Chapter 31
ELLIE
“Where are we going?” I ask, standing in front of the closet in my underwear, staring at the options as though one of them might announce itself. “I need to know what to wear.”
“It’s a surprise.” He says it from the doorway, leaning against the frame with the infuriating calm of a man whose only decision is to pick a black suit to be ready for any occasion.
I give him a mocking face. He pushes off the frame and crosses the room to where I’m standing.
The closet has expanded considerably. An entire section now holds dresses I’ve never purchased, a variety of cuts and fabrics that arrived in garment bags three days ago, each one tailored to measurements I don’t remember providing. I’ve chosen not to investigate.
He reaches past me and pulls a hanger from the rack. Emerald green satin, fitted. I already know it will fit perfectly. They all do.
“Wear this. It’ll match the necklace.” He hands it to me and leaves the room without further explanation, which is very Rolan.
I put on the dress. He’s right, the match is flawless, the satin draping against my skin as though it was poured rather than sewn. The emeralds sit against my collarbone. I admire myself in the mirror, something I haven’t done in a long time.
When I step out, he’s in the bedroom, finishing the last cufflink on his left sleeve. Dark suit, no tie, the collar slightly open. He glances up as I approach, and his eyes travel over me. Slowly, a small, satisfied smile surfaces on his lips.
The heat rises in my cheeks instantly. Months of this and my body still hasn’t developed a defense against his stare.
“Ready?” he asks, as though he hasn’t just dismantled my composure with a single glance.
“Ready.”
We walk through the corridor and descend the stairs together, his hand resting at the small of my back. At the bottom, I expect him to turn left toward the garage. Instead, he steers me right.
To the sunroom.
I frown. Maybe he forgot something?
I stop in the doorway.
The room is unrecognizable. The table where Anya and I spend our mornings has vanished. In its place stands a dining table set for two, dressed in white linen.
Rich velvet curtains in deep crimson frame the glass windows, softening the room’s usual brightness into a more intimate space. Candles occupy every available surface, pillars arranged among clusters of fresh flowers whose scent fills the warm air with a sweet and faintly spiced smell.
When he said dinner, I assumed a restaurant. Somewhere outside the estate, a rare venture into the city, the kind of outing that requires armored cars and advanced security sweeps. This is — this is better. Infinitely, unexpectedly better.
“We can’t risk going out yet,” he says from behind me. His voice is quiet, close. “But I still wanted to treat you to a special night. ”
I turn to face him. The candlelight catches the planes of his jaw, the line of his collar, the green of my dress reflected in his eyes.
“It’s perfect.”
A small smirk tugs at his lips as he guides me to the table and pulls my chair out. Then he takes the seat across from me, and it’s just us at a table. On a date.
A few minutes pass before a man I don’t recognize enters the room, dressed in a chef’s whites.
“I hope you like Italian,” Rolan mentions, picking up the menu from beside his plate.
I reach for mine and open it. Every word is in Italian. I scan the options with the growing awareness that my comprehension extends to approximately two items on the entire page: spaghetti and lasagna . The rest might as well be poetry.
“ Cosa desiderate per questa sera ?” the chef asks. I raise my eyebrows.
Rolan’s gaze shifts to me. I’m still staring at the menu, trying to extract meaning from branzino al cartoccio through sheer determination.
“ Fettuccine per la signora ,” Rolan says, his Italian flowing without hesitation. “ E lasagna per me .”
It’s a shock. I figured he was fluent in Russian. But Italian too?
“You’re a man of many surprises,” I note.
His small smirk widens. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The chef nods and retreats. Moments later, wine arrives, a deep red poured with ceremony into glasses that catch the candlelight and hold it.
Now we’re alone again.
Rolan can’t stop staring.
“Gorgeous,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, playing through the elegant chain with my fingertips. “It definitely goes well with the dress. ”
“Not the necklace,” he clarifies. “You.”
I can’t help but blush.
“Thank you...”
“It was the right choice, the necklace with the dress.” His eyes hold mine. “But it won’t go with every outfit we bought. So, I made sure to buy out the jeweler’s entire stock.”
I gulp. “How many necklaces did you buy?”
“All of them.”
“Why?”
A slight grin. “For other occasions.”
My mind almost doesn’t want to grasp what he’s saying, but my heart can’t help it.
There will be other occasions.
A girl could get used to this.
The fettuccine arrives on a wide ceramic plate, the pasta glistening under a delicate cream sauce dotted with herbs. I twirl the first forkful with as much composure as the setting demands, bring it to my mouth, and immediately press my fingers against my lips to trap the moan that nearly escapes.
The flavor is extraordinary.
Rolan watches me from across the table, a quiet laugh escaping him. He picks up his knife and cuts into his lasagna.
“How is Anya doing with the lessons?” he asks eventually.
“She solved a three-digit multiplication problem in her head on Tuesday,” I tell him proudly. “I gave her eighty-four times thirty-seven as a floor exercise. I expected her to work through it on paper. She looked at the ceiling for about four seconds and gave me the answer.”
Rolan’s holding back the biggest grin. “And what’s the answer?”
“Three thousand one hundred and eight. She was correct.” I pause. “Rolan, for a six-year-old, that’s unusual. I’ve been looking at the literature on mathematical giftedness, and she fits the criteria. ”
The grin is barely contained now. He’s bursting at the seams to brag about his daughter but isn’t used to being so expressive.
It’s utterly endearing.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbles, low enough that it might just be to himself.
“Her reading comprehension is also exceptional,” I continue.
“She’s processing Charlotte’s Web at a level that’s closer to nine or ten than six.
The emotional content, especially. She asks questions that require me to actually think before I answer.
Last week she asked why Charlotte didn’t tell Wilbur she was dying, and we had a forty-minute conversation about the difference between protecting someone and deceiving them. ”
The prospective grin falters. Rolan is quiet for a moment. “What did you tell her?”
“That sometimes the most honest thing is to let someone feel safe for as long as possible. And that knowing when to tell the truth and when to protect is the hardest question people ever have to answer.” I pause.
“She thought about it for a while and then said, But doesn’t Wilbur feel more sad at the end because he didn’t know?
And I said, Yes, probably. And she said, Then maybe Charlotte should have told him.
And I said, I think you might be right.”
I try not to notice how still his expression has become. The giddiness has faded. The old Rolan is slowly returning.
“She’s extraordinary,” I say, and I mean it without complication. “She’s the most intelligent child I’ve ever worked with.”
“I know,” he says. And the way he says it, quiet, not casual, the same words he used about the food but carrying an entirely different weight, makes me look at my plate for a moment.
The implication of our conversation stirs and settles in a contemplative silence until he finally breaks it.
We talk about the book I’ve been reading.
He asks questions that suggest he’s actually listening, which is the most disarming thing about him, the way he applies the full weight of his attention to whatever I’m saying, as if what I’m saying is the most relevant information currently available to him.
The evening is just as nice. I let it be nice.
In the next three weeks, a lot happens.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon when he decides I need an entirely new wardrobe.
I’m in Anya’s room, setting up materials for the day’s lesson, when I feel him in the doorway.
“You need clothes,” he announces.
I glance down at what I’m wearing, perfectly functional jeans and a sweater that has served me well for two years. “You gave me a mountain of dresses a few weeks ago.”
“Those are for specific occasions.” He crosses his arms behind his head, leaning against the frame. “You need things for every day.”
I assume we’ll go out. That he’ll take me to a department store, or a boutique, or some high-end shopping district.
Instead, the following afternoon, a woman arrives at the estate carrying a leather portfolio and fabric swatches. She takes my measurements with efficiency, walks me through a catalog of options, and informs me the pieces will arrive within the week.
Now my side of the closet, my side in his room , is full. Everyday clothes: cashmere sweaters, perfectly fitted jeans, tank tops cut from cotton so soft I initially mistake it for silk.
After the clothes come the second set of jewelry. Then flowers, Belgian chocolates in a box so elegant I almost don’t eat them. Almost.
But I’m not naive. I’ve never been naive.
My mother used to say I was too sharp for my own good.
You see the seams before people finish sewing, Elizabeth, and one day that’s going to make your life harder than it needs to be.
She was right. And I can see this seam clearly: he’s trying to repair what happened.
Trying to smooth over the fracture, to build something over the crack so I’ll stop looking at it.