll suffocate under the weight of the crown before he even gets to wear it," she observed.

Vladimir gave a slow nod. "Exactly, something like that."

Marianne hummed thoughtfully, then leaned in. "And what are you looking for, exactly? Do you want him to be entertained, or do you hope I introduce him to someone specific?"

Vladimir hesitated for a moment, considering his words carefully. "I think it would be good for him to be around women—not the ones constantly curtsying and calling him Your Majesty, but women who are interesting, intelligent, who will speak to him like a person rather than an icon."

Marianne's lips curved into a sly smile. "You mean women who will flirt with him."

Vladimir gave her a look. "Not in that way. I mean women who will make him laugh. Who will remind him that he’s twenty years old, not a relic of the past."

Marianne sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "What a noble request. You know, Bodia, you almost make me feel like a respectable woman."

Vladimir snorted. "That would be a first."

She swatted at him playfully before shaking her head. "Fine. I’ll do it. Actually, I’ve heard rumours that the Ballet Russes are about to return to Petrograd for next season.”

At that, Vladimir’s eyes widened, and he was unable to hide his interest. Marianne watched his reaction with keen amusement, her lips curving into a smirk.

"You seem intrigued, Bodia," she teased.

Vladimir leaned forward slightly. "Is it true? Are the Ballets Russes really coming back?"

Marianne shrugged one shoulder, her expression still playfully unreadable. "That’s what I heard. Nothing is confirmed, but it will be quite the event if they do. Diaghilev has been trying to reestablish ties here since the war ended, and from what I understand, they’re considering a limited season in Petrograd next year."

Vladimir considered this carefully, tapping his fingers against his knee. "If they do come, that would mean an influx of fresh faces," he murmured, half to himself. "Girls who have seen a bit of the world but still carry that air of refinement and discipline…"

Marianne’s grin widened. "Exactly. Worldly enough to be interesting, graceful enough not to frighten him away. Some of them are even quite clever if that’s what you’re hoping for. And, of course, they worship men like him—princes, tsars, figures of legend walking among them. He won’t have to lift a finger."

Vladimir exhaled through his nose, a glint of calculation passing through his expression. "Yes," he said slowly. "I think that could work."

Marianne laughed, tilting her head. "You’re scheming, Bodia. I like it."

He ignored her, his mind already turning over the possibilities. "Do you think you could invite them to one of your gatherings?"

Marianne scoffed. "Darling, please. They’ll be begging for an invitation. The real question is—can you convince our dear Alexei to attend?"

Vladimir smirked. "Leave that part to me."

Marianne smiled back. "Then I suppose we have a plan.”

Chapter Text

Irina 

Cannes, France

Irina knew she should be grateful. She was back in Cannes, a place she loved with all her heart. The weather was pleasant, almost spring-like, with mild temperatures that allowed her to take Michael, Sonya, and the nanny for strolls on the beach nearly every morning. The sea breeze was soft, the sky an endless stretch of blue. On the surface, everything seemed perfect.

Michael, however, was a fussy baby—there was no doubt about that. Even his nanny, far more experienced than Irina, admitted he was one of the most spirited infants she had ever cared for. He was big for his age, nearly six months old now, all chubby limbs and a head full of blond curls that made him look even older. Irina had tried to nurse him herself for a while, but his appetite was relentless. He cried wretchedly through the nights, leaving her exhausted and overwhelmed. After two months of struggling, she had finally given up, and they had brought back the wet nurse.

She had felt like a failure. Yet everyone around her, including Feodor, had reassured her that she should be grateful. A healthy, hungry baby was a blessing. But their words only deepened her guilt, as if she were ungrateful for struggling in ways they refused to see.

Natalia had been the only one who truly understood. Perhaps because she had no children of her own, or perhaps precisely because of that, she saw through Irina’s carefully composed facade. Natalia never judged her for how exhaustion sometimes dulled her love or how, despite her devotion to Michael, she felt like she was slipping further into a life that wasn’t her own. While Natalia had stayed with them, Irina had someone to confide in. But now that she was gone, those thoughts had no place to go. She had to swallow them, bury them deep, and force herself to be the grateful wife and mother everyone expected her to be.

Yet the dark hollow in her chest only grew, day by day, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it from swallowing her whole.

As for Feodor, she had long since realized that trying to make him understand was futile. After their conversation in Paris, he seemed more open and willing to listen. But as time passed, she understood that he wasn’t ignoring her on purpose—he simply didn’t know how to see the world through her eyes. This was his nature. He loved her, but he expected her to adjust to his life, not the other way around. And like everyone else, he couldn’t fathom why she wasn’t satisfied with everything she had. A university degree, a sense of purpose—these things seemed trivial to him in comparison to the life they led.

Now, with the rumours circulating that Alexei planned to name Feodor Viceroy of the Caucasus once he took the throne, what little hope Irina had of resuming her studies was slipping through her fingers. Feodor had already hinted as much, though they had yet to have a real conversation about it.

“It’s a high-profile position,” he had explained when the news arrived. “It will make us more exposed. We’ll all need an escort, including you and Michael. We'll have to be more careful about the places we go.”

That was all he had said, but it was enough. Irina knew what it meant: she would no longer be able to live quietly in Yalta, much less attend university. Her life, already feeling stiflingly small, was about to become even more confined. More scrutiny. More expectations. Less of herself.

As she stood on the shore, watching Michael kick his tiny feet in delight as the waves lapped at the sand, she felt the weight of it all pressing down on her. The future loomed ahead, uncertain and unyielding, and for the first time in her life, she wondered if there would ever be a way out of it.

***

Natalia

Tsarskoe Selo

It felt strange to return to the Paley Palace as an only child. Natalia had never truly considered the palace her home, even when she lived there with Irina and Vladimir. The vast, luminous rooms—silent and echoing—always seemed more like a museum than a place to live. When she first set eyes on the palace at the age of eight, freshly arrived in Russia, a strange land full of strange customs and a language she barely understood, it had intimidated her. She had heard only vague stories about the country, and upon seeing the palace, she felt no warmth or welcome. It was grand, yes, but it never felt like a home.

With Irina gone and Vladimir spending most of his time in Petrograd at the Corps des Pages, the place felt even emptier. Because of him, Tata was always busy, too, drawn to the wedding preparations. She included Natalia whenever she could, but her mother seemed bent on making it difficult for anyone else to help Tata with the preparations but herself.

Natalia's mother had eventually - and reluctantly - agreed to close off several rooms, as the sheer scale of the place felt overwhelming for just a family of three. The space itself mourned the absence of the laughter and bustle that had once been a part of it.

Natalia’s footsteps echoed through the halls as she wandered through the rooms. It was quiet—too quiet—and the silence pressed in on her as she reflected on how drastically her life had changed. Two years ago, she was surrounded by hundreds of girls at the school, living her days between classes and her weekends enjoying the bustling and fun of the Parisian nightlife. Then, she spent a whirlwind year mostly between Paris, Cannes, and Yalta before returning here, alone with her thoughts. The change was suffocating.

Natalia found herself missing Irina already. It was difficult to put into words, but she felt an ache in her chest, a longing for her sister’s presence. Irina had always been the sensible one, the one who kept her grounded, the one she could rely on. And now, without her, she wasn't sure what to do with her days. She wondered, too, how Irina was faring. She couldn’t help but worry that Irina, too, was feeling the weight of solitude. No one around her seemed to understand how deeply she was struggling after Michael's birth. It was as if the world had expected her to move on, to return to her duties, but Natalia knew how broken her sister felt and how exhausted she was from the emotional and physical toll. Still, no one seemed to acknowledge that, to understand that the life she had once known, the woman she had once been, had been shattered in a way that could never be undone.

The only bright moments in Natalia’s days lately were her morning walks with her father. This tradition had remained unchanged since she was a little girl. Irina had always been their constant companion, the bridge between Natalia’s restlessness and their father’s quiet. Irina was the one who truly spoke and engaged in long discussions about history, philosophy, and politics, while Natalia had always rushed ahead, impatient to explore the world around her, never quite able to keep still.

But now, the dynamics had shifted. Irina was no longer there to fill the space between them, and so Natalia had, for the first time, found herself falling into step with her father. She listened as he spoke, really listened, and in the short weeks since she had returned from the Crimea, she felt their bond strengthening in a way it never had before.

He confided in her during those walks, speaking of his worries and joys with an openness that surprised her. The crunch of snow beneath their feet was often the only sound that accompanied their conversations, a steady rhythm to his thoughts. He spoke of Irina—his concern for her and how helpless he felt watching her struggle. He spoke of Vladimir, of his pride in him, despite the differences that had pitted them against each other in the past and of the heavy responsibilities that lay ahead. And sometimes, when his words faltered, when he hesitated and seemed lost in thought, she knew he was speaking of his own fears, his own regrets, the burdens that had only grown heavier with time.

However, despite their closeness, Natalia couldn’t shake a quiet worry that had been growing at the back of her mind. Her father had always been a steady presence, strong in his own way, but lately, she had noticed subtle changes. His steps were slower than they used to be, and though he never complained outright, she had seen him pressing a hand to his stomach more often, wincing ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking.

The family physician had been closely watching him, but his mother was unconvinced. She repeatedly insisted that he should go to Paris, that only a specialist could truly assess what was happening. But he refused. He was too deeply involved in the coronation preparations, too determined to see it through without distraction.

“After June,” he would say dismissively whenever her mother brought it up. “After the coronation, we’ll see.”

Natalia wanted to believe that there was no reason for concern, that whatever discomfort he felt was temporary. And yet, something about the way he carried himself—about the weariness in his eyes—made her uneasy.

The coronation also seemed to explain why Alexei had only visited her once since her return. Their meeting had been brief—he had been on his way to the Catherine Palace, caught in an endless cycle of meetings and preparations. After a year apart, their reunion should have felt warm, but instead, it had been strained. Writing to him had been easy, effortless even, but seeing him again in person after so long made everything feel unfamiliar.

He had grown taller since Paris, though he still looked frail from his long recovery. The limp, which so many had worried over, was still there, however slight, and he was clearly making a conscious effort to correct it before the coronation. With so little time to talk, they hadn’t been able to settle back into their old comfort, and for much of their conversation, Natalia had felt as if she were speaking to a stranger rather than the friend she had known for so many years. He had been distracted, absent even when standing right in front of her, weighed down by the expectations pressing in on him from every side. Before leaving, he had promised to come back, but two weeks had passed, and he still hadn’t.

Yet, in the midst of all the distance and uncertainty, there was one thing Natalia could look forward to. Since their brief time together in Paris, she and Serge had kept up a steady, if infrequent, correspondence. And now, finally, she had the confirmation that the Ballets Russes would be returning to Russia to prepare a new production for the coronation.

The news filled her with an excitement she hadn't felt in months. She had only written to Alexei about it once in a carefully worded letter, in which she had been hesitant in her request, and he had never responded. She had assumed it had gone ignored, buried beneath more pressing concerns. But now, with the company’s return officially set between January and March, it was clear that her words had made an impact. 

Serge would be here. Living in the same city.

She wasn’t expecting anything—not some breathtaking, forbidden romance, not stolen moments of passion. That was all in the past, and she had no illusions about what their relationship was or could be. But she was glad. Glad simply to know that he would be near. That she would see him, hear his voice, and exist in the same space again. The thought alone was enough to lift some of the weight that had been pressing down on her since returning home.

For the first time in weeks, she felt something close to happiness.

Serge’s presence in Russia meant change—perhaps not in any grand or life-altering way, but in the small, subtle shifts that could make the monotony of her days feel less stifling. She had grown used to the predictability of her life, the routine of dinners, charity events and social calls. But now, with Serge returning, there was a spark of uncertainty, of possibility.

Would they be able to pick things up where they left off, to share the same deep conversations and feel again how easy it was to be around each other? Or would the past remain where it was, leaving them as little more than acquaintances, bound only by memories? She didn’t know; strangely, that uncertainty didn’t bother her.

For once, the future didn’t feel like an endless stretch of obligations and expectations. It felt open. Unwritten.

And as she sat by the window, staring out at the cold, grey sky, Natalia let herself imagine it—just for a moment. A world where something, anything exciting, might finally happen.

Chapter Text

In the summer of 1925, all of Russia turns its eyes to the coronation of Alexei II, a dazzling spectacle meant to reaffirm the strength of the monarchy. But beneath the splendour, a sinister plot is brewing in the shadows—a conspiracy within the Ballet Russes, where Bolshevik sympathizers conspire to strike at the very heart of the empire. As the grand event draws near, more and more people seemed determined to make the new reign a short one.

While the empire stands on the edge of peril, Princess Natalia Paley becomes ensnared in a dangerous fascination with Serge Lifar, a brilliant but subversive dancer with ties to the conspiracy. What begins as admiration soon turns into something far more reckless—a betrayal that could not only cost Natalia her friendship with Alexei but put the entire monarchy at risk.

Meanwhile, Vladimir and Tata struggle to make it to the altar as their love is tested by endless delays and the meddling of Tata’s formidable mother, Countess Brassova. As tensions rise and secrets from the past come to light, they are forced to confront whether their relationship can survive the forces working against them.

For Irina and Feodor, the weight of responsibility as Viceroys of the Caucasus has cast yet another shadow over their once-passionate marriage. Irina, struggling with the demands of motherhood and her new life, throws herself into an ambitious project to improve the lives of those under her care—an endeavour that will challenge her in ways she never expected.

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