Chapter 1: Drunk Confessions and Unyielding Resolve
The key turned in the lock with a clumsy, grating scrape. The heavy apartment door swung open and hit the wall with a thud, followed by the stumble of boots on parquet. Polina sagged against the frame, the hallway’s oppressive silence swallowing the last echoes of the arena. Her ears still rang with the screams of ten thousand voices chanting her name, a phantom heat clinging to her skin. Here, there was only the hum of the elevator shaft and the stale, cooled air of home.
The stage makeup felt like a cracked mask on her face. Her short, dark red hair was matted with sweat at the temples. She toed off her boots, leaving them in a heap, and padded into the living room, drawn by the single, sharp blade of light cutting from the kitchen.
Liza was at the table, a stark figure under the unforgiving glare of a desk lamp. She was still in her work suit, the jacket draped over the back of the chair, the white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Her long, night-black hair was pulled into its usual severe high ponytail, two strands escaping to frame a face of sharp, pale angles. She was writing something in the margin of a dense document, her hand moving with precise, quick strokes. The red of her lipstick was the only violent color in the monochrome scene.
Polina watched from the doorway, the vodka warmth in her veins pulsing in time with her heartbeat. A week. A whole week of single-word answers, of rooms emptied when she entered, of averted icy-blue eyes. The ignored flowers were now wilting on the entryway table. The silence was worse.
She moved before thought could stop her. The floor was cold under her socks. She stepped into the kitchen’s light, her shadow falling across Liza’s papers.
Liza didn’t look up. The pen kept moving.
Polina moved behind her chair. She could smell the faint, clean scent of Liza’s perfume, something cold like frost and linen, undercut by the dry paper and ink. It clashed with Polina’s own smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey and hot stage lights.
She leaned down, her body curving over Liza’s rigid back. Her lips brushed the shell of Liza’s ear, her breath hot. “You’ve been ignoring me all week.”
Liza’s hand froze. The pen dug a small, dark hole into the paper. Her spine straightened, a wire pulled taut. Polina saw the muscles in her jaw clench. She didn’t pull away.
“You’re drunk,” Liza stated, her voice low and flat. It was the voice she used for press statements, for dismissing subordinates.
“So what?” Polina murmured, her lips trailing down to the tense cord of Liza’s neck. She pressed her forehead against the cool, dark silk of Liza’s hair. “You still know I’m here.”
Liza’s head turned slightly, just enough for Polina to see the profile of her nose, the sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek. Her gaze remained fixed on the ruined document. “I’m working, Polina. Go to bed.”
“No.”
One word. Simple. Final. Polina’s hands came up, resting on Liza’s shoulders. She felt the incredible tension there, stone beneath the thin cotton. She began to knead, her thumbs pressing into the knots.
Liza let out a breath, a short, sharp exhale that wasn’t quite a sigh. It was a fracture. Her head dipped forward a fraction. The pen clattered onto the table.
“See?” Polina whispered, a triumph swelling in her chest. She let her hands slide from Liza’s shoulders down her arms, feeling the fine tremor there. She followed the path of her own hands with her mouth, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the side of Liza’s neck, right over the frantic jump of a pulse.
Liza’s hand shot up, not to push her away, but to grasp Polina’s wrist. Her grip was vice-tight, her fingers cold. “Stop.”
“Why?” Polina challenged, her voice thick. She didn’t struggle. “You let me. You always let me, in the end.”
“It’s inappropriate.” Liza’s voice was strained, the professional mask cracking to reveal something raw beneath.
“Says who?” Polina laughed, a brittle, joyless sound. “Your rulebook? The one you use to shut down websites and scare journalists? Does it have a chapter on this?”
Liza finally turned. She pivoted in her chair, forcing Polina to step back or fall into her lap. Those piercing blue eyes, usually so distant, were blazing now, up close. They traveled over Polina’s smudged eyes, her flushed cheeks, her parted, gloss-sticky lips. “You are a mess. You smell of a bar.”
“And you smell of disapproval,” Polina shot back, her hands finding their way to Liza’s face. She cradled it, her thumbs stroking the high, pale cheekbones. “It’s a worse smell.”
For a long moment, they stayed like that, locked in a silent battle. The refrigerator hummed. A siren wailed somewhere far away in the Moscow night. Polina could see the conflict warring behind Liza’s eyes—the ingrained reflex to deny, to control, to categorize this as wrong, and the other thing, the hungry, curious thing that Polina had spent months carefully, recklessly, nurturing.
Liza’s gaze dropped to Polina’s mouth.
It was all the permission Polina needed. She closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, all teeth and heat and the bitter taste of Liza’s coffee mingling with the sweet poison on Polina’s tongue. Liza’s hands came up, not to embrace, but to grip Polina’s hips, her fingers digging in through the thin material of her stage leggings, holding her there, anchoring them both.
Polina poured everything into it—the frustration of the ignored week, the adrenaline from the stage, the terrifying, bottomless love that scared her more than any bad review. She tried to say it all with her mouth, with the desperate press of her body.
When they broke apart, gasping, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it snapped, Liza’s lipstick was ruined. Smudged across her own mouth, across Polina’s chin. It made her look unraveled. Human.
Liza looked up at her, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her stern gaze was gone, replaced by something wide-open and startled. “Polina…”
“Don’t,” Polina interrupted, her voice raw. She traced Liza’s swollen lower lip with her thumb. “Don’t say it’s a mistake. Not tonight.”
Liza didn’t say it. Instead, her eyes searched Polina’s face. The silence stretched, filled with things unsaid. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, as if moving against a great weight, Liza leaned forward and rested her forehead against Polina’s stomach. Her hands loosened their grip on Polina’s hips, the fight draining out of her shoulders.
Polina stood very still, her fingers threading into the sleek, dark hair of Liza’s ponytail. She felt the tight coil of the hair tie, the warmth of Liza’s scalp beneath. She waited.
“The concert… it was good?” Liza’s voice was muffled against her shirt.
A surprised, wet laugh escaped Polina. Of all the things. “It was loud. They knew all the words.”
Liza nodded, her forehead moving against Polina’s belly. “I saw the headlines. ‘Polina Volkova electrifies Olimpiyskiy.’” She said it flatly, a simple report.
“You read them?”
“I monitor all media.”
“Liar.” Polina whispered it softly, fondly.
Liza didn’t deny it. She took another deep, shivering breath and pushed back from Polina, swiveling her chair to face the table again. She picked up the pen with the bitten cap, studied it, then dropped it. “Make some tea. The kind with the mint. And sit. You’re swaying.”
It wasn’t an invitation back into her arms. It wasn’t a declaration. It was a small, white flag. A piece of common ground in the kitchen at two in the morning.
Polina went to the kettle. As she filled it, her hands shaking slightly, she watched Liza in the reflection of the dark window. Liza had pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her, but she wasn’t writing. She was just sitting there, staring at the wall, her fingers touching her own bruised-looking lips. The careful mask was off, and in its place was a complicated, vulnerable exhaustion. The documents, the rules, the entire city waiting for her verdicts tomorrow—all of it was outside this pool of light. In here, there was just the two of them and the slowly heating water.
Polina knew it wasn’t solved. The disapproval was still there, a cold wall in Liza’s mind. But for now, the wall had a door in it. And Polina was on the right side. For tonight, that was enough. She placed two mugs on the counter and waited for the whistle, the promise of steam and warmth and a few more borrowed hours before the morning came to take Liza away again.
The whistle pierced the quiet, a shrill intrusion. Polina poured the boiling water, the steam fogging the cabinet glass. She dropped a mint tea bag into each mug, watching the pale green bloom like a slow sigh.
“You know why I did the acoustic version of ‘Komsomolskaya’ tonight?” Polina asked, her back still to Liza. She stirred one mug, the spoon clinking too loudly.
Liza didn’t answer.
“Because you said it was propagandistic garbage. That the original arrangement was a blunt instrument.” Polina turned, leaning against the counter, holding the two mugs. “I wanted to prove you wrong. To show you the heart of it.”
Liza finally looked at her. The smudged lipstick made her severe beauty look wrecked and honest. “It was less garbage,” she conceded, her voice quiet. “It was still a love song to a dead idea.”
“It’s a love song,” Polina insisted, crossing the space and placing a mug in front of Liza. Her fingers brushed Liza’s knuckles. “That’s all. Just a love song.”
Liza wrapped her hands around the ceramic, staring into the swirling liquid. “Love is not simple. It is a state interest. A vulnerability.” She took a slow breath. “An administrative problem.”
Polina pulled out the chair beside her and sat, too close for colleagues, too far for lovers. “Is that what I am? An administrative problem?”
Liza’s gaze was unwavering. “You are a complication.”
“You like things in order,” Polina said, sipping her tea. It burned her tongue. “Neat categories. Approved lists.”
“Yes.”
“And where do I go? Under ‘permitted’ or ‘prohibited’?”
Liza’s finger traced the rim of her mug. “You exist in a draft memo. Under endless review.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her ruined lips. “The file is very thick.”
Polina laughed, but it caught in her throat. She reached out and took Liza’s hand, turning it over, tracing the lines of her palm. “Your rules are for other people. Not for this. Not for us in this kitchen.”
Liza didn’t pull away. She watched Polina’s finger on her skin. “My rules are what I am.”
“Then be something else for five minutes.” Polina’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Just five minutes.”
The digital clock on the microwave shifted from 2:46 to 2:47. The city’s endless orange glow pressed against the window. Liza’s fingers slowly curled, closing around Polina’s. It was not an answer. It was a temporary annexation.