Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, parts of the dialogue, or the events leading up to this scenario. This is simply a 'what-if' scene that developed in my head while on a solo-trip to the UK this December. What you are reading (chapter one) was conceived and written entirely on my iPhone during my stay. I hope you enjoy it!
"Do you recognize this?"
A look of joy, followed by deep pain and confusion danced with the Dowager's brows as she gingerly took the music box and examined it, hardly believing it was real.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered.
He took a breath, desperately trying to forget what she'd brought to the front of his memory.
"Look, I know you've been hurt," he began, "but it's just possible that she's been as lost and alone as you."
She took offense to this comment, offering a scowl.
"You'll stop at nothing, will you?"
He stood with effort, the weight of his heart allowing gravity to work more effectively. Staring her down, he smirked.
"I'm probably about as stubborn as you are."
She sighed, then looked back to the music box, allowing a small smile to grace her lips.
"Did you plan this with her? Does she know?" she asked quietly, her eyes never leaving the jeweled box in her fingers.
He shook his head fiercely.
"No!" he said hastily, putting his plans up in defense. "No! She had no idea about the con."
The Dowager looked back at him after a moment, her face suddenly unreadable. He dared to meet her eyes once more.
"Please..." He whispered. "One chance, that's all I'm asking for. I don't want the money, I'll even leave Paris tonight..."
He swallowed the crack in his voice, evidence that he was failing to shove his emotions down his own throat.
"She deserves the world, and if I can give her that, I will. You have to meet with her. Please."
The Dowager did nothing for a moment. Then, of all things, she laughed.
"You really believe in this girl, don't you?" she inquired.
He stared at the ground.
"How I feel doesn't matter," he muttered. "All I know is she's the real thing. And you'd be making the biggest mistake of your life to turn her away."
The Dowager tilted her head slightly to the side, considering his countenance as his eyes were cast downward.
"Very well," she stated, noticing the way his eyes ignited. "I'll meet with her."
"Thank you! Thank you, your Highness!"
"Have her brought to my townhouse tomorrow morning," she continued. "I've had far too much excitement for one evening, and there is only so much my poor heart can take."
At that moment, three police cars rounded the street corner, sirens whining, stopping abruptly beside them.
He stood his ground, fighting the oh-so familiar urge to fly in the opposite direction, because he now knew what running would mean for him; for Anya.
The Dowager took note of this choice, and saw the silhouette of a young woman move past the window. She thought about how much this young man believed in this stranger, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe it too.
She hardly noticed Ilya, her chauffeur, step out of the first police car, wagging a finger at Dimitri as the other men climbed out.
"It was him!" exclaimed the young man. "He kidnapped the Dowager!"
The captain and a few of his men ran over to Dimitri, and he refused to wince as they roughly pulled his hands behind his back, cuffing him. Though he could feel the cold steel cutting his skin, he did not resist, stubbornly looking down at the ground as Ilya clumsily bowed to the Dowager.
"Your Highness, are you-"
"Ilya, this is unnecessary," she said, stopping them all in their tracks. "It was a simple misunderstanding. We've resolved it. After all," she continued, giving Dimitri a sidelong glance, "he's leaving Paris tomorrow."
Dimitri's face did nothing to reveal the searing ache he felt at the implication of her words as, slowly, the officers freed him from his restraints. The captain stepped to face him, eyes narrowed.
"We expect to see you board a train tomorrow morning," he grumbled. "If we find you're still in the city by noon, you'll be arrested."
Dimitri gritted his teeth, offering the captain a stiff nod. He watched as they briskly walked away, then noticed the Dowager's chauffeur staring him down. He tried to smile, extending a hand to the frazzled man.
"I apologize for the inc-"
He felt the man's fist abruptly connect with his cheek, and he stumbled at the impact, looking up just in time to see the Dowager's smile.
"I look forward to meeting her in the morning," she stated simply.
He nodded thankfully, and as soon as he had regained his balance, another stone-cold punch from the chauffeur sent him spiraling to the ground. How had stars found their way down to the sidewalk?
Satisfied with his work, Ilya closed the car door for the Dowager before climbing in and driving off. Dimitri slowly came to his feet.
He could already feel his face beginning to bruise, refusing to touch the pounding flesh of his cheeks and nose. The last time he'd been hit this badly was-
Anastasia.
He had to tell Anya about the following morning. He doubted she would listen to anything he had to say, but he had to try. She'd come too far to never find out who she was.
Begrudgingly, he entered Sophie's home, and heard her French maid gasp at the sight of his face. Perfect. He wouldn't have to answer any questions.
He made his way up the stairs, pausing to listen when he'd reached her room. The faint rustle of bags and clothes confirmed what he already knew in his heart; she was planning on going back to Saint Petersburg.
She was giving up. And he couldn't let that happen.
Without another thought, he knocked on the door.
"Go away, Dimitri."
She'd never let him in, not after what he'd done to her. So, he opened the door himself.
He'd only taken two steps inside when he saw her stiffen, then turn on her heel to face him. She was so beautiful when she was angry, it unnerved him.
And that dress. Dear god, it was breathtaking. Her bare shoulders were just begging to be touched, and he briefly wondered what it might feel like to brush his lips against the creamy skin he saw there, and what soft noises she might make...
She'd planned to say something smart, he could see traces of it in her eyes. But at the sight of his face, her frown relaxed slightly.
"What happened to you?"
He closed the door behind him, putting his hands in his pockets. He pressed away the idea that she might actually care. She hated him. That had been clear from the slap she'd given him at the ballet.
"That wasn't me... Was it?" she whispered.
He shook his head at this, the headache made worse by it. Business. This was simply business, and then he could get on with his meaningless life.
"I spoke with the Dowager again," he began, "and she wants to see you. Tomorrow morning."
Her scowl came back, and she crossed her arms.
"I'm leaving tonight," she said roughly. "I'm going back to Saint Petersburg."
"Well, then, it looks like we'll be sharing the same train," he countered.
She froze.
"You're leav-"
"Yeah," he abruptly answered.
She hugged herself more tightly.
"But you were-"
"Yes, I was," he explained. "But not anymore."
He watched as she pressed her eyes shut, clutching her necklace as if her life depended on it.
"Why the sudden change of mind?" she all but whispered.
He wasn't sure she wanted to hear the true answer, but some sadistic part of him wanted her to suffer. For all of it; for bringing him here, for making him love her. He had just weathered the most tumultuous three days of his lifetime, and she had been at the center of the tempest. He looked at his pants hem, trying to word what he wanted to say.
"It was more a change of heart."
He looked at her then, and she was no longer his Anya, but the Grand Duchess Anastasia, last remaining heir to the throne of Russia. Regal, elegant, and thoroughly unattainable.
The way her expression had changed with his remark cut through to his very soul. He was treading dangerous ground now.
"I must go," he said brokenly. "Good luck, your Grace."
He turned to leave the room, when-
"Dimitri?"
He was halfway toward the door as he stopped in his tracks. There was something in her voice that terrified him. He felt her approach him rather than saw her do so.
"What happened to your face?" she asked.
He turned to look at her when she gently placed a hand on his shoulder. She examined his face silently.
"We should put some ice on that," she said, reaching out to just brush his left cheekbone. He winced, pulling away from her insistent fingers.
"I'm fine, Anya."
Her eyes lit up at the way he said her name, and something was suddenly different. The air shifted, and a chill blew through the room, though the night air outside was warm and still.
It made him uneasy.
"Look, I have to be out of the city by noon tomorrow, and I should get my things toge-"
"You... It was you, wasn't it? You were the boy," she murmured, searching his eyes. "The servant boy who got us out."
A wave of something inexplicable washed over him at this, and his eyes fluttered closed as she brushed his unruly hair from his face. Of course, she had remembered. She was Anastasia.
"You saved my life, then restored me to my grandmothe-r-"
"I haven't yet-"
"But you would have."
He opened his eyes when he felt her hand spread itself against his chest, directly over his heart. She had come closer, and now their faces were inches apart.
"Don't leave," she breathed. "Please, not tonight."
He covered her hand with his own, bringing it to his lips.
"You belong here," he said. "With your family. I can't stay."
She quickly withdrew her hand from his, taking a step back. The fire had returned to her eyes.
"I thought we were family."
And in that moment, all was lost. For him, at least.
He stood rooted to the spot as he watched her walk back to her suitcase. She took the jewels and pin out of her hair, and the way the wavy locks tumbled down her shoulders forced his heart wide open; his walls, unmade by a mere hairpin.
Just as she reached for another article of clothing to pack, he turned her around, forcing her to face him.
"Dimitri-"
He planted his lips upon hers, immediately reveling in their softness. She moved her lips against his, and he moaned as she more than welcomed the contact. She tasted like lavender and honey.
He pulled back for a moment, looking into those deep, blue, unmistakably Romanov eyes.
"We are family."
She smiled at him, and it was one he would never forget. She kissed him again, the same smile still gracing her lips. No matter what happened tomorrow, or the next day, or ten years from now, he would remember that smile. He would live for it.
