Chapter 34: The Farewell Letter

The eighty dollars lay splayed on the enormous, polished mahogany desk, mocking the gold accessories and imported marble statues of the room. I had the antique cigar box, the cheap, worn gym bag, and the horrifying certainty that I had to leave now.

But I couldn't just vanish.

Mom.

The thought of her walking into the empty apartment, finding no note, calling my phone and getting no answer—the thought of her sinking back into the despair she had just escaped—was worse than facing Dmitri’s final, killing rage. I owed her an explanation, a gentle lie to cushion the inevitable shock.

I found a plain sheet of Volkov stationery—thick, cream-colored paper—and a heavy fountain pen that felt alien in my hand. It was the pen of a powerful man, not a fleeing coward.

I stared at the pristine paper.

What do I write?

’Dear Mom, I’m running away because your fiancé’s twin sons are sharing me as a property in a very dark, possessive, yet somehow protective arrangement, and I can’t handle the guilt of your happiness.’

I laughed, a sharp, ragged sound that quickly devolved into a choke. That was the truth, and the truth would kill her faster than my absence.

’Dear Mom, the gallery failed, and I took all the Volkov money and ran.’

A simpler lie, a cleaner betrayal. But she would believe I ruined her perfect financial structure, and that lie would shatter her faith in everything.

I put the pen down. My hands were shaking again.

My breathing was shallow, hitched with the residual panic. I walked away from the desk, trying to find a corner of the room where I could escape the scrutiny of my own memories.

I remembered last week, when Ivan had found me staring blankly at a canvas, unable to paint anything but chaotic darkness. He hadn't mocked me. He had simply stood behind me, his voice a low, insistent hum.

Ivan’s Voice (Memory, gentle but firm): "Stop trying to paint your guilt, Leo. It's ugly. You're trying to punish yourself for being human. You want us to look at your pain and let you go. We won't. If you insist on feeling so much, then feel the one thing you actually crave: the relief of being owned. Stop running from your needs."

And Dmitri. A few nights ago, after a relentless, dominating encounter, he had simply held me, my face pressed into the warm skin of his neck.

Dmitri’s Voice (Memory, low rumble): "You are mine. You are safe. I took your control so you couldn't destroy yourself again. Do you understand? I broke the world around you so you could finally breathe. Don't fight the certainty, Leo. We won't allow you to break."

They were monsters, yes, but they were human monsters. They didn't feel love the way Mom did—all warmth and light. Their love was an iron fist wrapped in velvet, a profound, terrifying need born from their own fear of abandonment. They saw my vulnerability and decided the only way to save it was to capture it. And I—I had briefly, terrifyingly, started to believe their twisted logic.

I am betraying them too. That was the worst part. I was shattering the certainty they had built their own broken hearts around.

I walked back to the desk, the guilt doubling. The letters had to be simple. They had to sound like Leo Vance, the anxious, self-destructive artist, making a terrible mistake.

I picked up the pen and started to write, the tip scratching heavily against the expensive paper.

Letter One: To Mom

Mom,

Please don't panic. I am fine. This is a terrible mistake, but it is one I have to make, and I can only ask that you forgive me later.

I know you think I'm settled, but I am not. This life, this place... it's too much. The pressure of the Volkov world is immense, and I realize now that I am not strong enough to live up to it. I have to go back to being just me. I have to find a way to stand on my own feet, without any help.

You are finally happy. Truly happy. Please, do not let this change anything. You deserve Arthur and this peace. Don't let my failure to cope hurt your relationship. You must stay. You must believe in the security they offer. They are good men.

I need space to find myself again, and I couldn't do that here. I couldn't tell you the truth, because I knew you would worry. Please, please, Mom, believe that I love you more than anything. Don't look for me. I will call when I can prove that I am worthy of your love again.

I am so sorry for the timing. I am the problem. It is my weakness. It has nothing to do with them.

I love you.

Leo

I stared at the letter. It was a flimsy, pathetic tissue of lies, full of vague, artistic angst and self-blame. It didn't explain anything, but it did the one thing it needed to do: it affirmed that the Volkovs were innocent and that my failure was personal. It was the only way to protect her peace. I signed it, my signature a shaky echo of my real name.

Next, Sasha. My best friend, the one person who knew about my sexuality and my crippling internalized shame. The lie had to be different for her, but equally vague.

I took a fresh sheet of paper.

Letter Two: To Sasha

Sasha,

I need you to listen to Mom. Keep her calm. Tell her I’m fine, but don't ask her for details, because I didn't give her any. Tell her it’s just the pressure of the art world.

This is about the shame, Sash. It all caught up to me. Everything I’ve been trying to deny, everything I tried to lock away... it was going to explode. I couldn't face it, and I couldn't face them. It’s too big. The only way to stop the explosion was to leave.

I know this is a coward’s exit. I’m sorry. You were the only good thing that wasn't touched by them, and I’m abandoning you. Please, don't follow. Don't try to contact me. You have to stay safe.

Be careful. Don't talk about them, or me, to anyone. Just keep Mom stable.

I don't know where I'm going, but I need to be somewhere small and quiet until I can look at myself in the mirror again.

I miss you already. Forgive me.

L

This letter was slightly more honest, hinting at the internal battle and the overwhelming power of "them" without revealing the forbidden relationship. It spoke to Sasha’s understanding of my self-denial.

I folded both letters tightly, securing the one to Mom with the final, useless eighty dollars—a symbolic, ridiculous gesture of my independence.

I placed the letters prominently on the bedside table, right next to the high-tech, encrypted tablet. They would be found immediately.

I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. I looked ruined, exhausted, and utterly defeated. But the guilt had been transferred onto paper. The paralysis was gone. I was ready.

I grabbed the worn gym bag, slipped into the oldest clothes I owned, and turned toward the door. The time for whispering was

over. The time for the failed bolt had begun.