The grandfather clock in the marble foyer had just chimed half past two when Mark Kowal’s black Mercedes slipped through the iron gates of his Podil estate. He wasn’t expected—an early adjournment at the board had given him a rare impulse: surprise his six-year-old daughter, Anya. On ordinary days, her pink crutches—“my magic wings,” she called them—clicked joyfully across the parquet as she launched into his arms.Today, the house breathed a different air. No footsteps. No giggle racing through the rooms. Only stillness—and then a sound that sent a fine crack through the quiet.A Voice That Didn’t Belong to HomeA child’s sob. Not the fragile waver of a dropped toy—the tight, frightened sound of someone trying not to cry. Then, cutting across it, a woman’s voice: measured, sharp, cold.
“You must be more careful. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

The voice was unmistakable. Victoria’s. His wife of two years. The woman whose poise had once struck him as grace—who had promised gentleness after grief took Sofia, Anya’s mother.What He Saw in the Living RoomMark pushed open the door. Water glistened on the Persian rug. A glass lay broken beside a toppled straw cup. Anya sat on the floor, clutching her teddy bear, blinking hard to make the tears go back. Her crutches lay near the sofa.Victoria stood over the scene, immaculate in a cream dress, expression composed—too composed—except for the quick flicker in her eyes before she rearranged her features into concern.Oh, darling,” she said smoothly, “you’re early. Nothing serious. Anya spilled her drink. I was teaching her to be mindful around valuable things.”Mark knelt. “Hey, sunshine.” He took Anya’s small hands—warm, shaking—into his. Pale pressure marks circled her wrists, the kind that come from being held too tightly. His eyes rose to Victoria. Something in him set like stone.