Chapter Nine
Ilona
I stand before the imposing front door of the Vorobev mansion, trying not to feel overwhelmed.
The entrance looms above me like something from a European palace— carved stone archways, brass fixtures that gleam like gold in the morning light, and windows so tall they could house entire families.
My sports bag feels heavier than it should, weighted with two weeks’ worth of clothes and the enormity of what I’m about to do.
The brass knocker is cold against my knuckles as I announce my arrival, the sound echoing through the cavernous rooms beyond. I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly conscious of my simple jeans and sweater against the backdrop of such obvious wealth.
Elena opens the door like she’s been waiting behind it, and I’m struck by how overdressed she is for what should be a simple handover.
Her designer dress— something that looks like it comes straight out of the pages of Vogue — clings to her perfectly sculpted frame like liquid silk.
The champagne color makes her blonde hair shine like spun gold, and her makeup is so flawless it looks airbrushed.
Every line, every contour is deliberate perfection.
Once again, I’m struck by how little she looks like a mom.
Behind her, Leonid adjusts his Armani suit jacket with the ease of a man who’s never worn anything off the rack.
His movements are calculated, precise— the gestures of someone who knows exactly how much his appearance costs and what statement it makes.
They both look like they’re heading to a red-carpet event, not leaving their one-year-old son with a nanny.
The disparity makes my stomach clench with something I can’t quite name.
Poor little kid.
“Ilona, good you’re here.” Elena’s smile is brittle, stretched thin across her face like expensive wrapping paper.
Her eyes— ice blue and sharp— are already distant, focused on something beyond me.
She glances at her diamond-encrusted watch— a Cartier that is obviously the real deal— and the gesture is so practiced it’s clearly habitual.
“We have exactly fifteen minutes before the car arrives.”
The urgency in her voice sets my teeth on edge. This is their child we’re talking about, not a business meeting. I want to ask her what happens if Slava needs something after those fifteen minutes are up, but the words stick in my throat.
“Of course,” I manage instead, following her inside.
The interior of their home is a monument to excess— crystal chandeliers that catch and scatter light like trapped rainbows, Persian rugs that probably have more history than most museums, and art that I recognize from my father’s old auction catalogs.
Everything screams money, but whispers nothing about warmth or love.
The air itself feels expensive, heavy with the scent of fresh flowers that someone clearly arranged this morning.
Yet again, I’m struck by the wealth of their world. The ceilings soar above us, painted with intricate moldings that must have taken months to complete. It’s beautiful in an intimidating way, like a museum where you’re afraid to touch anything.
“Kitchen,” Elena says, flicking a manicured hand toward a door as she leads me through a tour that feels more like a military briefing.
Her Louboutins tap smartly as she moves briskly ahead of me.
“Lights—press this button, don’t touch the others.
The others control the wine cellar temperature and the security system.
Slava’s bottles are in the fridge, pre-made for today.
Formula instructions are on the counter. ”
Formula. It doesn’t surprise me. This woman would never breastfeed.
I follow her through rooms that feel more like showpieces than living spaces.
Each one is perfectly coordinated, from the throw pillows that have never been disturbed to the books arranged more for color than content.
The kitchen is pristine; granite countertops that span for yards and stainless-steel appliances that look like they’ve never been used.
There’s a children’s high-chair pushed into the corner, but it feels almost out of place among all the adult sophistication— like someone remembered at the last minute that a child lives here.
“Bathroom here.” She gestures dismissively at a cavernous powder room that’s larger than the entire apartment I share with my mother.
Italian marble, gold fixtures, a mirror that takes up an entire wall.
“As we showed you previously, his room is upstairs, second door. Night routine is written out— bath at seven, bottle at seven-thirty, bed by eight. He’s very good, sleeps through the night. ”
The way she says it makes it sound like an achievement in obedience rather than the normal sleep pattern of a healthy baby. My chest tightens with each clinical instruction.
Leonid appears beside us, checking his phone with the irritated expression of a man running late for something more important than his son. His fingers move across the screen, and I catch glimpses of what looks like stock prices and meeting schedules. “Elena, the car will be here in ten minutes.”
“I know, I know.” She waves him off but picks up the pace, her heels clicking faster now. “Emergency numbers are on the refrigerator. Pediatrician, hospital, our hotel. Though we’ll be unreachable most of the time— business meetings, you understand.”
I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you leave a baby for two weeks without looking back. I don’t understand how you can speak about your child like he’s a business obligation. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
“Questions?” Elena asks, but she’s already moving toward the door, her attention fractured between me and whatever glamorous life awaits her in the next two weeks.
She’s checking her purse now, making sure she has her passport, her phone, her life that exists entirely separate from the little boy upstairs.
“What about his toys? His favorite foods? What makes him laugh?” The questions tumble out before I can stop them. “Does he have any comfort items besides the teddy bear? What songs does he like? How does he usually wake up from naps?”
Elena pauses mid-step, and for a moment, she looks genuinely confused.
Like she’s never considered that her son might have preferences beyond basic survival needs.
Her perfectly sculpted brow furrows just slightly, creating the faintest line in her flawless makeup.
I bet she’d fire her botox doctor if she knew there was a furrow.
“He’s… easy. Not fussy. The bottles, the schedule— that’s all he needs.” Her voice carries the dismissive certainty of someone who’s never spent more than an hour alone with their child. “The housekeeper usually handles the details.”
The dismissal in her voice makes my chest tight. That’s not all any child needs, but before I can say anything, a car horn sounds from outside— two sharp blasts that echo through the mansion’s rooms.
“That’s us.” Leonid appears with two designer suitcases, his relief tangible. He moves with the energy of someone finally escaping an obligation. “Ready, darling?”
Elena nods, grabbing her purse— an Hermès Birkin that I once saw in an episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. The leather is butter-soft, the hardware gleaming like jewelry.
“Slava is still sleeping, but I can see you’ll be perfectly fine with our son.” The words are thrown over her shoulder as she heads for the door, like an afterthought. Like reassuring herself more than me.
They don’t kiss him goodbye. They don’t even look toward the stairs where he’s sleeping. They just… leave.
And just like that, they’re gone. The limo pulls away with them inside— a sleek black beast with an engine that purrs— leaving me standing in their opulent foyer, surrounded by cold marble and the echoing silence of their absence.
Wow, I think, watching their car disappear down the tree-lined drive. They didn’t even wait for their son to wake up before leaving him for two weeks with a stranger.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone. I’ve barely met this baby, but my heart already breaks for him. What kind of parents are so eager to escape their own child?
The house feels different without them— larger somehow, and eerily quiet.
Without Elena’s expensive heels and Leonid’s phone calls, the silence is almost oppressive.
I find my way to the sitting room, where multiple baby monitors are positioned like security cameras.
The screens show different angles of Slava’s nursery in crystal-clear high definition, and there he is— a tiny figure in a crib that looks enormous around him.
He’s sleeping peacefully, one small fist curled around a teddy bear that’s almost as big as he is.
The bear is well-loved, I notice— not pristine like everything else in this house.
Its fur is slightly matted in places, one ear more chewed than the other.
But even in sleep, there’s something about his posture that breaks my heart.
He’s clutching that bear like it’s his anchor, like it’s the only constant thing in his small world.
Is this what an unimaginable amount of money does to people?
The question echoes in my mind as I watch him on the monitor. I think about my own father— how he used to sing me to sleep every night, how he knew exactly which book would make me laugh, how he never missed a bedtime even when he was exhausted from surgery.
Does it make you forget that your child needs more than a schedule and a bottle?