The Mercedes rolled up the familiar driveway, but the world outside the window didn't feel familiar. The gates were taller, black iron twisting into shapes that looked more like sculptures than protection. The garden—once symmetrical and predictable—now had wild curves of grass and flowers.
All of my mother's hydrangeas and tulips were gone. Cut down clean, as if they had never belonged here at all. In their place—rows of red poppies and roses, too sharp, too loud, their colors bleeding against the garden's edges.
They used to stand in line, tall and obedient.
I like to counting them whenever i want to finding peace.
Now there was no order. Poppies leaned, fragile and unsteady, bowing their heads as though ashamed. Roses grew in clusters too thick, their thorns catching the light. It was a riot of red and black where there should have been calm, and I couldn't breathe.
I adjusted my hearing aids again, a soft click-click echo in my ears, in other hand, im holding a crumpled tissue, rub-rub-rub.
It felt like Moscow again—violence, coldness, blood shattered, gun powder, flash of camera , the smell of metal and disinfectant. It's replaying in front of my eyes—at here, where I suppose to finding warmth.
I closed my eyes to block out any sight in front of me could remind me with those hard time training in Moscow.
The echo of shoes and high heels on the polished floor snapped too sharply against the silence.
My father, stood tall in the threshold, his eyes already sharp, measuring. Beside him, Claudia. Perfectly pressed cream blouse, pearls catching the light, her perfume leaking into the air before her words did.
"Annassia," my father said, voice clipped, leaving no space between syllables. It wasn't welcome—it was command.
Claudia smiled that thin smile she always carried, the kind that felt less like warmth and more like an inspection. "So good to see you again," she chimed, her tone airy. My stomach coiled at the sound.
"Good to see you, again Dad." I not even glanced at Claudia—she wearing my mother high heels. "And you, Claudia— I hope you doing well in my home." I emphasised "home".
"You didn't write to announce me" he said, voice low, controlled. "Not a call. Not a letter. You walked away from Moscow without so much as my permission. And you come back here like nothing happened?"
I pressed my nails into my palm. Three sharp crescents. One, two, three. The sting steadied me. My hearing aids whined faintly as I adjusted them, catching his words too loud, too heavy, dragging them deeper into my head.
Claudia's hand slid onto his arm like she was softening him. "Karl," she said gently, "she's only just arrived. Let her settle first."
I hated the way she said it, hated the way her voice brushed over me like a silk cloth, smooth but suffocating. I hated how she always tried to speak for me, as if I were still a child who couldn't bear the weight of his tone. It's give me goosebumps.
She copying my mother tone of voice.
My father ignored her, he turn and walk inside without any words, I know he expected me to follow him.
My legs moved before I chose to, my OCD rituals half-broken, the urge to count my steps warring with the demand in his voice. One, two, three. Four. Four—wrong, uneven. My throat tightened. I forced the numbers down, forced the tremor in my hands to still.
Claudia trailed beside him as they led me in. Her perfume stung my nose, making my pulse hitch. I wanted to wipe my hands, wipe the air, wipe her out of this picture altogether. But I couldn't. My father's presence filled every inch of the hall, leaving no space for my rituals, no space for me.
Inside the main living room. I stunned.
"What the fuck is it—…?" I stammering out loud, not caring that everyone looking at me.
Gone were the old photographs, the ordered black-and-white frames my mother had arranged years ago. In their place hung abstract paintings—jagged colors colliding without symmetry, without rhythm. My throat closed
"What the hell…" I thought to myself, looking around, where are my mother's pictures?
The carpet was new too. It wasn't the deep burgundy I remembered tracing with my fingertips as a child; now it was a patchwork of geometric shapes, none of them lining up.
Claudia's voice floated in, smug, too soft. "Do you like it? I thought the house needed… refreshing." She gestured toward a tall bronze sculpture in the corner—twisted metal that looked like a body bent in agony. She smiled at it as if it were beauty. I had to look away; the shape made my stomach churn, Moscow flashing behind my eyes—the morgues, the bodies folded unnaturally.
My brows furrowed, but my mouth curving up. "Well," I trailing off, "refreshing is a good word, but if you said—psychiatric ward chic—it will be more wonderful!"
Claudia blinked, her smile flickering. I keep pressing on. "You know, it's funny. Chaos disguised as art. Disorder framed like beauty. Very fashionable, very… therapeutic. Perhaps that's why you like it so much."
"I preferred the old order," I added, softer now, almost a whisper, but sharp enough to cut. "At least the house used to make sense."
I followed my father to the dining room, well—fucking bloody hell. The dining room now is unrecognizable. The walls painted a pale lavender, cheap modern art. Chandelier, dripping with crystal teardrops, hung too high on the ceiling—is not even related anything.
The table itself was covered with an embroidered cloth of violent red, almost bleeding under the harsh light.
"Like a fucking circus, then— she definitely a clown,". I whispered under my breath while eyeing the whole room of my mother went from mahogany furniture polished with a warm gleam now being turned to a stage set for….that woman's opera performance.
"Well."
The sound came from behind, and my whole body jolted, spine stiffening. Warm hands suddenly slid over my eyes—too sudden, too close. My chest tensed as if the room itself collapsed around me.
"You finally came home."
My breath hitched. "Lucas, is that you?" My voice rose higher than I meant, a crack of surprise leaking through.
Lucas—my childhood shadow, now standing here as though no years had passed. He'd always had that absurd mix of charm and madness, working in the Air Force yet describing his job like he was babysitting flying women—"brushing their teeth, changing their clothes, wiping mascara." I once thought he was joking. No. He was dead serious. Lucas was always… Lucas.
We still messaged from time to time. I'd even heard about his four-year relationship crumbling because his fiancée "didn't like airplanes." God, only Lucas could destroy love over jet engines.
He laughed now, the same way he did when we were kids, when I used to hurl insults at him just to watch his ears burn red. I reached up to peel his hands off my face. "Fuck off," I muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
And then I saw him—clearly, fully.
Jesus Christ.
This wasn't the Lucas I remembered: the boy who cried when a bee flew too close, who peed in his pants during nap time at kindergarten. No—this was some TikTok "Before-and-After" glow-up nightmare. Broad shoulders, blinding smile that almost hurt to look at, hair combed and locked into place with wax. And that suit—God, I knew he rented it, because Lucas never had taste. But at least he wasn't wearing his grease-stained mechanic uniform tonight. Points for effort.
"Well, your tough mouth never made me disappointed," he smirked, sliding into his chair. "I always knew no one could ever bully you."
I raised an eyebrow, biting down the sudden twitch in my jaw— hissing at the uneven placement of the knives on the table, the glass just an inch too far from the plate. The smallest misalignments clawed at me, but I turned to him instead, my words sharp and dry.
"I'm scared for their fate more," I shot back. Just enough venom to shut him up, though his grin lingered.
I sat beside my father, who loomed at the head of the table like a carved statue, the weight of discipline pressed into every crease of his suit. Claudia, smug in her pearls, hovered near him. And in the background—Helen, the housekeeper, already standing at attention like a ghost waiting to serve, though no one had asked her to, always.
The dinner started quietly. I stared at the food in front of me, counting the olives and tomato slices on my plate. One, two, three…four. The symmetry anchored me; the numbers steadied my pulse.
The clinking of glass and porcelain rang through the dining room like needles in my ears. It was supposed to be calm, but to me, every sound had teeth.
Clink.
Scrape.
Clink—clink, clink.
"So," my father breaks the silence. "How is your work so far, son?". His eyes completely glued on me.
Lucas leaned back slightly, a faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. " Sir," he said smoothly, professional, "I'm deal with a lot of huge blocks of metal can fly on the sky, sir."
Everyone blinked at his words. I rubbing my temple, speechless with him.
"Stationed with the UK Air Force—operational support, logistics, missions abroad, coordinating personnel and assets."
Father nodded, eyes narrowing in approval, but Lucas didn't stop there.
"And yes," he added, with that ridiculous, mischievous glint I remembered from childhood, "I also brush teeth for those who can't reach the seat, make sure mascara doesn't smudge in mid-flight, and occasionally remind grown men not to pee in their own uniforms as like your daughter always said!"
I blinked. The words hit like a breath of fresh air, almost absurd enough to make me laugh.
Father, predictably, did not laugh. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking sharply between us. But the contrast was undeniable. Lucas—calm, controlled, unshakable, yet still capable of his familiar, ridiculous playfulness—stood next to me like an anchor.
I bit my lip to stop a laugh, focusing on the olives and tomato slices again. Counting one…two…three…trying to ground myself, trying not to let the storm of my father's gaze pull me under.
Lucas leaned slightly toward me, voice low enough for only me to hear, "See? I'm still the same idiot you used to punch in kindergarten."
I blinked at him, caught between a chuckle and a shiver. Even here, even with my mind tell me to be serious and my thoughts screaming at the crooked silverware, Lucas was still…Lucas.
And dear, Anna?" His voice cut the air like a scalpel. "How is your training section so far? Are you still… doing what I they asked you to? Or have you been squandering your talents, like some spoiled child?"
His question made me froze, the tension returned to my shoulders.
"For fuck wake, Father…Lucas and everyone is here, don't humiliate me..". Words echoed in my head, I'm waiting for some voice to speak up. But a sudden realization hit me—she not here to protect me anymore.
My pulse spiked. The olives on my plate blurred into a red-and-green whirl. One…two…three…seven…damn it. My counting had broken under the tension. The faint click of a knife against crystal cut through my brain like metal on porcelain. My jaw locked. My hands trembled. I gripped the fork as if it were a lifeline.
" I quit, Dad," I said finally. The words tasted brittle in my mouth , like chalk.
The room froze. Glass paused mid-air. Lucas, who had been leaning casually in his chair, blinked. His smirk vanished into something tighter, controlled.
Father's gaze drilled into me, unblinking, cold. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Quit?" His voice was low, venomous. "I don't think that's how you call your holidays here, dear." He not looking up from his wine glass,
Yeah, I don't want to eat this meals anymore. I want to stand up already.
He not move at first, unblinking gaze, is like a punishment for me than any raised voice.
A ticking of one small muscle on his jaw make me swallowing hard, he finally spoke up.
"Like father, like daughter ? Is that what that chick say to you?" He asked.
I keep my head lowered down the plate.
"No". He lifted his wine glass, eyes keep on me. "I expected more spine from you, Anna"
He set it down on the table.
"I raised you, Anna. But not to run or to hide, a Keller never running away, nor ever."
I bite my lips tight, each syllable wrapping tightly in my mind.
"You don't understand.." I whispered, praying that no one will hear it.
"No, you don't understand. You had everything—and you threw it away like a coward. Do you know how many would kill to stand where you stood? Do you think work is a game you abandon when you're bored?"
"Or you feel ashamed when you carry my blood?" His eyes flickered to me, piercing through it.
And then, just as the air grew too heavy to breathe, another voice broke through—steady, calm, yet firm as steel beneath velvet:
"I think she already tired, Monsieur Löwendeld"
Lucas.
The table froze. I gripped the table sheets tightly beneath me.
"I will find a job soon, Dad—…
The words came out too soft, too brittle. I hated how they trembled. I wanted to sound defiant, firm, but instead my voice cracked like porcelain under pressure.
"Soon?" He asked . "You think the world waits for your soon?" His eyes bore into mine, and I shrank despite myself. "You were given everything—everything others fight for—and you squandered it. And now you speak of promises, as if time bends to your will."
Claudia put a hand on my father shoulder, trying to calm him down as if we will open a WWE match here, but not with punches and kicks, is with sharpening words and clever mind.
"Don't fucking touch me Claudia!" He shout at her. He standing up, Lucas can feel the tension is escalating fast, he stood up.ffffcv. Fav.
Claudia speaks something in Italian, but is no use for him.
"This brat always makes me disappointed,always makes me think , even I thought how to get rid of her—in this FUCKING FAMILY."
Lucas covered my ears. "Monsieur!!"
"And even today, my successor offered me to let her be his fucking ASSISTANT!!!" Father's voice thundered, each syllable spat like venom. His eyes burned with something darker than anger—hatred, yes, but also jealousy. His successor was not his daughter, but a stranger. And that wound him more than he'd ever admit.
The word assistant rang in my ears, louder than it should, sharp as metal on porcelain. Assistant. Lesser. A shadow. My chest clenched, breath stuttering.
"I'm not—gasp—im not born to be your successor—I born to live—.."
I whispering , my eyes closed. Lucas pressed his hands hard to block any of his words out my ears.
Lucas voice booming over the room. "Enough!!! Control your temperature sir, or else I won't let you have any insults over her."
My hands trembled against the linen. "You think I chose this? You think I wanted to walk away?" My breath came ragged, my chest heaving. "You weren't there. You didn't see. You didn't hear the screams—every night, Dad, I hear them."
I standing up abruptly.
I saw their fucking organs being to ripen out, being munching by some fucking psycho with Vorarephilia, or body being found after being buried for five months ago in a dumpster, unrecognisable!!"
Those memories haunting me whole life.
"I TRULY FUCKING HEAR THEM, THE DEATH WHISPER TO MY EARS!".I see red, my hands clutching the fabric of my pants.
Father and I never on the same path, he want me to be a great detective for the National Crime Centre (NCC)—it giving me opportunity for enter Interpol, or at least National Crime Investigate Press Unit (NCIU).
But all I want is to be like mother—the greatest journalist ever in my dreams . Special honour by National Journalist Organisation , golden medals hanging on the walls as achievements that she earned from giving her whole devotion to each letter she wrote.
I remembered her silhouette framed by the lamplight, the sharp scent of her cigarettes mingling with old paper and clicking sound of her old typewriter, the way she used to soothe me to sleep. It's my safe place ever.
People said obsession runs in the blood. Perhaps they were right. Because sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear her voice—soft, trembling, tired—yet still shimmering with that stubborn trace of youth, of a woman who once believed everyone in this world have a story to tell, she decides to tell it by her significant novel ever at her hometown—Scotland—"Journey of a Princess Who Never Sleeps"
And maybe that's why I'm here—alone, chasing and creating the same story that devoured her chronic insomnia. But no one understands, dad couldn't understand how hard life has been treating her, her mind just at peace when she using those flowers again—poppy.
"Pathetic"
The room was suffocating, the weight of my father's gaze pressing down like iron. I could feel the tremor in my legs, my chest heaving, my mind still trapped in the images I'd just spoken aloud. Every heartbeat was a drum, a warning that I might collapse right here, in front of them all.
Lucas's hand touched my elbow, firm but gentle, anchoring me. "Anna," he said, voice steady, insistent. "Come with me."
"Right, run! Run fast you fucking coward bitch!!!" He shouting after me, following me in anger and furious. "Run away from your fucking dreams!"
Lucas's hand tightened around mine, almost dragging me as he steered me toward the garden doors. The corridor was a blur of marble and shadow, my father's face still seared into my mind—those same lines, the same cold eyes, the same disappointment etched deep as stone.
"Because I fucking care about you, Dad!" The words ripped out of me, echoing off the hallway walls. "I care about your fucking dreams—I always have!" My voice cracked on the last word. My eyes never left his face, even as the distance between us grew. That face. Always the same when I visited: proud, severe, unreachable, emotionless.
"Anna!" Lucas hissed, pulling me through the doorway. "Enough!" He shoved the door closed behind us, the heavy wood muting the din of silverware and murmurs inside. Cold air rushed against my skin, smelling of rain and damp grass.
"Shut up, Anna!" His voice snapped sharper than I'd ever heard it. "He's already gone crazy in there and now you're trying to copy him? You want to tear yourself apart like him?"
He grabbed my shoulders and shook me once, hard enough to jolt me but not to hurt. The shock broke through the red haze behind my eyes.
I slumped down onto the stone steps of the terrace, my body suddenly heavy, drained. The night was ink‑black and endless; the garden beyond looked like a void. I leaned my chin on my hand, staring at nothing. My lips still trembled. The copper taste of iron clung to my tongue, bitter and metallic, like old blood.
Lucas crouched in front of me, his breath coming fast. His hands hovered near my knees but didn't touch. "Breathe," he said quietly. "Just breathe, Anna. Look at me."
I kept my eyes on the dark, not yet ready to meet his. My pulse was still racing, but the cool air and his voice were beginning to cut through the noise inside my head, piece by piece.
"You have nothing to do with this Luke, this day already end for me here." Im rubbing my face.
Lucas sat beside me, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, far enough that I didn't feel trapped. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"You look the same after those years, you know?" Lucas asked quietly.
"Still using that fake old-British accent when you're angry, just to argue with someone because it makes you feel like you have the upper hand, do ya?" He smirking, teasing with my weird habits—well, Peaky Blinders is a good HBO film ever, inspiration for my life style or at least my accent, who the fucking hell don't like Tommy and Polly?
"Bloody hell," i mimicking , then glance at him, we burst out laughing, echoing the night garden.
I lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the darkness. The first inhale was sharp, harsh, but grounding. Smoke rolled up in lazy spirals, curling around my face like a temporary shield. I held it deep in my lungs, letting it fill the hollows that my father's words had carved out, before exhaling slowly.
"Want some?" . I offer him one, shaking his head.
"Nah, not interesting in harming my lungs". He looked at me, might thinking something.
"You always smoked when you were nervous," he said softly, almost a whisper. He take out a chewing gum and offering it to me.
"You should stop smoking, it wont be good for your health, try chewing gum for it". He asked me softly, but I seemed not being affected much by his words. By the way, i doing this for years, why have to care much?.
"Do you remember the oak behind St. Vincent's?" he asked quietly. His voice was soft, almost careful, like he was testing if I could handle it.
I blinked, the memory surfacing unbidden.
"The one which Miss Green always have to check if you climbing or not?" I exhaled.
He chuckled, the sound low and genuine, and for a heartbeat, it felt like sunlight through a storm. "Yeah. I think she threatened to suspend me once. You… you pulled me down every time before I broke my neck."
A faint smile tugging at my lips.
"Well now I regret that I always saved you, dumbass". I tease him, he swap his large hand on my back with a loud smack!
"What the fuck dude!?" I yelped, he always like that, being violence when he want laugh.
He laughing while I groaning in pain, rubbing my back.
"Always dragging me in trouble, you stupid ass" I mumbled under my breath.
He wiping his tears . "Never let me disappoint with your humourless words",his laughter dies down.
"How's your London life then? Is life treating you good?" I asked him, still focusing on finish my cigarette.
Lucas leaned back on the garden steps, eyes scanning the night sky. "I joined the Air Force after school," he said, sounding almost casual. "Not because I wanted to be some hero, believe me—mostly because my mom threatened to ground me for life if I didn't do something useful with my energy."
I cracked a small smile, despite the tension still lodged in my chest.
He grinned, brushing a hand through his hair. "At first, I was in logistics. You know, paperwork, checklists, pretending to understand supply chains. Thrilling stuff." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "I can still recite flight protocols in my sleep, but mostly because I have to or someone ends up sitting in a puddle of their own panic while I try to keep them from blowing up the tarmac."
I laughed softly, and he winked. "Yeah, I know. I sound like a total control freak. But hey—someone has to notice the small things. Otherwise, chaos wins. Trust me, chaos loves to party."
"Well, I thought you love chaos," I teasing. "Well, I saw your lavish life on Instagram you know, parties, girls, overnight,…". I stopped, want to make sure that he comfortable when I talked about this. "Everything about your life, I saw it—the surface at least. At least i tried to understand how the hell is your life going."
He make a lazy grin on his face, listening to me.
"Well, is it that good when you really enjoy your life?" I asked quietly. His eyes glued to my eyes.
"Well, I'm not saying this because I'm more successful than you, for now, I'm saying this because I care about you…"
Life when you don't live under anyone's pressure, anyone's shadow, or anyone's dreams…" he paused, eyes flicking back to mine, "…is so much better than anything you've had to endure since you were born."
He leaned a little closer, elbows on his knees, his lazy grin softening into something more human. "You don't need to make your head heavy, Anna. You don't need to satisfy someone else instead of satisfying yourself. Not your father. Not me. Not anyone."
I sneered . "You sound ridiculous now, you know, talking like some advice post I saw on Facebook—it's easy to say it, but with actions, is another things." I flickering the ash away. "And especially coming from a guy who live under command and ranks.."
Lucas gave a small, crooked smile.
"It's weird, huh? Coming from the guy who literally lives by orders and ranks. But even in the Air Force, you figure out how to breathe for yourself. You have to."
He leaned back, rubbing his ankle absently, eyes unfocused for a moment.
"Mother's forcing me to marry, but—" he exhaled sharply, "it feels suffocating. I'm not ready for it. And it's not fair for Kateřina either… she deserves something more than a life pretending to be happy."
He paused, a faint, rueful smile curving his lips.
"She won't be happy if she keeps living under the shell of a perfect wife. So… we chose to give each other freedom instead. Maybe that's the only way to stay honest."
Right—he sounds like a good person, always, but this time, I looked at him—as a real good person, no lies, no smile, completely with…honestly.
I exhaled slowly, my fingers trembling around the cigarette. The smoke curled between us, blurring my vision.
"You make it sound so easy," I whispered, my voice breaking at the edges. "But I don't even know who I am without his voice in my head. Without… that constant reminder that I was supposed to be more."
The lump in my throat tightened, and before I could speak, he leaned back with that lazy grin again. "Besides… if you were really living in someone else's shadow, you wouldn't be smoking like a villain in a British noir film right now."
A chuckle slipped out of me. "Is that a problem?"
Lucas grinning, then he asked. "Where will you stay tonight?"
"Well," my eyes look up the sky, thinking. "Probably my father won't let me sleep in peace, I should return my home."
Lucas eyes widened slightly. "Well, it takes you 5 hours now to drive home, also, is dark, rain just stopped, is dangerously, also—you not driving a car to here."
"Shit". I swear under my breath. "Yeah—that old man planned all of this…". Frustrated.
Lucas grinned. "Well, this time I visít you, I'm not gonna stay here for a while, I'm here in Germany just for some business, I will leave after 2 days, I booked a hotel near here, if you don't mind-…" he lets his word trail off, trying to give me an idea.
"I'm very mind," I cut all of his hope. His face go blank. "But as you see, I don't have any options then, I still have to do it."
Lucas smirked. Then standing up stretching his arms over his head. "Well, shall we go now?"
"I will take some of my remains in my room, I will be fast." I stand up as well, walking back to the house."