learning about Yulia

You spent hours curled up on the chaise in your borrowed room, the screen of Victor’s sleek laptop glowing before you, Yulia’s voice spilling from the speakers in rapid, lilting Russian.

The material he gave you wasn’t a diary, no secret confessions scribbled in a worn notebook—just raw data. Video chats, endless recordings, email threads stretching back months. Victor had archived everything. At first it felt voyeuristic, prying into a woman’s private correspondence. But you reminded yourself this was survival. If you were going to keep your word, if you wanted even a chance of seeing Andrea and the kids again, you had to be Yulia.

The picture that emerged was surprisingly clear. Yulia was no fool. She was poor, yes, from a nowhere village, but her sharpness cut through even the static-laden video calls. A girl who’d scraped by on wit and willpower, yet cornered by circumstance. St. Petersburg had swallowed her like a glittering maw, and without education or money her options narrowed until the matchmaking agency was less choice than lifeline.

Her emails to Victor carried warmth—not quite romantic passion, but neither cold calculation. A pragmatic fondness, you decided. She wasn’t playing him; she wanted to make it work. She teased him sometimes, smiled shyly in videos, her shoulders rising in that girlish shrug you caught yourself practicing in the mirror. She laughed at his heavy jokes, looked flattered by his promises. Not quite love, but sincere in its own way.

Weirdest of all was how familiar it all began to feel. Watching her smile into the camera, hearing her accent, you’d catch yourself unconsciously tilting your head the same way, fingers brushing your lips the same way hers did. The cadence of her speech crept into your own Russian lessons until it wasn’t just words you were repeating, but her very rhythm. You’d close the laptop and walk to the vanity, only to realize your mouth was already shaping into her smirk.

Every night you whispered that name—Steve Meadows—like a prayer, an anchor. But the days blurred, and you found yourself muttering Russian under your breath without realizing it, your hips swaying with the same careless poise Yulia had once wielded.

Still, the kids, Andrea—they burned like a beacon in your chest. That was the fuel, the reason you didn’t lose yourself completely.

At the end of that week, Victor finally stayed home long enough to sit across from you at the long, dark dining table. Crystal glasses, heavy silver, lamb roasted to perfection by the cook. For once he wasn’t rushing off, wasn’t taking calls in the other room. He lounged back in his chair, expression unreadable but his eyes tracking you closely as you reached delicately for your wine glass, just as Yulia would have.

“You change much,” he said at last, tone approving. “Already you look like my fiancée.”

A flush rose to your cheeks—not entirely from the wine. You hesitated, then seized the chance.

“Victor…” Your voice trembled slightly, the accent thick. “You… you promise I see family. My wife. My children. When? Please. I… need this.”

The words felt clumsy, English faltering, Russian bleeding in at the edges. But the plea was clear.

Victor watched you for a long, uncomfortable silence, swirling his glass of red before finally answering.

“You do very well,” he said softly. “You learn Yulia. You become her. I am happy.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes hardening. “But this—your family—it is delicate.”

His smile was warm, but it carried the weight of command.

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. The lamb steamed on your plate. For the first time, you felt the gulf between wanting to see Andrea and the kids, and Victor’s timetable for when he would allow it.

And yet, beneath the fear, something more unsettling stirred: a flicker of relief. That he thought you were doing well. That he believed you. That you weren’t failing.