She hated every inch of that room. She hated the gold, the hated the view. She hated the books, she hated the decoration. She even hated the sheets: they were more comfortable than anything she had ever slept in before, but they were cold, they were lonely. They reminded her of everything that she wishes to forget. Anna tilts her head slightly, pretending that his words didn’t hit a place inside of her, memories of simpler times (of times that would never return). “You should know better, Dimitri. I’m not the same person in every circumstance. I evolve. I survive.” She’s no one. She is everyone and no one at the same time. She can become whoever she wants to become. She can shed her skin (and lose a piece of herself) and transform. (It’s all a game, you see. When she’s alone, she’s Anna Ivanov, but when she’s with them, she ought to be SCARLETT LEFURGEY.)

            She’s not paying enough attention - that’s a lie: she’s paying attention to every word, to every syllable, holding on them as tightly as possible, and it burns. every single word that comes out of his lips is like a knife digging into her chest. does he believe in the words he say? has she given so much of herself for the americans (it’s a good cause, isn’t it? it’s for them. it’s all for them) that she has become, truly, one of them? has she sold herself so cheaply to the very thing she hates the most in the world? -  and that’s why she falls, body clashing against the floor as he holds her legs tightly. She grunts as he pulls her body and pins her down against the floor. Anna digs her fingers into his hair, pulling it as strongly as she possibly can as she tries to restore some of the mobility of her legs. Dimitri has always been stronger. She lets go of his hair, digging her nails into his cheek and hoping they draw blood.