Chapter Text
There was a very specific circle of hell, and Ilya Rozanov was certain it smelled like burnt sugar, wet leaves, and overpriced artisan candles.
Thursday nights in Boston were supposed to be sacred.
After forty hours of spreadsheets, risk assessment models, and pretending to care about Vanguard Financial Consulting’s quarterly growth margins, Ilya wanted exactly three things:
a stiff drink, his couch, and silence.
Instead, he was being dragged through a crowded autumn street fair by the unstoppable force of nature known as Svetlana.
“You are walking too slowly,” Svetlana announced, grabbing his coat sleeve and pulling him toward a stall overflowing with decorative gourds. “We have to see the cider pressing.”
“I have seen cider being pressed,” Ilya said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “It is just apples being crushed. I do not understand why people are paying thirty dollars to watch fruit die.”
“Because it is autumn,” she said brightly. “And we are young professionals enjoying the vibrant cultural tapestry of our city. Do not ruin my aesthetic with your depression.”
“Your aesthetic is going to give me pneumonia.”
Svetlana ignored him, which was her preferred response to most of his complaints.
She stood beneath the fairy lights with a cup of mulled wine that probably cost more than Ilya’s monthly subway pass, looking perfectly at home among the crowds.
Ilya felt like a hostage.
“Look at this,” Svetlana demanded, pointing at a booth selling miniature wooden bears. “Look how rustic. I am going to buy five.”
“You live in a high-rise apartment made entirely of glass and steel,” Ilya pointed out. “If you put a rustic wooden bear in your living room, the building itself will reject it.”
“You have zero joy in your heart,” Svetlana informed him, stepping up to inspect a wooden bear holding a tiny axe. “Go find us something to eat. I require a waffle.”
Ilya opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and turned toward the crowd.
The cold bit through his coat immediately.
Around him, the fair was loud and packed shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists, fairy lights, and college students taking selfies with a giant pumpkin.
Miserable.
He turned to complain about the complete absence of waffle stands, took two quick steps, and walked directly into someone.
Solid chest. Dark wool coat. Broad shoulders.
Ilya stumbled back, apology already forming-
then looked up.
Shane Hollander.
Of course.
Shane looked infuriatingly perfect.
Even outside the office, without the crisp suits and unbearable power ties, Shane still looked like he belonged in a catalog for rich men named William. Tailored navy overcoat. Dark hair pushed around by the wind in a way that somehow made him look better.
Irritating.
Vanguard Financial had hired them two years ago, and since then they had disagreed on nearly everything.
Shane was polished, diplomatic, adored by management.
Ilya was better at his job.
Shane blinked, steadying himself after the collision. Surprise crossed his face briefly before settling into visible irritation.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he said flatly.
“Believe me,” Ilya shot back, straightening his coat, “the feeling is mutual.”
“Is there a reason you are trying to tackle me in public,” Shane asked, crossing his arms, “or is being a menace to society just your weekend hobby?”
“I was walking,” Ilya said coldly. “Maybe if you were not blocking the entire path with your ego, this would not have happened.”
Hayden Pike appeared beside Shane holding two cups of hot chocolate. He looked at Ilya, then at Shane, and immediately started laughing.
“No way,” Hayden said. “Do you two have tracking devices on each other?”
“It feels like a curse,” Shane muttered.
He still was not looking directly at Ilya. Just one exhausted shake of his head before he grabbed Hayden’s elbow.
“Let’s go. The air just got incredibly toxic over here.”
“See you on Monday, Rozanov,” Hayden called cheerfully as Shane dragged him back into the crowd.
Ilya stared after them, jaw tight.
Unbelievable.
He marched back to Svetlana, having completely forgotten about the waffles.
“Do you know who is here,” Ilya demanded.
Svetlana set the wooden bear back on the table. “Let me guess. The love of your life.”
“Do not start with me,” Ilya warned. “Shane is here. He practically ran into me and somehow acted like it was my fault. The man is a menace.”
“You are obsessed with him.”
“I despise him.”
“You were probably staring at his mouth again,” Svetlana said casually, linking her arm through his.
“I have never stared at his mouth in my entire life,” Ilya lied smoothly.
“You absolutely do. You look at him like you either want to punch him or climb him like a tree. Frankly, the sexual tension is exhausting. The entire finance department is exhausted.”
“There is no tension,” Ilya said. “Only pure, unadulterated hatred.”
“Whatever you say, darling.”
Svetlana stopped abruptly, dragging him in front of a large velvet tent tucked between a fudge stand and a booth selling leather belts.
“Oh,” she said. “We are doing this.”
Ilya looked up at the sign.
Madam Rose Landry: Truths, Futures, and Clear Sight.
The air smelled aggressively of patchouli and melting wax.
“No,” Ilya said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” Svetlana insisted. “I need spiritual guidance. My portfolio has been underperforming all week.”
“Your portfolio is underperforming because the tech sector is collapsing,” Ilya said. “Not because your chakras are blocked.”
“It is twenty dollars.”
“It is fraud.”
“And if I get cursed,” Svetlana continued, dragging him toward the tent, “I want you to share the burden.”
Before Ilya could argue further, she disappeared through the velvet curtains.
Muttering something deeply offensive in Russian, Ilya followed.
The inside of the tent was exactly as ridiculous as he expected.
Red candles. Crystals. Silk-covered table. Heavy patchouli in the air.
Behind the table sat a woman shuffling tarot cards with the lazy confidence of a blackjack dealer.
She was beautiful, sharply dressed, covered in gold jewelry, and looked absolutely nothing like the ancient mystic Ilya had been hoping to mock.
Disappointing.
This had to be Rose Landry.
“Welcome,” Rose said. Her voice was husky and theatrical. She did not look up from the cards.“Sit. The spirits are very loud tonight.”
“The spirits are probably drunk on overpriced cider,” Ilya muttered, crossing his arms.
Rose stopped shuffling.
Slowly, she looked up at him.
The stare was not spooky. Just intensely focused, like she was cataloging every single one of his flaws alphabetically.
“Your aura,” Rose said smoothly, “is giving me a migraine.”
Svetlana burst out laughing as she dropped into one of the chairs. “I like her. Do me first.”
Rose spread the cards across the silk table.
“Pick three.”
Svetlana obeyed immediately.
Ilya leaned against one of the tent poles, fully prepared for vague nonsense and financial manipulation.
Rose flipped over the first card.
“You are carrying the weight of a man’s incompetence,” she said. “A man in a suit. Terrible haircut. Recently took credit for your presentation.”
Svetlana gasped. “Oh my god. Cliff from accounting.”
“He will spill coffee on himself next Tuesday,” Rose continued calmly.
She tapped the second card.
“You are considering buying a piece of art that looks like a geometric disaster. Do not buy it. It will clash with your rug.”
“How do you know about the rug?” Svetlana whispered.
“I know many things.”
Rose flipped the final card and smiled faintly.
“You will get the promotion in February. Stop worrying about the firm. They need you more than you need them.”
Svetlana looked ready to hand over her entire retirement fund.
Ilya rolled his eyes.
“Very impressive,” he said dryly. “Cold reading is a fascinating psychological trick. You noticed the corporate badge under her scarf, guessed she deals with incompetent men because everyone does, and clocked the modern art obsession from the asymmetrical coat.”
Rose slowly turned toward him.
She looked deeply annoyed.
“Sit down, skeptic,” Rose commanded.
“I am not paying twenty dollars for you to tell me I am going to have a long, prosperous life,” Ilya replied.
“I am not charging you,” Rose said. “I am doing this out of spite. Sit.”
Svetlana grabbed Ilya by the coat and yanked him down into the empty chair beside her.
“Do not be rude to the magical woman, Ilya. She knows about Cliff.”
Ilya sighed but sat anyway, resting his hands against the edge of the table.
“Fine,” he said dryly. “Tell me about my future.”
Rose did not ask him to pick cards.
Instead, she reached across the table and took his right hand. Her grip was surprisingly warm, heavy with rings. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, her stare locked directly onto his.
A cold prickle ran slowly down the back of Ilya’s neck.
“You are exhausted,” Rose said quietly. The theatrical edge in her voice had vanished completely. “You fight constantly. You pick arguments because it is easier to make people angry than it is to let them close.”
“A very generic assessment of defense mechanisms,” Ilya countered, though something in his chest tightened unpleasantly. “Try again.”
Rose narrowed her eyes.
“You refuse to see people clearly,” she said. “Someone keeps reaching for you, and you keep slapping their hand away because you think everyone is holding a knife.”
“This is getting dramatic,” Ilya said, pulling his hand back. “I assure you, no one is reaching out to me. And if they are, they probably need help fixing a spreadsheet.”
Rose leaned back in her chair, gold bracelets clinking softly against each other.
She still looked deeply unimpressed.
“You think you are clever,” Rose said flatly. “You think everyone is lying to you. You think the whole world is wearing a mask.”
“I think the whole world is trying to survive the corporate ladder,” Ilya corrected. “And yes, people lie. It is human nature. If you are telling fortunes, you should probably know that.”
Rose stared at him for a long moment.
The candle flames flickered higher.
Probably a draft.
“Fine,” Rose said at last. Her voice carried a strange ringing quality now, sharp enough to make Ilya’s teeth ache. “Since you think everyone lies, maybe it is time you heard what people are actually thinking.”
Ilya barked out a laugh.
“Are you cursing me?”
“I am giving you exactly what you asked for.”
Rose swept one hand over the tarot cards, gathering them neatly back into a stack.
“Now get out of my tent. You are ruining the vibes.”
“Come on,” Svetlana whispered, already pulling him to his feet. “Thank you, Madam Rose. Have a wonderful night.”
They stepped back out into the cold autumn air.
Ilya took one deep breath, trying to shake off the strange heaviness of the tent.
“Well,” he said, straightening his coat, “that was a complete waste of time.”
“She knew about Cliff,” Svetlana insisted. “And the rug. Ilya, that was weird.”
“She was an observant scam artist with excellent theatrics,” Ilya replied. “And she cursed me like a Disney villain. I am going home before a poisoned apple falls out of the sky.”
“You are no fun.”
“I have been told.”
He left Svetlana in line for waffles and headed toward the subway station alone.
The encounter with Shane had already ruined his mood. Rose Landry had somehow made it worse.
The cold bit through his scarf as he descended into the humid underground of the T station, surrounded by crowds heading toward bars, restaurants, or home.
The platform was packed.
The train arrived with a metallic screech.
Ilya stepped inside and grabbed the overhead railing near the center doors.
At the next stop, another wave of passengers shoved into the car, pressing everyone shoulder-to-shoulder.
The train lurched sharply forward.
Someone beside Ilya lost their balance and grabbed onto his arm.
Instantly, a voice exploded inside his head.
I really need to call my mother back.
Ilya froze.
He looked around wildly.
No one was speaking.
The man let go of his arm with a quick, distracted, “Sorry, man.”
Ilya just stared at him.
The silence in his head was suddenly deafening.
Slowly, he looked down at his own arm.
Then back at the stranger.
Cold spread heavily through his stomach as the scent of patchouli drifted faintly through the subway car.
Fuck.