Chapter 3
AMALIE
Iwake up the next morning to total and complete softness.
The mattress practically sighs around me. Between it and the luxury bedding, it’s like I’m waking up to a great, big hug.
For a second, I forget everything—Chicago winter, Mom’s bills, Kyle’s work. Then I spot the gorgeous, carved wood ceiling beam above me and remember.
Right. I live in a billionaire’s mansion now. I’m sleeping right across the damn hall from him.
I push the blankets aside and sit up slowly, blinking at the room around me.
The space is cozy. Unexpectedly so. The floors are pale wood with a large, plush rug.
The room has a small bookshelf, and the windows are draped in muted blue curtains.
There’s even a little seating nook at the bay window, complete with soft cushions and a throw blanket.
Outside, snow covers the back stretch of the estate, which looks to span several acres. The snow is untouched, pristine. It’s one of those moments where winter actually looks pretty, when you can forget about Chicago’s famous sub-zero wind chill.
I’m still admiring the view when the events of yesterday come crashing back: the interview, the tension, the way Roman’s eyes watched my lips when I spoke. The way I felt when he told me I’d be living here with him.
The rest of the day had been a blur. Roman’s men drove me to my place in Northalsted, formerly known as Boystown.
They waited while I packed half my clothes and my personal effects into boxes, along with some more art supplies, then brought me back to the mansion.
By the time one of them showed me to my room, I was so worn out I’d barely managed to slip out of my clothes and under the covers before passing out.
But now, in the quiet morning light, it finally hits just how surreal my life has become. I’m living in the Barinov mansion. Hopelessly attracted to my boss. Employed as a nanny to his son.
I shake my head, pushing it out of my mind for the moment. A check of my phone reveals it’s a little past six-thirty a.m. Despite the daze of last night, I do remember one of the men telling me Sasha’s alarm was for seven, which leaves me a little time for a quick shower.
The en-suite bathroom is absurd. The shower has a rainfall head, jets on the wall, and a little bench. I step in, letting the hot water work the tension out of my muscles.
I dress in a cream linen blouse and black slacks, pulling my hair back into a bun at the nape of my neck. I take a breath, open the bedroom door, and nearly scream from surprise.
Directly across the hall, sitting in a straight-backed chair with a newspaper, is Andrei. He turns a page, clearly unbothered by my little shriek.
“Good morning,” he says without looking up.
“Oh my God,” I say, hand on my chest. “Have you been sitting there all night?”
“I arrived at six. As per my orders.”
I take a slow, deep breath, my heart rate starting to return to normal. “You don’t have to babysit me. I’m not going to wander off and start pilfering the silver or anything.”
He lowers the paper just enough for me to see his ice-blue eyes. “I’m not babysitting. I’m watching. Roman’s orders.”
“That’s… worse, actually.”
He ignores my comment. “Mr. Barinov is out on business. He’ll be back later. He wanted me to be here when you woke up in case you had any questions. Do you?”
“Yeah, one. Are you going to be here waiting for me every morning? Or is this just a special occasion?”
He lets out the faintest snort of a laugh. “That all depends on what Roman asks of me. Now, come, Sasha is waiting for you.”
“Wait, I thought he didn’t get up until seven?” I check my phone; it’s five minutes before the hour.
“Sometimes he wakes up early, works on his art in his room, has breakfast. But don’t worry, you’re not on the clock until seven-thirty.”
He folds the paper, tucks it under his arm, and stands up. Without waiting to see if I’m going to follow him, Andrei starts down the hallway, his footsteps echoing through the vast space.
He leads me to a bright, sun-filled breakfast room with big windows and cream-colored walls.
In the center is a table set with plates, silverware, glasses, and mugs.
Sasha is already there waiting for me, a big stack of pancakes on the plate in front of him, a piece of paper to his right, markers close at hand.
When Sasha sees me, his shy expression softens into something bright. “Hi.”
I smile brightly at him as I slide into the chair next to him. “Good morning, my little artist extraordinaire. Pancakes, huh? I like your style.”
He giggles quietly. That must be out of the ordinary, because one of Andrei’s eyebrows raises a tick at the sound. My heart melts.
The door opens, and a member of the house staff enters, placing a plate with two fresh, perfectly golden-brown pancakes in front of me.
“If you’d prefer something lighter,” she says, “please ask. Master Sasha requested pancakes.”
“If pancakes are good enough for this little dude, they’re good enough for me.”
She nods, then exits. I spot a small pitcher of syrup near Sasha’s plate.
“May I?” I ask, nodding toward it.
He nods quickly, as if the matter of who gets the syrup is no small thing. I take it, pour a little over my pancakes, then take a bite.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper. “These are incredible.”
“Papa can’t make them right,” Sasha says. “He burns everything.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “Somehow, that’s a little comforting.”
Andrei, seated across the room with his paper, pretends not to hear us. But I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
I take another bite, then another, Sasha and I eating in companionable silence.
Before I know it, the pancakes are nearly gone.
I feel full and content—for a second. Completely out of the blue, Max appears in my mind.
I think about one of our last dinners together, when I’d ordered Crème Brulé—my favorite dessert—and polished it off almost the instant it was set in front of me.
“Man, you kinda inhaled that,” Max had said.
“Well, it was good.”
“Still. Ever think of skipping dessert now and then?”
He’d made little comments like that before, but toward the end of our relationship they were happening nearly every time we saw one another. Remarks about my weight, my eating habits, the food I kept in my apartment.
I hated it. It was ironic—the comments were always about how big I was, but they never failed to make me feel small.
I push the memories of Max out of my head as quickly as I can, reminding myself that I’m here for Sasha.
I nudge him gently. “Mind if I see what you’re drawing?”
He places his fingertips on the paper and turns it toward me. It’s a soft blue swirl with lines of motion, a tree in the center. Like all of his work, it’s good.
“It’s the snow,” he explains. “And the wind. They’re going around a tree. I see it from my room when it’s cold outside like today.”
“It’s perfect,” I say. “You really do see things, don’t you?”
He shrugs one shoulder, as if to say yes and no. “Mama said I see feelings.”
I swallow the lump of sympathy. Sasha doesn’t look sad when he mentions her, more like factual. But something delicate in his sweet little voice makes me reach out and touch the corner of the paper.
“She must’ve been really, really proud of you,” I say softly.
He nods, his attention on his drawing again. A comfortable silence follows, me happily eating my pancakes, washing them down with the delicious coffee the staff brought in. Sasha continues to draw, his attention solely focused on his art in the same way I get when I’m in the zone.
Then he says something that sucks the air out of me. “Papa says I can’t stand near windows. Because the bad people are still out there.”
I freeze mid-chew and slowly lower my fork to my plate.
Andrei flicks his eyes up from the paper. “Sasha.”
Sasha blinks at him. “What? It’s true.”
The back of my neck tingles. “The bad people?”
Sasha opens his mouth to speak, but Andrei beats him to it. “His mother,” he says. He speaks slowly, choosing every word carefully. “She was taken from us unexpectedly. Mr. Barinov has reason to believe the threat remains.”
My stomach tightens as the room seems to contract around me. I look at Sasha—this bright, sensitive little boy—and suddenly the guarded hallways, the armed men, Roman’s constant tension, it all fits.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to Sasha.
He’s back to concentrating on his drawing, so I leave him to it.
“I can’t imagine living like that,” I say to Andrei. “Always having to watch over your shoulder.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Understandable. Most people cannot.”
Yet Roman does, apparently. This is the world he navigates, the waters he swims in. No wonder he’s so hard and cold. No wonder he did a double background check on me—he needed to be sure I wasn’t a threat in disguise.
Ridiculously, part of me already wants him to look at me for other reasons. I want to see the flash of heat in his eyes again, the near-smile on his lips when he said he didn’t bite.
I shake the thought away. No way. Absolutely not. I can’t think of my new boss like that. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.
Besides, I am already lying to him about Kyle. My brother said danger could find me if word of what he’s doing got out to the wrong people. Does that mean danger could find Roman and Sasha?
I push all of it out of my head. I can’t think about it right now.
Sasha sets down his marker softly. Then, slowly, he pushes the paper toward me. “That’s for your room. There’s no art in there. You can have this.”
My throat tightens again but in a good way. I smile, gently brushing a curl off his forehead. “Thank you, Sasha,” I whisper. “It’s perfect.”
And for the first time since stepping into the Barinov mansion, I feel something bloom in my chest that’s not fear, attraction or confusion.
It’s resolve.
Whatever happens, I’m going to take care of this little boy.
And if I have to guard my heart from his father, so be it.