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I have no right to be angry with him anyway. That thought makes my throat tighten. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not his wife. I’m not anything that has a name. I sleep in his bed most nights and pretend I don’t. I sneak around his house like a teenager while his daughter asks me to braid her hair and his staff politely stare at walls.

What does that make me?

It’s an ugly question so I just turn off my brain and watch the movie instead.

Nikolai’s voice comes quietly from the other side of Anya. “The bed is fine.”

I roll my eyes. “That was not the point.”

“I know.”

I glance at him despite myself. He’s still looking at the screen, but his hand has moved behind Anya, resting palm-up on the blanket between us. Not touching me. Just there.

Offering without asking.

I hate that it works. I leave my hand where it is.

I lower my voice. “You can go, you know.”

“I can.”

“You should.”

“Do you want me to?”

I hate that he asks it like that. Calmly. Directly. As if this is simple when nothing about it feels simple to me.

I look at him. If I say yes, he will leave. I know that now. If I say no, he will stay. That should not feel like such a large thing.

“I don’t know what I want,” I say finally.

His expression changes a little. Not much, but enough.

I look away before he can answer because I don’t want to have this conversation over Anya’s sleeping head, in a child’s bed, while a fairy-tale princess sings on the screen.

“I’m still upset with you,” I add.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

He is watching me now, not the movie. “I didn’t mean to dismiss you,” he says.

I want to stay angry. I am still angry, but the shape of it changes because he has not defended himself the way I expected. “What did you mean?” I ask.

“That in my house, men like Kirill are trained to see things and say nothing.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.”

“It makes me feel like one more thing everyone is supposed to pretend not to notice.”

His jaw tightens.

I regret saying it the second I do, not because it is untrue, but because it is too honest. I am not his wife. I am not even sure I am his girlfriend. I am the woman who is supposed to be here for his daughter, except I sleep in his bed more often than my own and sneak into rooms with him like we are doing something shameful.