1: Snow on Broken Glass

Anya’s POV

I sit on the wide window sill, knees pulled to my chest, book open on my lap. The pages are yellow and soft, like old skin. 

Outside, Moscow snow falls slow and quiet, covering the dirty street in white lies. The radiator hisses but gives no heat. My fingers are cold around the book.

Crash. Glass breaks downstairs. A bottle hits the wall, sharp like ice cracking. 

A man shouts; my father. His voice is thick with vodka and anger. I do not move. I know the sound. Bottle meets wall. Wall wins. He will sleep on the floor tonight. I close the book. The Nutcracker. 

I used to dance Clara on the Bolshoi stage when I was fourteen. Pink tights, sugar-plum crown, lights so bright they burned my eyes. 

The audience clapped like thunder. Papa stood in the wings, proud, not drunk yet. 

I spun until the world blurred. My toes bled inside satin, but I smiled. 

That was power. Now the book in my lap is just paper and dust. It weighs more than my broken pointe shoes because dreams are heavy when they die.

How did we get here?

I am Anastasia Volkov. Anya to the few who still care. Daughter of Dimitri Volkov, once the king of oil and steel. 

Before the crash, our name opened every door in Moscow. Papa’s parties filled three floors. Crystal chandeliers, Caviar Mountains, women in diamonds that hurt to look at. 

I wore silk dresses that cost more than cars, soft against my skin, bright like candy. I smiled for the cameras, teeth perfect, chin high. “The Volkov princess,” they called me in magazines and at parties. I hated the name; it sounded weak, like a doll. 

But I loved the safety. Guards at every door. No one could touch me. Money was a wall. Papa’s name was a shield. I slept easy then.

Then the money bled out.  

One bad deal. Then ten. Papa gambled on ships that never came. He borrowed from banks, then from men who do not send letters. 

The banks took the yacht, the cars, and the house in Rublyovka. We moved to this gray apartment on the edge of the city. 

No more maids in starched aprons, rushing with trays of hot blini and fresh cream. No cook humming old songs while stirring borscht that filled the whole house with warmth. 

Only Igor, the butler, is still here. Loyal dog. He stands in the empty dining room every morning, cloth in hand, polishing silver spoons and forks we sold to strangers years ago. 

The metal is gone, but he rubs the air like the ghosts might shine. I hate his quiet eyes. They follow me down the hall, soft and sad, watching like I am thin glass about to crack under one wrong breath. 

He never speaks unless Papa snaps. Just bows his gray head and waits. 

I hate Papa more. Hate is warm. It sits in my chest like hot coal. It keeps the cold out when the heat dies and the snow leaks through the windows.

Mama left when I was twelve. She said Papa’s love was a cage with gold bars. She flew to Paris with a painter who smelled like turpentine. Sent postcards for a year. Then nothing. I keep one card in my drawer. The Eiffel Tower at night. On the back: Be free, my swan. 

I do not know what free means anymore. Mama’s postcard promised wings, but the sky is locked. 

No school, no friends, no money to buy a bus ticket out. I count kopecks in my sock drawer; forty-three. 

Enough for tea, not escape. Free is a word for birds, not girls with broken shoes and a father who sells dreams for vodka.

Knock. Knock.  

The door opens before I speak. Papa stumbles in, boots leaving wet prints on the old rug. His coat is soaked with melting snow and heavy with shame. Eyes red like he had cried or drank too much. 

Breath sour, sharp, like the bottom of a cheap glass left too long. He sways, grabs the wall to stay up, fingers dirty. His tie hangs loose, shirt wrinkled. 

He smells of failure, vodka, and cold night air. I hate the smell. It clings to everything.

“Anya.” His voice cracks. “Dress. The red one. We go to the Bolshoi. One hour.”

I stare. The Bolshoi? We have not had tickets since I was sixteen. “Why?”

He rubs his face. “I know how to save us.” He says it like a prayer. Or a lie.

“Save us?” I laugh, but it hurts. “You sold the piano. The paintings. My ballet school…”

“This is different.” He steps closer. His hand shakes. “Please. Just… wear the dress.”

I look at the envelope on my sill. Thick cream paper. Gold seal. Slid under the door this morning. No name. I did not open it. Papa’s eyes flick to it, then away.

“Who is it for?” I ask.

He does not answer. Turns to leave. “One hour, Anya.”

The door shuts. I am alone again.

I open the envelope with cold fingers. Inside: one ticket. Bolshoi Theatre. Tonight. Private box. And a note in black ink.

Your debt is due. How would you like to pay?

My heart stops. Debt??

I crumple the paper. Throw it at the wall. It lands softly, like snow.

Downstairs, Igor sweeps glass. His broom scratches the floor. Loyal dog. He knows. He always knows.

I go to the closet. The red dress hangs in plastic, too big now. I lost weight on bread and tea. I pull it out. Silk cold against my skin. I pin the waist with safety pins. In the mirror, I look like a child playing dress-up. Pale. Eyes too big. Lips bitten raw.

Papa thinks the opera will save him. He does not see the trap.

I do.

Snow taps the window. Tap. Tap. Like fingers.

Tonight, everything ends. Or begins.

I do not cry. I practiced that years ago.