He inspected the nightstand. A glass of water half empty. Pills in a blister pack without markings, a vial with clear liquid, also without a label. Viktor sniffed the liquid and recognized the characteristic smell. His assumption was confirmed. He took out a syringe and an ampoule with the antidote. His hands didn’t shake, though his heart pounded so hard the thumping echoed in his temples. Thirty years of practice had taught him to separate emotions from actions. Now he wasn’t a father. He was a surgeon.
The injection took a few seconds. Now all that remained was to wait. Viktor sat on the edge of the bed and took his daughter’s hand in his. The hand was cold and limp, like a sleeping child’s. He looked at her face and remembered her when she was little. How she ran around the house, how she laughed, how she hugged him around the neck when he returned from work. When did she stop hugging him? He didn’t remember. Didn’t notice the moment when his daughter began to avoid him. When warmth was replaced by polite detachment. When love turned into duty.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Anya still lay motionless. And suddenly her eyelids fluttered. Fingers weakly squeezed around his hand. Her lips parted.
“Dad…” she whispered so quietly he barely heard. “Dad…”
Viktor leaned closer.
“I’m here! I’m with you!”
Anya slowly opened her eyes. In them was confusion, fear, and something else resembling hope.
“You’re alive!” She blinked, as if not believing her own eyes. “He said you died. Showed a newspaper. I thought…”
“He lied.” Viktor squeezed her hand tighter. “I am alive! I came for you!”
Anya tried to sit up, but her body wouldn’t obey. She fell back onto the pillow, and tears flowed down her cheeks.
“I wanted to call you!” she whispered. “When it all started. But he took the phone. Said you didn’t care. That you never loved me. And then he showed the obituary, and I believed him. Believed I was left all alone.”
“You are not alone.” Viktor felt tears burning his own eyes. “You were never alone. It’s my fault you ended up here; I taught you the wrong things. Showed the wrong love. But now I’m taking you away from here, do you hear? We’re leaving together.”
Anya looked at him, and clarity that wasn’t there yesterday appeared in her eyes. The antidote was working.
“He won’t let go,” she said. “He has security, lawyers, connections. He said I’m his property. That I won’t go anywhere.”
“He is mistaken,” Viktor replied. “Because now you have me. And I won’t leave until you are free.”
Somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Footsteps were heard. Viktor tensed, ready to act. The room door opened slightly, and Zoya’s face appeared in the opening.
“Faster,” she whispered. “The guard shift ended early. You have three minutes.”
Viktor acted quickly, as he was used to acting in the operating room when seconds counted. He grabbed Anya under her arms and helped her sit up on the bed. Her body was weak, almost weightless. But her eyes looked conscious, and that gave hope.
“Can you walk?” he asked in a whisper.
Anya tried to stand, but her legs buckled, and she almost fell. Viktor caught her and realized he would have to carry her. He grabbed his daughter by the waist, threw her arm over his shoulder, and moved toward the door. Zoya was waiting in the corridor, listening to the sounds in the house. Somewhere below, guards were talking; their voices sounded muffled but were getting closer.
“Not the main staircase,” Zoya whispered. “There’s a service passage at the end of the corridor leading to the kitchen. From there through the back door.”
They moved along the dark corridor, and Viktor felt Anya trying to walk herself, trying not to be a burden, though her legs barely obeyed. The service staircase turned out to be narrow and steep; descending it with a semi-conscious person in his arms was almost impossible. But Viktor managed, clinging to the railing with one hand and holding his daughter with the other.
The kitchen was empty and dark. Zoya led them between tables and refrigerators to the door leading to the yard. Freedom was a few steps away.
And then the lights turned on.
Arkady stood against the opposite wall, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of wine in his hand. He was dressed in a dressing gown and looked completely relaxed, as if he had been expecting their appearance and wasn’t surprised at all.
“What a touching scene,” he said, and his voice sounded almost friendly. “The caring father saves the unhappy daughter from the clutches of the villain. Just like in a bad movie.”
Viktor stopped, instinctively shielding Anya with himself. Zoya backed into a corner, her face white as chalk.
“Zoya, Zoya…” Arkady shook his head with feigned disappointment. “I treated you like a family member. Paid double the market rate. Closed my eyes to your petty theft. And this is your gratitude.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Zoya whispered in a trembling voice…
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