"Anastasia, you know this is very important for your father and me."

"You cannot mess this up."

My eyes flit from my mother's face to my father's. We stand in the grand Volkov Manor, my home for sixteen years. A few servants quietly lift my bags and shove them into moving trucks. 

My family is sending me away. Away from New York, to some dinky little town in Wisconsin called Point Place.

They try to convince me that it's for my benefit, that I would get to experience a new life that the Volkov family hasn't experienced in centuries. But a New York hotshot can't be squished into the role of a small-town girl. At least, not easily.

The real reason for my departure is my father's plan to expand his booming business empire. He's convinced that if one of his children mingles with the more average people, those with huge names in business would notice us and applaud us for our kindness. It's all an act.

I understand. My father has taught me from the start that the only way to get what you want is by fighting for it. Pulling a few strings, and manipulating your targets like puppets. 

It still hurts that I seem to be just a pawn in his game. "Kukla," he sighs, using his pet name for me. It translates to "doll" in Russian. "We love you so much, but this is necessary. We'll send you gifts. We'll mail and call you to check in." 

No, they won't.

"Nikolai will be joining you when you stop in Chicago."

That's right. Nikolai. My dear older brother. He's twenty years old, while I'm sixteen. He was deported to Chicago when he was my age. At least it's somewhat similar to home. I tell myself that as long as I get to see him, everything will be alright. He'll be closer to me, anyway. Only two hours apart by car.

"Okay," I nod firmly. "Goodbye, Papa, Mama."

I pivot and strut away from them, not looking back even once. It was dead silent except for the clacking of my black heels on the marble floor.

As soon as I take a seat in the limousine, my posture softens. I kick my shoes off and exhale lightly. After closing the panel that separates the driver and me, I lift my legs onto the seat. 

I don't care about what happens in Point Place. I'm not going there to make friends. I'm leaving home to carry on my ancestors' legacy, and possibly get drunk or have some hot sex. Maybe Wisconsin boys are cute.

I close my eyes, trying desperately to mute my thoughts as the vehicle shifts and we begin the twelve-hour ride to Chicago.