I let my hand drop. The dry, red blood almost stained the white tablecloth. In the ballroom of the “Grand Hotel,” the air was heavy with lilies and sweet perfume, suffocating and intoxicating at once. Valerij Pavlovich Kotov flaunted his wealth without restraint.
Five million for a single evening—so that everyone understood: Kotov was still in full power.“Smile, Agata. At least don’t be angry now,” murmured my brother Denis as he walked past me.Denis was flawlessly composed. Light hair, broad shoulders, a jaw like our father’s.
Beside him, Inna—our younger sister, whose photos collected likes on the Internet like snowflakes—radiated. Both perfectly mirrored our father.And me? Small, dark eyes, hair in eternal chaos. In the middle, among strangers who tolerated me only politely.
“And now the word for the celebrant!” called the host.My father stood up, adjusted his tie. Silence fell over the room.“Friends, colleagues,” he began in his deep bass, “sixty-five years is a respectable age. I have built houses, managed businesses. But the most important—my children.
Denis, my deputy, my support. Inna, the soul of the family.”His gaze lingered on me. Sharp, assessing.“And Agata. Our… artist.” Someone giggled in the room. “Always with paint, always in some basement. Well, every family has its quirks. I gave her everything so she would be provided for, even if it was of little use.
But I am a father; I hold everything together.”My lungs burned. For thirty years I had waited for something else. Not alms. But for these simple words: “I am proud of you.”Everything changed six months ago, when my mother went to the hospital. A routine check revealed something unexpected.
The specialist looked at me for a long time, then at my mother’s records.“Agata Valeryevna, something isn’t right here. According to the test results, there is no blood relation between you and your parents. Biology doesn’t lie.”I left the clinic, dazed, my head pounding.
At home, I opened the hidden compartment in my mother’s desk. An old photo: a young man, chestnut hair, sly eyes. On the back it read: “Artur. Tver. 1994.”“He was a master, a restorer,” my mother explained when I could hardly contain my questions. “Your father was in Siberia for a year at the time.
I was alone… Artur knew nothing. And Valerij… he saw everything immediately when you came from the hospital. But he kept silent. To him, you were a flaw, a reminder that not everything is controllable.”I stood up. The chair scraped loudly across the floor.
“Dad, may I say a few words?” I reached for the microphone.My father’s face twisted, but he dared not cause a scene in front of the guests.“Fine, daughter. Say something meaningful.”My hands trembled, but my voice was steady:“You said I was the quirk of this family. That I was a ‘drag.’”
“Agata, sit down,” Denis hissed from the front row.“‘You are a disgrace to the family!’” I repeated what he had said a month ago when I refused to let him use my workshop. “You showed everyone. You said I didn’t deserve your name.”Silence like a grave. Even the ventilation seemed to stop working.
“Today I brought you a gift. The most honest one of your life.”I pulled an envelope from my pocket and dropped it on the table in front of him.“Here is a lab report. Last week, I took your hair from your jacket. Black on white: you are not my father. Zero percent match. And you know what? It only makes me feel better.”
My father turned pale, his face contorted.“You… what are you doing?” he stammered.“I’m letting you go. You don’t have to pretend to be a loving dad anymore. You don’t have to pay me—I’ll handle everything myself. My mother revealed everything. My real father was a creator. He didn’t destroy people.”
I took the keys with the massive keychain from my pocket.“In the parking lot is a GAZ-21 ‘Volga.’ Black, like new. I restored it myself for a year and a half. Every bolt is genuine. I wanted to show you that I can create too.”The keys landed in his palm. He loved such cars. His eyes lit up.
“But you are a stranger to me. Just a cold person. So I’ll take the car. It’s too perfect to stand next to your soulless metal pieces.”I walked toward the exit.“Have a nice evening, everyone. It won’t be boring.”Outside, the “Volga” waited. Among the imported luxury cars, it looked like a queen.
I got in. The scent of old leather, oil, and road filled the interior.The engine roared to life with a deep sound. The headlights cut through the darkness.My phone vibrated. “Father.”I looked at the screen and turned it off.Ahead lay Tver. Artur’s sister lived there, the one I found online. She was waiting for me.
I pressed the gas. In the rearview mirror, the lights faded—the false speeches, and a man who had tried to erase me for thirty years.I was no longer a Kotova. I was myself. And it was the right decision.She calls her daughter. She says, “Hi Mom, I’m busy.” No response. They just communicate—only a like in reply.