Chapter Eleven
Ilona
Two weeks have dissolved into something I never expected— a rhythm of small hands reaching for mine, tiny giggles echoing through marble halls, and the devastating realization that I’ve fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a child who isn’t mine.
Slava has carved himself into the hollow spaces of my heart with the efficiency of a surgeon, filling voids I didn’t even know existed. Every morning when he wakes, those eyes— too knowing for a one-year-old— search for my face first. Not his mother’s. Not his father’s.
Mine.
The fact that he doesn’t seem to register their absence should break something inside me. Instead, it just makes me hold him tighter.
“Ma-ma,” he babbles against my shoulder as I carry him through the garden, his chubby fingers tangled in my hair. The word pierces through me every time, sweet and sharp as a blade between ribs.
“Shh, little one,” I whisper, adjusting his weight against my hip. “Let’s see if the roses are blooming.”
The estate’s manicured gardens are golden in the morning light. Slava points at a butterfly with the concentrated focus of someone discovering fire, his whole body vibrating with excitement. When it lands on a nearby flower, he releases the most delighted squeal I’ve ever heard.
This is what happiness looks like, I think, watching his face transform with wonder. Pure, uncomplicated joy.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the moment. Elena’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach immediately knots.
“Hello,” I answer, settling Slava on a garden bench beside me. He immediately begins exploring the texture of the wrought iron with his tiny fingers.
“Ilona, darling!” Elena’s voice is artificially bright and three octaves too high. There’s loud music in the background— something electronic and expensive-sounding. “How’s everything going?”
Everything. As if Slava is just another household item to be maintained.
I can picture her perfectly— yesterday’s video call showed her lounging by an infinity pool, her body wrapped in designer swimwear that left little to the imagination.
Her skin was flawlessly sun-kissed, her hair styled in beachy waves that looked effortless but definitely weren’t.
She’d looked stunning, untouchable— like a woman who’d never changed a diaper or rocked a baby to sleep.
The first thing she probably did after giving birth was book appointments for liposuction and a breast augmentation to erase any evidence that she’d ever carried a child.
“He’s doing wonderfully,” I say, watching as Slava tries to fit his entire fist in his mouth. “We just finished breakfast, and now we’re—”
“Fantastic! And the monitors are working? The Wi-Fi hasn’t been cutting out?”
I pause, waiting for her to ask about something that actually matters. About whether he’s been sleeping through the night, or if he’s started saying any new words, or if he’s been missing them at all.
Nothing.
“Everything’s working perfectly,” I manage.
“Perfect! Oh, Leonid wants to say hello. Leo!” Her voice becomes distant as she calls to him. I can hear the clink of glasses, the splash of water— probably a pool— and the kind of careless laughter that only comes from people who’ve never had to worry about anything real.
Slava looks up at me, his eyes full of trust, and my chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to rage.
“Ilona?” Leonid’s voice comes through, smoother than Elena’s but equally detached. “Everything’s running smoothly there?”
“Yes, sir. Slava’s been an angel.”
“Good, good. Listen, we’ve had a slight change of plans.” He pauses, and I can hear him taking a sip of something. “We were supposed to fly home tomorrow, but we’ve decided to make a quick stop in Hawaii first. Check on the house there, you know how it is.”
No, I want to say. I don’t know how it is to own multiple houses scattered across the globe while your baby learns to walk without you there to see it.
“Can you stay two extra nights? I’ll make it worth your while, of course.”
In the background, I hear Elena’s voice, shrill with laughter: “Leo! Put the phone down, she’ll be fine with Slava! Come here for the group photo!”
My eyebrows climb toward my hairline before I can stop them. A group photo. Their child’s caregiver is discussing logistics while they pose for Instagram.
“Of course,” I hear myself saying. “That’s no problem.”
“Excellent! And Ilona?” His voice drops, taking on that particular tone rich people use when they’re about to make an offer they think you can’t refuse. “When we get back, let’s discuss you staying on permanently. Long-term arrangement. Very generous compensation.”
Permanent. I pull in a breath. The idea of watching Slava grow up while his parents treat him like an expensive accessory, of being the only one who sees his first steps, hears his first real words, comforts him when he’s scared…
“We’ll talk when you return,” I say carefully.
“Perfect! Enjoy the sunshine, Ilona!”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the phone like it might explode. Slava makes a questioning sound, reaching for the device with grabby hands.
“No, baby,” I murmur, sliding the phone back into my pocket. “That’s not a toy.”
He immediately loses interest, distracted by a leaf that’s fallen near his feet. He picks it up clumsily, turning it over in his small hands before offering it to me like a gift.
“Thank you,” I whisper, accepting the leaf with all the solemnity the moment deserves. “It’s beautiful.”
His smile could power the entire estate.
How do they not see this? I wonder, watching him clap his hands together in delight. How do they not see how magnificent he is?
That evening, after Slava’s bath— where he splashed with such enthusiasm that I’m soaked through my shirt— I tuck him into his crib in his impossibly perfect nursery.
It’s a little less clinical now. I’ve tried to warm it up over the past two weeks.
Added a soft blanket that actually looks like it belongs to a child rather than a museum display.
On the wall, I’ve taped up a series of splashy hand paintings we made together.
“Sleep tight, little love,” I whisper, smoothing his dark hair back from his forehead.
He looks up at me with those serious eyes, like he’s trying to memorize my face. My throat closes.
Don’t get too attached, I warn myself. This isn’t your life.
But watching him drift toward sleep, his tiny fist curled around the corner of his blanket, I can’t imagine walking away from him. Can’t imagine letting him wake up one morning to find another stranger tasked with keeping him alive while his parents jet-set around the world.
Once I’m certain he’s asleep, I pad downstairs to the kitchen and dial my mother’s number. The phone rings four times before she answers— longer than usual.
“Darling?” Her voice is soft, warm with affection, and immediately I feel something in my chest unclench.
“Hi, Mom.” I settle back in the chair, already feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, my love. Tell me about your work. Are they treating you well?”
The difference is immediate and stark. Where Elena asked about monitors and Wi-Fi, my mother asks about my well-being. Where Leonid discussed logistics while Elena posed poolside for social media pics, Mom wants to know if I’m happy.
“It’s… complicated,” I admit, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. “Slava is the most wonderful little boy. So darn cute, and when he laughs…” I trail off, surprised by the emotion in my own voice.
“You love him,” she says simply.
“I do.” The admission slips out, almost surprising me. “I love him so much it scares me. And his parents…” I struggle for words that won’t sound too harsh. “They’re extending their vacation. Two more days in Hawaii.”
My mother makes a small sound of disapproval. She’s never been one to judge other people’s parenting openly, but I can hear her thoughts in that tiny noise.
“He’s lucky to have you,” she says finally.
“For now.” I press my free hand against my stomach, still not quite believing there’s life growing there. “Anyhow, there was something—”
I’m about to tell her I’ll be staying longer when I hear her take a breath— or try to. It stops me. The sound is too shallow, too careful. Like breathing hurts.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, my concern sharpening to a point. “You sound….”
“Just tired, my love. Don’t worry about me. What did you want to tell me?”
“Just that I might stay here a bit longer than planned,” I say. “They’ve asked me to consider a permanent position.”
“And you’re thinking about it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The money is good, and Slava…” I close my eyes. “He needs someone, Mom. Someone who actually cares about him.”
“You have such a big heart, Ilona,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice even as worry creeps in at the edges. “But be careful not to lose yourself in taking care of others.”
The words hit deeper than they should. Because isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing my entire life? Taking care of others, putting their needs first, making myself smaller so they could be comfortable?
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, even as I wonder if it’s already too late.
“Good. Now tell me more about this little boy. What makes him so special?”
And so I do. I tell her about Slava’s laughter, about the way he explores everything like a tiny scientist, about how he’s learned to say “I-lo” for my name.
I tell her about our morning walks in the garden, how he gets excited every time he sees a bird, how he falls asleep holding my finger through the crib bars.
I don’t tell her about the hollow feeling in my chest when I think about leaving him.
I don’t mention the way his parents talk about him like he’s a business expense.
I don’t describe the growing certainty that this child— this beautiful, innocent child— deserves so much more than what he’s getting.
“He sounds like an angel,” she says when I finally run out of words.
“He is,” I murmur, glancing at a nearby baby monitor.
We talk for another few minutes— about her book club, about the weather, about small things that feel enormous when filtered through the distance between us. But underneath it all, I can hear something in her breathing that sets my nerves on edge.
There’s something wrong. The realization sits in my stomach like a stone, cold and heavy and impossible to ignore.
The grief over losing Dad.
Trying to pay his debts.
Working too hard…
“I should let you rest,” I finally say, though what I really want is to keep her on the phone all night, to hold onto her voice like a lifeline.
“Sleep well, sweetheart. And remember— I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone in the enormous kitchen with nothing but the hum of expensive appliances and the weight of my own thoughts.
I check the monitor yet again— Slava is sleeping peacefully, one arm thrown over his head in complete abandon. The sight should comfort me, but instead it makes my chest ache with something I can’t name.
Love, whispers a voice in my head. It’s love. And you’re already in too deep to climb out.
Standing there in the pristine kitchen of a house that isn’t mine, watching a child who isn’t mine on a monitor, I realize that Elena and Leonid were right about one thing— I will stay.
Not for the money, not for the security, but because that little boy upstairs has claimed a piece of my soul, and I can’t imagine letting anyone else hold it.
Even if it breaks my heart in the process. Even if it means I’ll have to watch him grow up wondering why his parents’ love feels so conditional, so distant. Even if it means falling in love with a life that was never meant to be mine.
I press my hand against my stomach again, thinking about the child growing there— Osip’s child— and wondering if love is always this complicated, this sharp-edged and dangerous.
Outside, the garden sleeps under moonlight, beautiful and cold and perfectly maintained. Just like everything else in this world I’ve stumbled into.
Just like everything else except Slava, I think, and head upstairs to check on him one more time before bed.
Because some kinds of love, I’m learning, don’t ask for permission.
They just take root and grow, wild and stubborn and impossible to uproot.