Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Laurel
I sit at my desk, the classroom quiet except for the distant shouts and laughter drifting in from the playground. Break time is in full swing, and most of my students are out there running, swinging, chasing each other. But not Alexei.
He’s sitting alone at one of the small round tables near the window, just like he does every single day.
His dark head is bent over the Rubik’s cube he’s been carrying around for almost a week now.
His small fingers twist and turn the colorful squares with intense focus, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.
He’s been trying to solve it during every break.
Abigail, sweet little Abigail with her two neat braids and bright pink sneakers, skips over to him. She stops a few feet away, smiling wide enough to show the gap where she lost a front tooth last week.
“Alexei! Come play tag with us! It’s fun!”
He doesn’t even look up to acknowledge her at all. Just keeps working the cube, the soft clicking of the plastic the only sound he makes.
Abigail’s shoulders sag a little. She waits another second, then shrugs and runs off to join the others. My chest tightens. I hate seeing that look on any of my kids, but especially when it’s because one of them is shutting everyone else out.
I watch Alexei a moment longer. The resemblance to his father is uncanny.
The same jet-black hair, thick and slightly wavy.
The same sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, just softened by baby fat.
The only real difference is the eyes: Leonid’s are that striking, stormy blue while Alexei’s are warm brown, like melted chocolate.
Shame curls in my stomach. Leonid and I haven’t talked about him. Not once. All those late-night messages, all those phone calls, we’ve completely avoided the actual reason I went to that mansion in the first place.
His son. I’m supposed to be helping Alexei, not… whatever it is I’ve been doing with his father.
I pull my phone out of my cardigan pocket, my thumb hovering over Leonid’s name. I force myself to ignore the string of notifications from our previous conversations, the ones that still make my face burn when I think about them.
Me: We really need to meet and talk about Alexei. Properly this time. Please.
I hit send and then set the phone face-down on the desk. Then I stand and walk over to Alexei.
I crouch beside his chair, bringing myself to his level, and offering the warmest smile I can manage.
“Hi, Alexei.”
He glances up at me briefly. “Hi, Ms. Harper.” His voice is quiet, polite, but distant.
I nod toward the window where the other children are shrieking with laughter. “How come you’re not out playing with your friends today?”
He shrugs without looking away from the cube. “I don’t feel like it.”
I wait a beat, then point at the Rubik’s cube. “That looks tricky. Do you want some help figuring it out?”
“No, thank you.” His tone is firm for a six-year-old. “I’ll do it on my own.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
I stand, brushing my hands on my skirt, and walk back to my desk. The phone is still face-down. I hesitate, then flip it over.
No new messages.
I stare at the blank screen for a long moment, then open our chat thread. My thumb hovers over the delete option.
These past few days I’ve let my desires take over.
I let myself get swept up in the heat, the thrill, the way he makes me feel wanted in a way I’ve never felt before.
But I’m a teacher. He’s a parent. There are rules for a reason.
If this ever got out… I could lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.
I press delete. The entire conversation disappears. I let out a shaky exhale. From now on, it’s strictly professional. I set the phone down and look back at Alexei, still alone, trying to solve the puzzle. I’m going to help him, the way I’m supposed to.
I make it through the rest of the school day on caffeine, keeping my mind busy with lesson plans, attendance sheets, reading groups, math centers, wiping noses, tying shoelaces, praising finger paintings, but with all of these I can’t seem to keep Leonid out of my head.
Every time his face flashes behind my eyes I grit my teeth and refocus on the child in front of me. By dismissal, I’m exhausted from the mental tug-of-war, but I’ve managed to keep my phone face-down in my desk drawer.
It’s Friday, so that means freedom. I leave school with a small, tired smile, already dreaming of sleeping in tomorrow, no alarm. The drive home is mercifully uneventful. By the time I unlock my apartment door, the tension in my shoulders has loosened just a fraction.
I kick off my shoes, drop my bag, and head straight for the kitchen to make dinner. I decide on pasta. Part of the new year’s resolution I made in a fit of post-holiday optimism was: cook more, order takeout less, actually nourish myself instead of living on granola bars and coffee.
Big mistake.
The sauce is too salty, the noodles overcooked, and the garlic is somehow both burnt and underdone at the same time. If my ancestors could taste this, they’d revoke my Italian citizenship on the spot.
I take one bite, wince, take another out of sheer stubbornness, then push the bowl away. It’s a good thing I’m eating alone. No witnesses to this crime against pasta.
I stare at the TV, some old episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey playing on low volume. Why didn’t I just order takeout? I could be eating pad thai right now instead of this salt bomb that’s probably going to spike my blood pressure into the stratosphere.
I can’t cook to save my life. Growing up, Mom never taught me how to cook.
We never had that mother and daughter bonding time.
There was no bonding time at all. We were too busy trying to stay small, stay quiet, stay out of my stepfather’s way.
The less we were noticed, the less chance we had of getting hit.
I sigh, get up and scrape the rest of the pasta into the trash, then open the fridge. Options are slim. A half-eaten pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream stares back at me, along with a package of double-chocolate cookies.
I grab both, a spoon, and flop back onto the couch, scooping a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. Screw healthy. I’ll get back on my resolutions tomorrow.
I’m halfway through the pint when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. My heart does a stupid, traitorous flip when I see the name displayed on the screen. Leonid.
I stare at the screen for a full minute, spoon frozen halfway to my mouth. Ice cream drips onto my thigh. I wipe it off absently, then finally pick up the phone.
Leonid Volkov: What are you doing next weekend?
My pulse kicks up. I swallow.
Me: Why?
His reply is almost instant.
Leonid Volkov: How would you like to come with me to Paris for the weekend?
My breath catches. Paris. With him, a whole weekend. Why? I highlight my previous message, the one about needing to talk about Alexei, and send it again for emphasis.
Me: We need to meet to talk about your son. And we need to keep this professional.
The three dots appear, then:
Leonid Volkov: Relax, Ms. Harper. I’m not asking for anything else. I’ll be in Paris next weekend for business. It’s the only time next week when I’ll have more than a few free hours. If you come with me, we can finally sit down in person and talk about Alexei properly.
I stare at the screen, thumb frozen over the keyboard, the glow of the phone lighting up my face in the dim apartment. What game is he playing?
Me: Or we could just meet this weekend, and have a quick conversation. It won’t take much of your time.
Leonid Volkov: I’m in DC until Thursday. Leaving for Paris Friday morning. That’s the window.
I read it twice. Of course a man like him doesn’t sit still. My mind drifts immediately to Alexei, alone in that massive house, probably with the nanny, or whoever else is on the payroll to keep an eye on him while his father moves around.
I remember asking Alexei about his mom a few weeks ago. He looked up from his drawing, shrugged those small shoulders, and said, “I don’t have one.” Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was just another fact about the world.
It broke something in me then. Still does now. The kid doesn’t get time with his dad, doesn’t have a mom in the picture. No wonder he shrugs off invitations to play. He’s learned early that people leave, or they’re never there to begin with.
My phone pings again.
Leonid Volkov: So?
I chew the inside of my cheek, fingers hovering.
Me: Can I get back to you on it?
Leonid Volkov: Alright.
I let out a long breath and collapse back onto the couch, the half-melted ice cream forgotten on the coffee table. Next weekend is Valentine’s Day.
A trip to Paris sounds tempting. But if I want to keep this strictly professional, if I want to protect my job, my heart, my sanity, I can’t go.
I can’t sit across from him on that trip and pretend the only thing between us is concern for his son. Not when every part of me still remembers how he made me come apart with just his voice.
I set the phone face-down on the cushion beside me and pull my knees to my chest. I need to say no. But the word “Paris” keeps echoing in my head.
The next evening, Tasha shows up at my door with a plastic bag full of takeout containers, the rich smell of garlic, ginger, and soy sauce wafting in with her.
We settle on the couch in my living room, legs tucked under us, chopsticks in hand, some mindless rom-com flickering on the TV. The takeout is perfect, greasy, salty, exactly what I needed after yesterday’s pasta disaster.
We’re halfway through the lo mein when Tasha glances sideways at me, smirking.
“So… how’s Mr. Nine Inches?”
I swallow a too-big bite of noodles and set my carton on the coffee table. “I’ve decided to keep things strictly professional.”
Tasha groans like I just told her the world is coming to an end. “Why? Why would you do that to yourself? To me? To humanity?”
“Like I already told you, if anyone finds out about the texts, I lose my job. My career. Everything I’ve worked so hard for.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. “Alright, fine. Miss Responsible. But it was fun while it lasted right?”
‘Yeah it was.” I chew my lip, debating whether or not to tell her about my conversation with Leonid. Knowing Tasha, she’d encourage me to go. I shouldn’t tell her, but I can’t keep a secret from her.
“He asked me to go to Paris with him next weekend.”
Tasha freezes mid-bite. Then she screams, actual, high-pitched, neighbor-waking scream, and flings her arms around me, nearly knocking the chicken off the table.
“That’s amazing! Oh my God, Laurel! Wait, was it after he asked you to go to Paris that you decided to go back to keeping things professional between you two?”
I sigh, pushing her off gently. “No, before that. Even if he says he’s inviting me because that’s the only weekend he’s free, and that we’ll just be talking about his son, I still can’t—”
“Babe.” She grabs my shoulders, eyes wide.
“It’s Paris. You’ve never been to Paris.
And it’s Valentine’s weekend. You were literally planning to spend it alone with a bottle of rosé and a pint of ice cream, again for the fourth year in a row.
Do you really want to do that when you could be in the City of Love with a man who looks like he stepped out of a dark romance novel? ”
My stomach flips. “Tasha, I—”
“Listen.” She points a chopstick at me. “You’re not committing to anything.
You’re going to talk about his son. That’s it.
You’ll be in a foreign city, eating croissants, maybe walking along the Seine too.
If things stay professional, great. If they…
don’t… well, maybe that’s okay too. You deserve to feel something exciting for once.
You deserve to not be alone on Valentine’s Day. ”
I stare at her, heart pounding. The thought of another solitary Valentine’s of takeout doesn’t seem enticing.
She softens, squeezing my hand. “Just think about it, okay? But don’t say no just because you’re scared.”
After she leaves, hugging me fiercely at the door and whispering “Paris, bitch!” as she heads down the hallway, I stand in the quiet apartment for a long minute.
Then I pick up my phone.
Me: I’ll go. But only under the condition that our focus stays strictly on Alexei’s welfare. Nothing else.
The reply comes within seconds.
Leonid Volkov: Agreed. I’ll send the details over the course of the week.
I exhale, shaky, and set the phone down.
Paris. With Leonid Volkov. I’m doing this for Alexei. That’s all.