“So—Verа. One year and six months. Mine.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms across my chest, holding the block. The last word sounds nothing like a question—more like a statement—so I nod and confirm.
“Perfect,” Yaroslav exhales loudly.
Nervous trembling runs through my body. I still can’t tell what emotions Zharov feels about this news. Is he dissatisfied? Angry? Irritated? There’s definitely no joy in his voice.
“I have a daughter, Vera. She was born in Canada, correct?” Yar asks.
“Correct.”
“No arguing with that,” he gives an unpleasant smirk. “I’m just curious—what were you planning to tell Vera in the future? Where is her father? Why doesn’t he take care of her? Who is he? A drug addict? An alcoholic? A dead pilot?”
“I never planned to lie to my daughter about you. I was never going to.”