07-08-2024, 01:56 AM
Nikolai’s gaze remained steady as he observed Nesrin. The cool detachment he maintained in these encounters was a shield, one honed over years of dealing with impostors, manipulators, and those seeking to exploit his power. Yet, as she spoke, a flicker of something deeper stirred within him—an echo of memories long buried beneath the weight of his responsibilities.
Her initial words brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. “I see none of me in you. Except perhaps how you orchestrated this meeting. How did you manage it?”
The question hung in the air, laced with genuine curiosity and perhaps a hint of pride. She had managed to navigate through layers of security and protocol to reach him directly—a feat not easily accomplished. It spoke of resourcefulness, intelligence, and perhaps a touch of audacity. Traits he could admire.
Nikolai took a step closer, his expression contemplative. If she did not know the identity of your father, how would she even know where she were born? For nothing can be trusted when one hasn’t witnessed it with their own eyes.
As he studied, his mind wandered to the past. He had traveled across the globe, systematically scooping up nations and expanding his campaign. Mariam, her presence now a shadow in his memory, had been a fleeting part of that journey, but obviously memorable. She had left, slipping away from his entourage with plans he had once known but had since forgotten. The world was vast, and her path could have led anywhere.
For a moment, he allowed himself to recall her—Mariam—rather than Mari. She had been more than just a name, more than just a face in a photograph. Their time together had been brief, intense, and ultimately inconsequential in the grand scheme of his life. Yet, here was her daughter, a potential link to that past, standing before him with a claim that could unravel decades of certainty.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her, searching for any telltale signs of deceit or manipulation. But she seemed genuine, her nerves barely concealed beneath a veneer of calm. Whether she truly believed her own story or was simply an exceptional actress remained to be seen. He would know the truth soon enough.
Nikolai moved to a nearby chair, sitting down with a deliberate grace. The gesture was both an invitation and a signal that he intended to stay, to delve deeper into this mystery. “What was she like?” he replied, his tone quieter now, almost reflective, and in that question a sort of recognition settled. A daughter who did not know her mother. Death had since come for Mariam, and in a way, it made him sad.
The question held a dual purpose. It was a test of her knowledge, of course, but also an attempt to bridge the chasm of years with a sliver of shared memory. Mariam had been a part of his life, however briefly, and her memory deserved more than the cold detachment he often reserved for such matters. “Smart, certainly, and funny.” He recalled the chess games and the banter of flirtatious losing.
“I don't recall her going as Mari; I knew her as Mariam. But what is your name?”
Her initial words brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. “I see none of me in you. Except perhaps how you orchestrated this meeting. How did you manage it?”
The question hung in the air, laced with genuine curiosity and perhaps a hint of pride. She had managed to navigate through layers of security and protocol to reach him directly—a feat not easily accomplished. It spoke of resourcefulness, intelligence, and perhaps a touch of audacity. Traits he could admire.
Nikolai took a step closer, his expression contemplative. If she did not know the identity of your father, how would she even know where she were born? For nothing can be trusted when one hasn’t witnessed it with their own eyes.
As he studied, his mind wandered to the past. He had traveled across the globe, systematically scooping up nations and expanding his campaign. Mariam, her presence now a shadow in his memory, had been a fleeting part of that journey, but obviously memorable. She had left, slipping away from his entourage with plans he had once known but had since forgotten. The world was vast, and her path could have led anywhere.
For a moment, he allowed himself to recall her—Mariam—rather than Mari. She had been more than just a name, more than just a face in a photograph. Their time together had been brief, intense, and ultimately inconsequential in the grand scheme of his life. Yet, here was her daughter, a potential link to that past, standing before him with a claim that could unravel decades of certainty.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her, searching for any telltale signs of deceit or manipulation. But she seemed genuine, her nerves barely concealed beneath a veneer of calm. Whether she truly believed her own story or was simply an exceptional actress remained to be seen. He would know the truth soon enough.
Nikolai moved to a nearby chair, sitting down with a deliberate grace. The gesture was both an invitation and a signal that he intended to stay, to delve deeper into this mystery. “What was she like?” he replied, his tone quieter now, almost reflective, and in that question a sort of recognition settled. A daughter who did not know her mother. Death had since come for Mariam, and in a way, it made him sad.
The question held a dual purpose. It was a test of her knowledge, of course, but also an attempt to bridge the chasm of years with a sliver of shared memory. Mariam had been a part of his life, however briefly, and her memory deserved more than the cold detachment he often reserved for such matters. “Smart, certainly, and funny.” He recalled the chess games and the banter of flirtatious losing.
“I don't recall her going as Mari; I knew her as Mariam. But what is your name?”