Chapter Seven
Ilona
The next morning, I stand at the wrought-iron gates of what can only be described as a fortress disguised as a home.
My jaw literally drops.
Holy shit.
I fumble for the address the woman gave me yesterday, double-checking the numbers against the gleaming plaque mounted on stone pillars that stretch up like cathedral spires.
This isn’t a house— it’s a goddamn estate.
The kind of place you see in tourism brochures, with manicured hedges and shrubs trimmed into lollipop shapes.
Through the elaborate metalwork, I can see a circular driveway paved in what looks like imported stone, curving around a fountain that belongs in a museum.
The mansion itself rises from the landscape like something out of a fairy tale, with cream-colored stone and soaring windows that catch the morning light and throw it back in brilliant, almost blinding flashes.
My stomach churns, but not from morning sickness this time. This is pure intimidation. These people live in a different universe than Mom and me, sleeping on pull-out couches and counting every dime.
The intercom crackles to life before I can even reach for the button. “Miss Katona?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Please come up to the main entrance.”
The gates swing open with a smooth, nearly silent motion that probably cost more than our entire apartment.
I walk up the driveway, my worn flats tapping against stone that looks like it’s scrubbed daily.
Up close, the mansion is even more overwhelming.
Windows soar three stories high, framed by intricate stonework that must have taken artisans months to complete.
Ivy climbs the walls in perfectly controlled patterns— even the plants here are wealthy.
The front door opens before I can knock, revealing a woman in a crisp black uniform with silver hair pulled back in an immaculate bun. The housekeeper, I assume.
“Miss Katona, welcome. I’m Mrs. Dubois. Please, follow me to the salon.”
She leads me through an entrance hall that makes me dizzy.
The ceiling disappears somewhere above my head, supported by columns that belong in a Roman temple.
But it’s the staircase that stops me cold— twin curves of white marble that sweep upward like something from a Hollywood movie, with a banister that gleams gold under the crystal chandelier hanging overhead.
I try not to gawk, but it’s impossible. Every surface screams money.
The artwork on the walls isn’t prints or reproductions— these are originals, oils that probably have their own insurance policies.
The marble floor beneath my feet is so polished I can see my reflection, distorted and small.
So damned small. I feel totally out of my depth here.
“This way, please.” Mrs. Dubois leads me through corridors lined with more art, more marble, more everything.
We pass rooms that seem to serve no purpose except to display wealth— a library with books bound in actual leather reaching to the ceiling, a dining room with a table that could seat twenty, a sitting room with furniture that looks like it belongs behind velvet ropes.
Finally, we reach what she called the salon, and I step inside to find a woman rising from a cream-colored sofa that I’m sure I’ve seen featured in a interior design magazine.
The woman is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined.
Her voice on the phone had been warm, almost maternal.
In person, she’s stunning in that artificial, untouchable way that only serious money can buy.
Not a hair out of place in her perfectly styled blonde bob, not a wrinkle in her silk blouse that drapes over a figure maintained through rigid discipline and likely a small army of personal trainers.
She may have had a baby a year ago, but there’s no sign of it.
But it’s her face that catches me off guard.
Beautiful, yes, but… wrong, somehow. Too smooth, too symmetrical.
The work is expensive— probably the best plastic surgeons money can buy— but I can see the subtle signs.
The slight tightness around her eyes, the way her forehead doesn’t move when she smiles.
“Ilona! So wonderful to meet you in person. I’m Elena Vorobeva.” She glides toward me with outstretched hands, her smile perfect and empty. “Please, sit. Can Mrs. Dubois bring you anything? Coffee? Sparkling water?”
“Coffee would be great, thank you.”
I settle onto the sofa across from her, trying not to sink too deep into cushions that feel like sitting on a cloud. Elena positions herself with the practiced grace of someone who’s been photographed her entire adult life, every angle calculated for maximum effect.
“So,” she begins, “I had a conversation with your previous employer and he had good things to say about you.”
“That’s… great,” I say, relief making me feel a little lightheaded for a second. I know Jason would never let me down, but the anxiety has been gnawing at me.
“I’ll admit, I was quite pleased,” she adds. “We’ve had other respondents, and most were just… awful.” She huffs a breath and rolls her eyes dramatically. And still, her forehead doesn’t move. “Anyway, tell me a little about yourself.”
We’re in the middle of discussing my background when I hear footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, a man enters the room with the kind of presence that immediately shifts the energy.
“Ah… darling. You’re just in time to meet the new help.” Elena smiles up at him. “This is my husband, Leonid,” she says, her voice taking on a slightly different tone— more deferential.
Everything about him screams money, from his Italian leather shoes to the way he holds himself— like someone who’s never heard the word “no” in any language.
“We need someone ASAP,” he says, cutting straight through any pleasantries.
His voice carries the particular arrogance of men who measure time in dollars and expect the world to move at their pace.
“We have to fly to our home in the Bahamas, then I have business to attend in the Cayman Islands. We’ll be away for two weeks, give or take. ”
Bahamas. Cayman Islands. Multiple homes. I try to keep my expression neutral, but inside I’m reeling. These people don’t just have money— they have fuck-you money.
“We can’t take our boy with us,” Leonid continues, and there’s something in his tone that makes my skin crawl. “He would only cause problems. You know what one-year-olds are like.” He lets out a laugh that contains zero humor. “Constant crying, nappy changes, that sort of stuff.”
The casual dismissal in his voice almost makes me flinch. Is this really how he talks about his own child? Like the baby is some inconvenient pet they can’t be bothered to travel with?
My mind races, trying to process what I’m hearing.
A one-year-old should be with his parents, especially for two weeks.
He should still be nursing, should be attached to his mother, should be the center of their universe.
But Leonid talks about him like he’s discussing a piece of luggage they can’t fit in their carry-on.
I glance at Elena, looking for some sign of maternal warmth, some indication that she disagrees with her husband’s cold assessment.
But she just sits there, perfectly composed, her red manicured nails— easily an inch long— drumming against her coffee cup.
Those nails tell me everything I need to know.
There’s no way she’s ever changed a diaper, no way she’s ever held a crying baby against her chest at three in the morning.
The thought of her kissing her son goodnight seems impossible— it would smudge her perfectly applied lipstick.
“Can you start immediately?” Leonid asks, leaning forward slightly. “We’ll give you a bonus to be on call 24 hours a day.”
When he names the figure, my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. It’s probably more than some people see in a year. For two weeks of work.
I force myself to stay professional, to not let the desperation show in my voice. “That’s… very generous. Yes, I can start immediately.”
“Excellent.” Elena stands with fluid grace, smoothing down her skirt.
“Can I meet him?” I ask, surprised by how much I want to see this child they talk about like an inconvenience.
“Of course. Let’s go.” Elena’s smile is bright and empty. “I’ll show you to his room.”
We climb the marble staircase, my hand sliding along the golden banister as I try not to think about how much this single architectural feature probably cost. The second floor is just as opulent as the first— more art, more perfectly arranged furniture, more evidence of wealth that borders on the obscene.
Elena stops at a door painted in soft blue and pushes it open. “Here we are.”
The nursery takes my breath away, but not in the way the rest of the house has.
This room is beautiful— walls painted in soothing sky blue, with clouds drifting across the ceiling like something from a dream.
Toys are arranged in perfect heaps, everything color-coordinated and expensive-looking.
A rocking chair sits by the window, upholstered in cream silk that’s probably never been used.
It’s a showroom, a perfect Instagram post of what a wealthy baby’s room should look like.
But there’s something cold about it, something that makes my chest tighten. It’s too perfect, too pristine. Like no real baby has ever lived here, just a doll placed for photos.
In the center of it all sits a crib that’s a vision of white lacquer and intricate carvings. And inside…
My heart stops.
A tiny body lies on his stomach, playing with a soft toy, making those sweet baby sounds that seem to echo in the vast, beautiful room. He’s maybe thirteen or fourteen months old, with dark hair that curls at the ends and skin that glows with health.
But it’s his eyes that undo me completely.
When he looks up at the sound of our voices, his gaze finds mine and locks there.
For a moment that stretches between heartbeats, everything else fades away— Elena’s artificial warmth, the oppressive wealth of this house, even my own fears about the future.
There’s something in his gray eyes, something that reaches straight into my chest and squeezes.
Recognition. That’s the only word for it. Like he’s been waiting for me, like some part of him knew I was coming.
How can someone so small be so heartbreakingly sweet? The thought hits me with surprising force, followed immediately by another one that makes my throat tighten: This tiny little boy is completely alone.
I can see it in the way he plays by himself, in the careful distance Elena maintains as she speaks about him, in the clinical way his father dismissed him as an inconvenience. He’s surrounded by every luxury money can buy, but he’s starving for the one thing that can’t be purchased.
Love.
He needs love. Desperately.
The maternal instinct that hits me is so fierce and immediate it leaves me breathless.
My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach, to the tiny life growing there, and suddenly I understand something fundamental about what it means to protect a child.
Not just to feed them and change them and keep them safe, but to love them with every fiber of your being.
This beautiful boy has parents who see him as an obligation, as something to be managed rather than cherished. The thought makes me want to scoop him up right now, to hold him close and whisper that someone in this world thinks he’s precious.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I say softly, stepping closer to the crib.
He stares at me with those impossibly dark eyes, his little fist wrapped around his toy, and I swear I see something pass between us. A connection that defies logic, a feeling that we somehow belong in each other’s lives.
I smile at him, the first genuine smile I’ve felt in weeks, and turn to Elena.
“I think we’ll get along just fine,” I tell her, and I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in months.
“Wonderful!” Elena’s perfect smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You can start tomorrow morning at eight. Oh,” she pauses at the doorway, as if remembering something trivial, “I almost forgot. The boy’s name is Slava.”