3

Camila

"What's wrong, Camila? You look awful. Are you sick?" My mom's worried voice cuts through my foggy mind. Everything feels slow, like I'm moving through thick syrup, a feeling that's been with me since I woke up from a restless sleep.

"I'm okay," I insist, trying to shake off her concern.

Her narrowed eyes tell me she's not convinced. "Well, pull yourself together. The buyer will be here any minute."

Her reminder snaps me awake like a shot of espresso. I straighten up, running my hands over my hair, which is tied back in a simple bun today—partly for a professional look, partly because I didn't have the energy for more this morning.

My hangover twists my stomach. But it's the unsettling memory of last night's events that bothers me most.

Will it make the news today? Should I have reported it? Deep down, I know getting involved could be risky. But the idea of someone's death going unnoticed by their loved ones doesn't sit right with me.

"Camila, please, focus," Mom interrupts my thoughts, thrusting a roll of paper towels at me. "Go wipe down the front desk and make sure the mirrors are clean."

"Do you really think the buyer won't purchase the studio if there's dust?" I chuckle weakly. "If that's all it took, I'd go around dropping trash everywhere."

"Camila! Bozhe moi!" Mom exclaims, shocked, clutching her chest in her high-neck black dress. "If you're going to cause trouble, go somewhere else."

"Relax, I'll behave," I reassure her. I'm not here to cause chaos. I have my own plans. Once I meet the buyer, I'll question his intentions. If I'm not satisfied, I'll put my foot down. Deep down, I believe my mother will listen to reason if I present the right information.

After all, I don't need to change the buyer's mind. It's hers.

A firm knock on the studio door interrupts our tense moment. It's a sharp, deliberate sound that makes Mom and me exchange a glance. I toss the paper towels aside and smooth down my red blouse. Mom adjusts her hair in the mirror before nodding for me to greet our guest. "Let him in, Camila."

But as I step into the front room, I see he has already entered. I feel irritated at his audacity. Who walks into a business without waiting for permission?

Then he turns towards me.

And any irritation I felt fades away.

He stands tall, his cobalt suit accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. His gaze, a piercing light blue almost silver, meets mine, momentarily banishing my hangover. Heat rushes through me, leaving me slightly dizzy.

I've never seen someone so striking. Especially not up close. He raises a large hand, his fingers brushing lightly over his chin as he smirks at me. "You're not Katinka," he observes.

"Oh, uh, no." I clear my throat, extending my hand. "I'm Camila, her daughter."

He takes my hand firmly, warmth and strength radiating through my skin, sending a tingling sensation up my arm. Oh no, this is not good. I was prepared to dislike this guy intensely. That's what I had psyched myself up for.

Not... this.

“Mr. Volkov!” Mom interjects, weaving between us to shake his hand eagerly. “I’m so glad you made it! I hope parking was okay? These streets, people just leave their cars without any thought sometimes. If there’s an issue, let me know. I know someone who can tow—”

“No, no. It’s fine.” He surveys the room after withdrawing his hand. “So, this is your studio. It’s smaller than I expected.”

My initial attraction dims slightly, replaced by annoyance. “It’s still larger than any other studio within a twenty-mile radius.”

“You seem well-prepared with that fact,” he remarks. Mr. Volkov pivots on his heel and begins to explore the main dance area without waiting for us to guide him.

Confused, I shoot my mom a questioning look, silently asking, What's going on with him?

She ignores me and hurries after him. With a sigh, I follow, keen to observe his next move. He strolls along the perimeter of the mirrors, pausing to inspect his reflection before crossing the room and stopping.

"Even though it’s bigger than other studios," he comments, looking at me through the mirror. "It feels small."

I stiffen under his intense gaze. "It's spacious enough."

"Not for me needs."

"What are your needs?" I inquire cautiously.

Instead of answering, he resumes his examination. When he reaches another wall, he runs his thumb down the mirror, scrutinizing a smudge. My mom hisses in my ear, "I told you to clean those."

I furrow my brow. Clearly, this man isn’t concerned about the mirrors.

"I asked what your plans are for this building," I press.

He mutters to himself while pulling out his phone.

I stride toward him, gripping his elbow. "Hey! Stop ignoring me!"

He tenses at my touch, his reaction as rigid as grabbing the handle of a four-wheeler. Slowly, he turns to glare at me. His expression is impassive, but beneath it simmers a potent, intense energy that threatens to weaken my resolve.

"If you want my attention so badly, there are better ways to get it," he retorts, stepping back and shaking off my grasp.

"You're here to make an offer," I assert firmly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Talking business usually involves talking."

"Camila, please," my mother interjects, rushing up beside me. "I apologize, Mr. Volkov. My daughter can be very direct."

"Call me Asher," he replies, casting his silvery eyes towards me. "And it’s quite alright. I’m accustomed to dealing with eager individuals who overstep."

Oh, he did not just say that. I clench my fists, preparing to give him a piece of my mind about where he can stick his offer. But before I can say anything, Mom steps in front of me with a wide smile.

"Shall we move to the office?" she suggests cheerfully. "We can discuss the paperwork there."

Asher flicks his attention from me to her, then back again. “Only if your charming daughter is okay with that.”

His smirk is like a fishhook. It tugs into me with such force that I’m afraid I’ll never yank it out. And when it’s gone, I can still feel its presence throbbing against my flesh. I fight the instinct to roll my eyes. Ugh, why does he have to be so easy on the eyes?

“That’s what I’ve wanted from the start.” Once he sees the numbers, there’s no way Asher will want to buy the studio. It’s a money pit. He won’t want to fix it, not the way I do. This kind of labor involves memories … It involves genuine love.

One look at him, and I know that’s an emotion he’d never understand.

It’s obvious that we all can’t enter the office. Asher would find it hard to wedge himself in the room solo.

"I'll bring the papers to you," my mom says, her face turning red. She rushes to collect them, dropping some on the floor and quickly picking them up again. Her anxiety makes me nervous too.

Asher crosses his arms over his wide chest. The gold cufflinks on his suit sparkle in the lights. Suddenly, I remember the gun.

"You look pale," he comments. "Am I scaring you, ptichka?"

"No. And stop calling me that. I have a name."

"Sorry," he chuckles dryly. "I forget names I don't need to remember."

Angry at his bold comment, I bite my tongue.

"Here we go!" Mom blurts out, handing the stack of papers to Asher. She stands with her hands on her hips, as if waiting for a compliment. I hate this whole situation. But most of all, I hate how hopeful Mom looks when she gazes at Asher. I want to shake her, yell at her, and ask if this place means nothing to her.

If Dad's memories mean nothing to her. But I can't. Because for the first time in a long time, I see something in her eyes—an emotion she may have forgotten over the years.

Hope.

Muttering to himself, Asher flips through the papers, studying each one closely. "Not surprising," he sighs.

"What?" I ask.

"This place is burning money like crazy. No wonder you need me."

"We don't need—"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupts. "I don't need it to succeed as a dance studio. I'm interested in the location."

"What does that mean?" I ask cautiously, my heart pounding, afraid of what he's going to say.

Handing the papers back to my mom, Asher looks me up and down. "I'm turning it into a nightclub."

And just like that, my heart sinks. "You can't be serious!"

"I am."

"But you said it's too small! A nightclub here? That's impossible."

"I'll tear it all down," he shrugs. "And once it's gone, I'll build something new."

Tear it all down. My chest hurts. My breathing quickens, and I reach for something to steady myself, afraid I might collapse right there at how casually he talks about destroying my childhood.

"I won't sell," I blurt out before I can stop myself.

His eyes narrow at my defiance, and my mom gasps.

"Camila!" she exclaims. But I'm beyond trying to be nice to this jerk. Someone has to care about this place!

"I won't let him, or anyone, ruin what we built! What you and Dad worked so hard for!" I shake my head fiercely, loosening my bun. I stand my ground against Asher. He's much bigger than me, but I refuse to let his size intimidate me. "We won't sell to you."

He regards me with fresh interest. I imagine him like a shark circling in the ocean. Mom lightly touches my elbow.

"We are selling," she says firmly, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Mom! No!"

"Asher ... Mr. Volkov. If your offer is serious, we can sign the contract right now."

Defeated by her determined tone, I step back, away from both of them.

Asher's face lights up with a smile, his handsome features now twisted in a sneer. "It's a shame your daughter is so opposed to my plans."

"Because you're destroying my childhood!" I shout.

My mom winces, but Asher's grin only widens into a smirk. "I'm turning something broken into something new. Reborn, repurposed, call it what you will."

I sneer at him. "I call it greed."

"Do you think I'm taking advantage of you two?" he asks, raising a hand to run through his dark hair.

That's when I notice it.

The small beads glint under the lights, like the countless ballet dancers who have twirled in this very spot over the years. There's no mistaking it. I know exactly what I'm seeing.

They're prayer beads.

The same ones I saw last night!