24
The TV flashes blue and red in my face and the controller buzzes hot in my palm because I just died.
Fuck. I can’t catch a break. Game Over screen, mocking jingle, the Retry button taunting me.
I sink deeper into the couch. Feet on the table.
One red sock, one black. My pajamas are the crappiest in the drawer.
Pilled fabric, an itchy shoulder seam, and a promo T-shirt from an electronic music festival that Luna shoved on me on a silly night of laughs and three-minute voice memos that now make me die of secondhand embarrassment.
My phone still has the little airplane icon in the corner—guaranteed peace.
No email, no notifications, no calls from Irina or my mom.
No. Not today. I plow through a bowl of Cheetos that already lost their crunch.
Soft, a little stale, perfect for not having to chew hard.
Orange fingers, sticky controller, crumbs on the couch, on my T-shirt, on my dignity.
The rug already has splatters, and the floor’s been begging for a mop from the doorway on.
Today I’m officially off-duty. No drama, no emergencies, no people. Today I’m Pajama Nat who needs peace. To-do list: one line—enjoy doing nothing.
Mental checkmark. No guilt.
My Treehouse sounds like a fantasy, and yeah, it’s awesome.
It’s my refuge inside this giant mansion.
About sixteen feet off the ground, cinched to the branches, with a huge window that looks out over the woods and the lake.
The smell of pine and clean wood drifts in, and that alone lowers my pulse.
There’s killer W i? Fi, the new console I’m hooked on, and LED strips slapped on crooked that throw patches of violet light. No marble here, no staff hovering over my whims. Here it’s my stuff, my noise, my breathing without a mask.
I light a forest-scented candle. The smell puts me in soft mode. I put on a mellow playlist—nothing about overcoming, nothing pushing me to go out. Just chords that make space.
They handed me a million euros and a spot at JARSI. Not bad, no complaints. I upgraded the TV to a giant one that barely fits on the wall and swapped the mattress for one that just cradles my back. I also bought new socks and keep wearing mismatched ones. Priorities straight.
I’m the boss here. And yeah, sometimes, sitting in this little cabin, Alaska pops into my head.
Her laugh, her nerve, her eyes that know too much.
I want her to climb the ladder and come in through the window, drop her jacket anywhere, and just stay next to me with no plan.
I bite my lip, push the thought away. No.
Today I only want peace and my soft Cheetos.
It’s been two weeks since Vega’s post. Two weeks in which the mansion swallowed the twins and hasn’t let them go for a minute.
By now they greet half the staff and the whole extended family by name.
Introductions, coffee, recycled anecdote, and another round.
I laugh just thinking about the social calendar they’re chewing through.
Nonstop schedule, but at least there’s good food at every stop and silly gifts piling up in their room.
I barely see them. A quick pass in the hallway, hi and bye at the big table, done.
And no way have I been alone with Alaska.
When she’s three steps away there are always people glued to her.
Besides, one glance is enough to see she’s still riding that anger.
You can see it in the tight mouth, the rigid posture, the phone she won’t let go of.
She’s pissed at everything: the lockdown, Irina, the security guys, the phone controls.
And me. That anger fuels her. I clock it instantly.
Vega’s a different story. She moves through the house with a natural ease that blows me away.
One day she’s arranging flowers with Julia, the next she’s in the kitchen chopping veggies, the day after she’s heading to the pool with Luna.
She’s got a gift for being likable and offering help without barging in.
She spends hours playing hide-and-seek with the little ones—I’d even say she’s the one who suggests it—asks about recipes, volunteers to set the table.
She’s happy. You can see it in her skin, her laugh, her step.
Everyone else is doing their thing. Irina already went public and said what she had to say: "I found them, they’re home.
" No hiding it. Photos and names were already floating around.
Better to tell it her way and slam the door on made-up crap.
And hey, nothing serious has happened. No paparazzi at the gates, no cars circling, no crazy stuff.
The only thing that changes is the usual around here: be careful going out, assigned security, schedules, phones with two-factor verification.
Standard protocol. No one loves it, but it works.
For now, no outings until this dies down online.
And on top of that, Irina doesn’t trust Alaska an inch.
No one says it out loud, but everything’s set up so she won’t bolt in a fit.
She has no clue—she’s got enough on her plate—but there are eyes on every corner, routes blocked off on the map, doors that aren’t opening today, and calendars scrubbed.
If she asks for something, we offer an alternate plan with pizza and a movie.
If she pushes, we negotiate with kindness.
It’s exhausting, sure, but dealing with a scare would be worse. And we don’t want any scares here.
They offered each of them a room, with a key, a closet, and a brand-new bed.
She says no, they wanted to sleep together, their heads weren’t steady yet, and talking at night calmed them down.
I saw it coming and it made sense. Then Irina got very serious, opened a desk drawer, and took out the key to Mikhail’s room.
It had been locked for years. She handed it to Julia and told her to have it ready now.
Julia went full general contractor, and Vega glued herself to her with a notebook, a shopping list, and a phone smoking.
In two days it was a full-on parade: paint, lamps, XXL mattresses, blackout curtains, a giant wardrobe, a desk with more than enough outlets, their own W i? Fi, a shower you could fit a whole crew in, a mini-fridge with cold water and fruit, a coffee maker that doesn’t make a sound, and a shoe nook that would make anyone happy.
Vega asked for clear organizers and a full-length mirror with adjustable lighting.
Julia called half of Madrid to rush everything and checked the wiring until not a single breaker tripped. Irina stopped by, looked in silence, and only said, “Good.”
I listened to the whole build-out from the hallway and watched boxes, flowers, bedding, and one technician after another go in. A room fit for princesses. I haven’t even seen it, and I don’t want to.
Two weeks. And here I am, in pajamas, my ass glued to the couch and my console smoking, while the twins are learning to be Popova in record time. And me, as always, watching from the branches.
I keep playing; I’m about to beat a boss that’s made me miserable for three straight nights. My character—a space warrior in purple armor—is on the edge of the abyss. Sweat drips down my forehead. Just one more move, a clean hit, and this bastard goes down.
Then a shrill voice shatters my trance, yelling up from the yard.
“Aunt Naaaat! Get down here!”
I jerk and almost drop the controller. I lean out the window and see Ivan doing laps below on his ridiculous little scooter.
“What the hell do you want, spawn of hell?” I shout, my voice still hoarse from not speaking for hours, or from yelling at the screen.
“Get dressed!” he yells back. “My old man’s here and we’re waiting on you—they’ve texted you a million times!”
Whatever good mood I had melts away.
“Your father came?” I repeat, my ass clenching a little.
“Yeah. And Grandma cooked. Your sisters are here too, and the blond demons. Velikanov family lunch, full roster. Point is, if you don’t come down, my old man gets pissed.”
I slam the window shut and huff. The boss slips away, my space warrior disintegrates, and I, the almighty Nat, have to go downstairs and socialize. Just what I needed: a Sunday of penance with my family.
My mother… oh, my mother. Where do I even start? She’s pushing seventy, but I swear she’s tougher and walks faster than all of us put together. She speaks loud and clear; she doesn’t have to repeat herself.
Boris brought her here so she could live like a queen, but she doesn’t know how to sit still.
She doesn’t take a paycheck, doesn’t sign paperwork, none of that crap, and still everything goes through her.
She sets the week’s menu—today it’s stew, tomorrow cabbage soup, and the day after, more cabbage.
She makes the grocery list, sets the schedule, wakes anyone pretending to sleep with a tap on the shoulder, and turns off lights when it’s time without asking if you’ve finished reading.
A lot of the time her word carries more weight than Irina’s, and Irina’s fine with that—she respects her.
Julia does too. Nobody argues with Mama Velikanova.
If she says stew today, it’s stew. No negotiating, and it comes out perfect, so nobody complains.
Me, the most rebellious of the litter, I eat my words with every bite of her food.
It’s like an unspoken pact: you bitch, but you eat. And then you shut up.