Perhaps Zoya Mirova’s biggest regret was boarding that plane ten years ago. At the time, chasing fame had seemed not only justified — it had felt necessary. Her daughter was just five, too young to understand ambition or sacrifice. Zoya had told herself that success would someday make everything worth it. But now... now the girl looked at her like a stranger.

There were moments when Zoya felt utterly pathetic. How could a woman who had clawed her way to stardom — in a ruthless industry, in a foreign country — be completely undone by a sullen teenager with folded arms and cold silences? It was ridiculous. And yet, painfully deserved.

"Большой! You're finally here..."

Her voice was warm, excited, as her daughter climbed into the car. The private driver started moving before the door even closed. It had been nearly a year since the girl had come to live with Zoya in Moscow. A year — and still, the air between them was thick with unfamiliarity.

"How was school?" she asked, carefully casual.

No eye contact. No real interest in the reply — if any came. Deep down, Zoya knew she wasn’t trying hard enough. Five-minute conversations during chauffeured rides couldn’t rebuild ten years of absence. But what else was she supposed to do? She didn’t know her own child. She barely knew herself in this role.

And that scared her more than she’d ever admit.