15. Charlie #2
They look at each other. Marta shrugs. “No. Not here anyway. He’d go out to the clubs and hotels and all that, but he never once brought someone home.”
The idea that I’m the first makes my chest buzz with a significance I can’t name. It’s scary that maybe I’m the only one, but I can’t help but feel a little proud too. Like I’m a secret part of Nikolaus, something new and precious and breakable.
Marta catches my face shifting and just says, “He’s much happier since you came around.”
I try to answer, but the only thing that comes out is a small “Oh.”
Elise grins at me. “You can have a muffin, if you want,” she says, breaking one open and holding out the steaming half. “Here, it’s too hot for the plate.”
I take it and fumble a thanks, the sugar melting against my fingers. I pull a piece off and taste it, and it’s all at once too sweet, too warm, and perfect. For a second, my throat goes tight, like if I said anything right now, I might cry.
Maybe they sense it, because the next few minutes are easy, full of gentle teasing and comfortable chewing.
Marta sits across from me and sips a cup of coffee, and Elise leans on the counter, telling stories about her daughter’s obsessions with dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.
It’s the kind of kitchen I used to watch on TV.
An hour later, after three muffins, tea, and several failed attempts by Elise to convince me to take more food, I find myself wandering again.
The penthouse is a maze when I’m not being led by the hand. I drift through rooms that must have names—parlors, dens, libraries—though all I see are strange displays of wealth.
Sometimes, there are little reminders that I’m not in a hotel or museum, like a bowl of keys slung carelessly on a priceless table, or a phone charger snaking across a nineteenth-century secretary desk.
I find a room with a baby grand under a window and plink a few notes, just to hear if the sound echoes like in the movies.
It doesn’t. The walls are too thick, the carpet too lush.
I let my hand slide over the slick, cool lid and imagine being the kind of person whose body is made for these rooms, whose presence wouldn’t be swallowed by the architecture.
I almost turn back upstairs to the safe, plush pocket of the nursery, but something tugs at me to keep going.
Past the dining room—twenty feet of glossy wood, like a bowling lane—I see double doors, shut tight.
A thread of curiosity keeps pulling.
The doors are heavy, and I have to lean my whole weight against one to budge it open. The hinges give with a soft hiss, like a sigh of resignation.
Inside, the walls are lined with matte black bookshelves packed with folders and thick, blocky books. At the far end of the room, a subtle desk lamp glows—the only spot of color in the darkness.
Nikolaus sits behind the desk, hunched over a laptop.
He looks up the instant I step inside. The expression on his face isn’t angry or annoyed—if anything, he seems quietly amused.
I freeze. My brain goes blank.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to, uh… I can go.”
He shakes his head, dismissing the apology before I finish. “You’re not interrupting. You’re welcome anytime.” Then he gestures at the two armchairs opposite his desk. “Make yourself comfortable, baby boy.”
My face heats, but I obey, sinking into one of the chairs, which turns out to be so deep and soft it nearly swallows me whole. Arms pressed to my sides, I study the rows of books and the neatness of his workspace, searching for a safe place to rest my gaze that isn’t directly on him.
For a few minutes, he says nothing, focusing intensely on the work in front of him.
Eventually, curiosity bubbles up in my chest. “What are you working on?”
He pauses, taking a moment to finish what he was typing before answering. “Legal paperwork. Tax filings. Exciting things like that.” He looks up, and there’s a dry twist to his smile. “Not very fun.”
I nod, unsure how to respond, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly.
I let my attention drift to the room itself—how the shelves are more practical than decorative, full of cold, official things.
Ledgers. Reference letters. Folders with tidy, unreadable labels.
Some of the books are in languages I don’t recognize.
There’s nothing playful in here; it’s the complete opposite of my nursery.
I don’t even realize I’m fidgeting until Nikolaus asks, “Would you like to sit on the couch instead? Or you can read, if you’re bored.” When I look up, he’s already standing, gesturing to a plush black sofa tucked against the wall, a throw blanket folded neatly at one end.
I hesitate, then shuffle over, feeling the weight of his eyes on my back.
The couch is wide, the fabric heavy and cool.
I pull my knees up, curling into myself, and reach for a book from the side table.
It’s an art monograph, hardback, the cover a close-up of a marble statue’s face.
I flip it open at random, letting my eyes drift over the images until the pages start to go blurry.
I don’t realize I’ve nodded off until Nikolaus is suddenly sitting beside me, his presence huge and quiet.
His laptop is gone, set somewhere out of sight.
He’s speaking into a phone, the cadence low and careful.
I keep my eyes mostly closed, only peeking through heavy lashes.
The clean tang of his cologne mixes with the faintest scent of coffee.
He’s got my feet in his lap.
At some point while I was asleep, I must have shifted, or maybe he did. My socked feet are laid over his thighs, and he is holding one loosely, the pad of his thumb rubbing small circles against the bump of my ankle bone.
The gentleness of it is so surprising that I don’t even know what to do with myself. I stay very still, trying not to let on that I’m awake, while Nikolaus talks in his quiet, even voice to whoever is on the other end of the call.
“No, I don’t care about his excuses. Handle it.
” He says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, that I almost miss the cold inside his words.
It’s the same unflinching calm I remember from the night he took me, when he picked me up and just…
left with me, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Like he already knew that no one would stop him.
His thumb keeps up its circles on my ankle until the call ends, and the silence settles back in.
I should move my feet.
I should say something.
Instead, I lie there, pretending for a little longer that I’m just a piece of furniture too, one of the many things in his world that he’s decided to keep.
Eventually, Nikolaus leans forward. I hear the soft click as he sets the phone down on the table. Then his hand, the one not holding my foot, slides under the blanket and gently covers my calf. He doesn’t squeeze, just cups it like you’d hold a ripe peach, and lets out a long, slow exhale.
“Are you awake?” he murmurs, voice pitched so low I barely hear it.
I’m not sure if he means the question for me, or if he’s just thinking out loud, but it lands in that place where kids’ brains are more suggestion than substance. I nod, even though my eyes are still shut.
I feel the smile in his chest before I see it. “Good boy,” he says, then starts stroking my shin. “Did you have a nice nap?”
A small noise works its way out of my throat—halfway between a hum and a question. “Yeah,” I say, drowsy honesty making my voice crackle. “You’re done working?”
“For now.” He shifts, tucks the blanket more securely around my legs, and lets his hand rest heavy and warm over my knee. “You can stay here as long as you like. Or come with me, if you want.”
I glance over the edge of my blanket and catch him looking at me. I can’t believe I ever thought he was scary—he’s still imposing, sure, but it’s a different kind of largeness. Like an animal that has no predators, not because he’s the toughest, but because nothing else even tries.
“I like your office,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, and compliments seem to work on him.
He grins, teeth sharp and perfect. “I like it better with you in it.”
I don’t know how to answer, so I just smile back, and another ripple of warmth flickers up through my core.
Nikolaus leans back, folding his arm over the top of the sofa, and when he does, I scoot closer without even really meaning to.
His hand finds the nape of my neck, thumb kneading the tightness there, and I just…
melt. Maybe I’ll regret leaning into this tomorrow, next week, or next year, but right this second, all I want is to stay.
I close my eyes again. His thumb stills, then resumes kneading, and I drift in and out, bobbing on the edge of sleep while voices rise and fall in the far-off apartment. Somewhere out there, life keeps moving, but in here, I don’t have to move at all.
At some point, there’s the faint sound of the double doors creaking again. I crack my lids, just enough to see Elise hovering for a moment, eyes crinkling conspiratorially when she catches me peeking. She smiles, winks at me, then retreats without a word, leaving us alone again.
I think I might just like it here.