Part One, Chapter Three:

She woke up, gasping for breath, her heart beating wildly and erraticly. The white sheets tangled around her body, her thick dark hair splayed across her pillow. She sat up abruptly, smoothing her hair behind her ear, as she often did when troubled or anxious. Her hands fell to her lap, and she studied them carefully. Clean, smooth, manicured; her hands looked perfect and flawless, hiding the truth that exists beneath the surface. Some stains may never be washed away, she thought, echoing the words of the unsexed Lady Macbeth. She rushed over to the sink, and washed her hands, scrubbing them raw with the bar of soap. The sins of yesterday seemed to be permanently written on her skin. She was only supposed to meet with a contact, only supposed to receive her monthly update on her daughter and husband, whom she monitored from afar. When it became celar that she had been compromised by her formerly trustworthy contact, she was forced to eliminate him, to kill him. Another man dead at her hands. Sighing, she dried her hands and slipped on the fluffy white bathrobe provided by the hotel. She silently walked over to where she kept her writing supplies and drrew out a sheet of paper. Attacking it with a vengeance, her soul pouring out into the words that she wrote, as she recalled happier and almost simpler times.

My love,

It's been too long since we last met. Too long since we last loved. Too long since we last trusted one another. Too long altogether.

Last night, I received my monthly update on you and Sydney. I was compromised. It didn't end well. I was terrified when I woke this morning. When I first opened my eyes, I reached out for you and was confused as to where you were and why you had left me alone. At that instance, I rememberred. I remembered where I was, who I was, what I've done, who I've hurt. And then I broke down. I sat sobbing in bed, mourning the loss of so many things in my life; crying because I had ruined so many lives, including my own. I know you probably don't believe me, but yes, Jack, I broke down. You're the only one I can ever say these things too. You're the only one who I want to see my weaknesses, my vulnerabilities, my desires, my feelings. I felt so lost, so alone. I needed you then. I need you now.

Looking at the photographs and notes I collected from my contact before his betrayal, I studied the latest picture of Sydney; she's really grown to be quite a beautiful young woman. She has your eyes, Jack. Those deep, dark, intense orbs that can read into one's soul. She's so much like you, even though she looks like me. I'm happy she's not like me. I would never wish that on anyone, least of all my little girl. That picture of Sydney reminded me of her as a little girl. I have a picture of her from when she was six. It's one of my most prized posessions, along with a letter she wrote me. You've never seen this letter, Jack; it was left on Laura's grave.

Do you remember when we first found out that I was pregnant?

When I had first discovered that I was to have your child, I was overwhelmed by the complete joy and utter satisfaction that filled me. I had already privately acknowledged to myself that I loved you just as much, if not more, than you loved me, despite the fact that my superiors would extract me if they had known. However, I was unprepared for the absolute love and excitement that came with the doctor's call. When you came home that day, you looked dreadfully tired and worn out, your head and shoulders drooping from stress, disappointment and exhaustion. As soon as you saw me though, you almost imediately perked up, dropping your coat and briefcase, and kissing me as you picked me up and spun me around. Your eyes had that glow about them, that look that says, I love you. I told you I had a surprise for you upstairs, and practically dragged you up to our bedroom. Opening the door, your jaw dropped as you saw the room, lit only by candlelight, flower pedals strewn on the floor and on the bed. I had you sit down, and told you that I had a present for you. Lifting up my shirt, I showed the wrapping paper I had taped around my stomach. You cocked your head in that adorable little way that you do when you're thinking, and you had a puzzled look on your face. When the lightbulb finally appeared above your head, and you unwrapped me, you saw the note that said Baby Bristow. Oh Laura, you said, I'm going to be a Daddy. We didn't get out of bed until the next morning.

Jack, Sydney is the best thing that has ever happened to me, besides meeting you. Her birth was the happiest moment of my life; I had a family.

I know I don't deserve it, but I want that again. I want my family back. I want my baby girl. I want my husband. I want the man who is the sole reason I continue to live to look at me, and have something other than distrust, hatred, disgust, or anger in his eyes. Jack, I want you to know and to believe me when I tell you I love you.

And oh, how I do love you.

Always yours,

Irina

PS: When you next see Sydney, tell her how much she means to you, tell her you love her. Show her how your world revolves around her.