4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Aurora
Standing before the towering building, I feel small and insignificant. It’s like I’m Lemuel Gulliver at Brobdingnag, surrounded by giants, including the one I’m about to meet.
I glance down at the phone clenched in my hand and reread Layla’s text message, then tap on the attached business card with Nadia Volkov’s contact information. It’s stark and simple—white letters on black. Executive Assistant, Chernov International.
After spending half the night reading dozens of articles praising Sergei Chrnov’s business acumen and innovative ideas, I was left both impressed and a bit intimidated. It made me wonder how I could possibly hold my own in a conversation with someone so accomplished.
He also looked like an Olympic athlete, which didn’t help. All the photos of him online depicted a serious man, with a strong jaw and a tall, muscular frame, always dressed in designer suits. I may have spent too much time on the “35 Under 35” article, where he ranked an impressive number nine.
Fine, I’ll admit it. I actually fell asleep on my tablet open to his photo, drooling on the screen.
Despite the countless photos I’ve scrolled through, the one that lingers in my mind is of Sergei’s son at his mom’s funeral—his small, sad face buried in the crook of Sergei’s neck.
The articles didn’t go into much detail about how she died, it just said she was killed in a robbery gone wrong, and the person responsible was never caught.
I figured all the true crime podcasts and TV shows I consumed would desensitize me, but I still couldn’t bring myself to look deeper into her case.
It makes me wish that such profound tragedies could run parallel to children’s lives, never intersecting with their innocence.
A light breeze rustles my hair, tangling a few strands in my glasses.
I deliberately chose to wear them today, hoping to project intelligence and sophistication.
If I can’t demonstrate my abilities through concrete achievements, like securing an internship, then perhaps looking the part will make a difference.
I take a step toward the building’s entrance. The ache in my legs reminds me once again of my double shift at Dancing Monk yesterday. Here’s to hoping I won’t need to move much during this interview.
I’m ushered through security, my name already added to the guest list. The private elevator ascends smoothly, and as it reaches the penthouse floor, the doors slide open into the apartment.
“Hello?” I inch inside, feeling like a pebble among gemstones. “Miss Volkov?” I whisper. Since I spoke with Nadia Volkov about the position, I hope she’ll be the one to interview me. The thought of meeting Sergei Chernov fills me with charged anxiety.
“Who are you?” a deep, authoritative voice echoes from the end of the hallway.
Sergei is clad in dark jeans and a snug blue long-sleeved shirt that highlights his muscular frame.
His black hair is disheveled, as if he just finished a run or some other physically demanding activity...
I feel my cheeks burn at the direction my thoughts drift, quickly reminding myself to get my head from the gutter.
“I’m Aurora,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. “I spoke with Miss Volkov. She told me to meet her here at noon to interview for the nanny job? I was on the list downstairs. I’m sorry to barge in like this.” I shift my weight nervously, trying to steady myself.
“Papa! Papa!” a child’s urgent scream rings out from another room. The repetition of the cry catches my attention, and I notice him holding a dinosaur water bottle.
“If you manage to get him to calm down and take a damn nap, the job is yours,” he says, his voice strained with frustration.
The challenge of putting a kid down for a nap definitely constitutes as physically demanding.
“Does he go by Michael or...” I hesitate, unsure if it might unsettle him that I know his son’s name. But I quickly decide that someone like Sergei Chernov likely values preparation. I place my purse on the floor by the elevator and take a cautious step forward.
“Misha,” he answers, his expression softening as he says his son’s name.
“May I have it?” I ask. Confusion materializes on his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. “The water,” I clarify, pointing to the dinosaur water bottle he’s holding. He hands it to me and gestures toward Misha’s bedroom.
I knock softly on the plain white door, surprised it isn’t marked by even a single sticker of a favorite cartoon character. When the door swings open, I find Misha peeking from behind it, his earlier cries replaced by a shy, tentative smile. “Hey… Misha,” I say gently.
He steps back and eyes me warily. “No seep,” he declares. His tone carries the kind of regal authority that’s not uncommon among only children.
“That’s okay. My name is Aurora,” I say, quietly closing the door behind me. I glance around the room and point to the floor. “Should I sit here? Or maybe over there?” I gesture toward the rocking chair by the window.
Misha points to the spot at my feet. I had hoped he might prefer the comfy rocking chair, but evidently, the carpet is now my designated spot.
I guess it’s my fault for offering it as an option—a rookie mistake, no doubt.
My quads cuss at me as I drop to my knees, acutely aware of how unsuitable my gray slacks are for this activity.
“Do you want some water?” I ask, offering him the bottle.
Misha eyes it and nods, his curiosity piqued. “Yes, pease.” He takes it from me and flips the cap open, then begins drinking, never breaking his intense stare, like he’s sizing me up. “No seep,” he repeats, handing it back.
“That’s okay,” I reply. “Can I read you a story?”
With excitement lighting up his face, Misha dashes to his towering, three-story white bookcase. It stretches from wall to wall, its cubicles filled with countless titles. He eagerly grabs one book after another, carrying them back to where I’m sitting.
As I focus on Misha’s selection, a faint mechanical noise catches my attention. I glance up to find a camera mounted on the wall, now pointed directly at me. Marvelous. I have an audience. No pressure.
I offer Misha a reassuring smile, trying to ignore the added scrutiny. “Wow! Look at how many books you have.” I count them out loud as I arrange them neatly on the floor. “I can’t read this one, though.” I hand Misha the one with the Cyrillic letters, noting his puzzled expression.
He places the book back on the pile and looks up at me.
“Okay. You have such good taste in books. Can you choose your favorite one?” I hope he doesn’t pick the non-English book that’s sitting on top.
After careful consideration, as is appropriate for such an important decision, Misha selects a book from the bottom of the pile and hands it to me.
“Giraffes Can’t Dance!” I exclaim, clapping my hands. “That’s a good one! It’s my favorite, too!” I gently poke his belly, my smile broadening. “How did you know?”
He sways his arms, a pink blush creeping on his cheeks.
“Let’s make a deal,” I continue with a playful tone as he settles himself on my lap.
“We’ll read this one book, and then you’ll take a quick nap.
That way, you’ll have more energy to finish reading all these books after you wake up.
Deal?” I extend my hand, expecting a high-five, but instead, Misha leans in and plants a quick kiss in the middle of my palm.
I fight the urge to laugh. “Deal!” I say with a warm smile.
“Actually, do you mind if we read this in bed? It’ll be so much cozier than on the floor. What do you think?”
Misha nods shyly, his eyes twinkling. He climbs onto his bed, which is covered with a green dinosaur blanket and a mountain of stuffed animals. Once he gets under the blanket, I settle on top of the covers. He scoots closer to me, snuggling under my arm as I open the book to the first page.
“Misha, I forgot,” I say, wrapping my arm around his shoulder for a snug embrace. “Can you remind me, how many books are we going to read right now?”
His face lights up as he proudly raises one finger.
“One!” I confirm, holding up a finger to match his.
Misha grins at me, mischief dancing on his face as he tries to unfold another finger of mine, forcing a loud laugh out of me. “Hey!” I pull my hand away, pretending to scold him. “You’re being a little trickster!”
He giggles, pressing his head into the crook of my shoulder.
“Let’s try that one more time. How many books are we reading right now?”
Misha lifts one finger again, this time with more confidence.
“Good job!” I say, giving him a gentle squeeze. “And after we finish this one book, what are you going to do?”
“Seep!” His eyes sparkle with excitement, and his little hand mimics my earlier gesture.
“That’s right! You’re such a smart kid!” I say, lightly tossing Misha’s long, tangled brown hair. It’s clear he hasn’t had a thorough brushing in a while. A faint bruise marks his forehead—probably from a recent fall.
As I read through Giraffes Can’t Dance, its sweet message of moving at one’s own pace resonates with me.
When we finish with the book, I make sure he’s snuggled with his stuffed animals and that his bottle is within reach before turning off the lights and shutting the door behind me.
I linger on the other side, listening for any signs that he might get up or come out, but he’s quiet.
I skip down the hallway, only stopping when Sergei steps into my view.
He holds the baby monitor in one hand, his gray eyes intense and expectant. “When can you start?” he asks. His voice is tinged with hopefulness, as if I’m holding the key to a centuries-old mystery.
I blink, momentarily thrown off by his question.
“You don’t want to interview me? Check my references?
Double check I’m not some crazy person?” I’m not sure why I’m arguing against myself.
Perhaps I want to make sure that his offer is real and not something that could disappear in the blink of an eye.