UPSIDE DOWN

~ 34 ~

1 month later 

Sylvie 

The rain had finally stopped. The air was cool and heavy with petrichor, soaking into the marble railings of the balcony where I'd been sitting for what felt like hours. My coffee had gone cold. Again.

Days passed differently here. They were quieter, blurred around the edges. But it wasn't the good kind of quiet, it was the kind that settles in your bones, makes your mind wander too far, and leaves you staring at doorways like you're expecting ghosts.

Maybe I was.

I had only explored parts of the villa, my bedroom, the therapy room, the dining area. Papa respected my space, never hovering, never pushing. It was strange kind. 

Almost unsettling in its gentleness.

But I needed something more than silence today.

So I wheeled down the east corridor, a hallway I hadn't ventured into before. 

The floors creaked faintly beneath the old rugs, and the paintings on the walls were older still, oil portraits of ancestors I'd never met, all in stiff coats and glassy eyes. At the end of the corridor was a locked door.

Except... it wasn't locked today.

The latch hung loosely, as if someone had forgotten to turn it properly.

Curiosity is a terrible thing when you've spent weeks caged by trauma and soft lies. It fills the space where fear used to live.

I pushed the door open.

The scent hit first, old wood, dust, leather, something vaguely metallic. The room beyond was dim, save for the weak light streaming through high slatted windows. 

Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls. Books. Files. Boxes. A private study, but older than the rest of the house.

A secret kept in plain sight.

I rolled inside, heart ticking louder in my ears than I liked. There was a desk, massive and polished, and behind it... a photograph.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up.

It was a picture of my mother. And beside her, not my father.

Victor.

I froze.

It wasn't an innocent photo. His hand was at her waist. She was smiling. Their bodies were angled too close. The handwriting on the back made my stomach twist.

"To the future - V."

I dropped the photo like it burned.

What the hell?

I rummaged through the drawers with a sudden urgency. Dust coated my fingertips, and the smell of aged paper was overwhelming, but I didn't stop. Not until I found it, a thick manila folder with my name scrawled on the front in block letters.

Inside were reports. Surveillance photos. Medical files. An envelope labeled "PROJECT SYLVIE."

My breath hitched.

The top paper was a birth record. Only... the father's name had been scratched out and rewritten.

Biological Father: Victor Alexei Durov.

I dropped the folder.

"No," I whispered aloud. "No, no, no-"

The room spun. I reached for the armrest of my chair to steady myself, bile rising in my throat.