Chapter 3 #2
I wonder what happened to her mother. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
Hopefully, she isn’t some covert terror that her photo fails to suggest. Her eyes are kind looking, so I doubt it, but these days, you never really know. I’ve watched enough documentaries to know appearances can lie.
Still, I doubt this sweet-faced girl is going to flip the table mid-lesson and start plotting my demise.
Hopefully.
What I am more worried about is her father.
The contract was extremely clear that I’m only to focus on English tutoring, nothing more.
No nannying, no night shifts while she’s sick, no discipline or personal errands like I’m a glorified house manager.
But contracts are just ink on paper. If Mr. Sorokin decides I need to take on more…
well, I’m in his house in his country, and I barely speak a word of Russian.
Before I can spiral too far, the gate agent announces the first boarding group, snapping me out of my internal monologue. I shove the Sorokin information packet back into my bag and stand, smoothing out my sweater and double-checking for my passport and boarding pass.
I don’t remember much after getting in my seat and pulling my eye mask down to rest, other than being woken up twice by one of the flight attendants to hand out drinks and then dinner.
After that, I fall in and out of restless sleep until finally, the wheels touching down on the tarmac wake me up completely.
Moscow greets me with grey skies and a chill in the air that cuts through the small gap the jet bridge attaches to the plane, sending a shiver running up my spine while passing by it.
Customs is its own circle of hell.
Despite everything being relatively orderly, the sheer mass of people funneling through the corridors, all half-asleep and trying to follow signage in stilted English, nearly sends me into a panic spiral.
I grip my documents so hard my knuckles ache, and by the time I get up to border security, I practically collapse against the desk.
Eventually, I make it through.
Then comes baggage claim. I nearly grab the wrong one twice before finally finding my luggage, yanking it from the carousel with a grunt.
I’m sweating by the time I make it out of the maze of arrivals and into the main terminal.
My coat feels too warm and my mouth tastes like sleep and recycled air.
A man stands just off to the side by the automatic doors leading to the streets of Moscow holding a clean white placard with my name printed in perfect, blocky handwriting.
He looks straight at me the moment I spot him, like he’s been tracking every passenger who walks through trying to find the right one.
I hesitate for a second, adjusting my grip on my luggage, before walking over.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp black suit with a wool overcoat draped over one arm. His face is hard with stone-carved cheekbones, a sharp nose, and an unreadable expression.
Strangely, he doesn’t look unkind. Just… professional. The kind of man I can tell doesn’t waste time with flowery words and long, drawn-out conversations.
When I stop in front of him, he lowers the sign.
“Ivy Bennett?” he asks. His English is good, though heavily accented, clipped with the vowels rounded in a way I have to focus on to catch.
“Yes. That’s me.”
He nods once, then folds the placard and tucks it under his arm. Without another word, he gestures toward the sliding glass doors that lead outside. I trail after him, heart thudding harder again. When the doors open, the cold smacks me in the face like a slap.
It’s worse than I expected. It’s the kind of bone-deep chill that sneaks through your clothing no matter how many layers you have on. I suck in a breath, my lungs aching a little as we cross the pavement toward a sleek black Town Car parked at the curb.
He opens the back door for me and jerks his chin, silently urging me inside.
The seats inside are buttery leather and a heater hums warmly at my feet while he loads my luggage into the trunk. He says nothing when he returns to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel, but that’s fine, I’m too exhausted to make small talk, anyway.
The drive through Moscow is surreal.
Wide, icy streets cut between historic buildings with ornate facades and golden domes.
I spot churches that look like storybook illustrations, their spires glinting against the pale sky.
Between the old-world beauty are sleek designer storefronts, flashing LED ads, modern architecture stitched together with centuries-old brickwork.
The car finally turns off the main road and into a private drive. My ears pop slightly as we begin to ascend, winding up what looks like a forested hill. Tall pines border the road on either side.
My jaw drops when the trees break and I see, for the first time, the Sorokin estate.
It’s enormous. More than I was ever expecting, honestly.
Massive and regal, with steep gables and dark stone walls that stretch into the tree line.
Warm light glows behind tall, paned windows.
Two balconies overlook a circular drive lined with lanterns, and a fountain, frozen solid from the cold still clinging in the air, sits at the center like some kind of elaborate ornament.
The driver doesn’t say anything as he pulls the car into the driveway and stops at the base of a grand staircase leading up to the front doors.
He steps out of the car and comes around to open my door again. “Welcome to the Sorokin residence.”
I climb out slowly, shoes crunching softly against the frozen gravel.
Holy shit… I’m going to be living here for the next six months.
There’s no way any of this can be real. Right?
I’m too busy staring at the mansion to notice two men descending the front steps until one of them is already wheeling my suitcase up the stairs. The sight of it moving without me jolts me back to the present.
I turn instinctively to thank the driver only to catch the briefest glimpse of him climbing back into the interior of the car. The sleek black frame pulls away from the front steps and disappears around the curve of the driveway, leaving me behind without so much as a wave goodbye.
Alright, then…
The other man, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit with a discreet earpiece nestled in his ear, steps into the space beside me. His hand doesn’t touch me, but he makes a subtle gesture that urges me forward.
“This way,” he says, his accent similar to the driver’s.
The front doors are tall and double-wide, thick wood carved with intricate detailing that I only have a second to appreciate before I pass by them and enter into the massive foyer. Warmth immediately washes over me, chasing away the chill that had settled in my bones since the airport.
And then I see her.
Standing at the far end of the grand foyer is a little girl no older than ten or eleven with bright, inquisitive eyes and a hesitant smile that blooms the second our eyes meet.
Yulia.
I recognize her instantly from the photo in the information packet. But the static image did her no justice. In person, she radiates a quiet brightness that eases me immediately.
“You are here!” she exclaims in halting but enthusiastic English.
Before I can say anything, she takes off at a sprint, her feet barely making a sound as she crosses the gleaming marble floor. Her hair is pulled into two neat braids, and her dress with long, billowing sleeves flutters with her.
“Ivy?” she asks, breathless as she skids to a stop in front of me.
I smile and extend my hand to her. “Hi, Yulia. I’m really excited to meet you.”
Her small fingers immediately wrap around mine in a surprisingly firm grip, and she gives my hand a vigorous shake, her eyes sparkling.
“You come with me?” she asks eagerly.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in my chest. “Sure.”
And just like that, she tugs me deeper into the house, her grip strong and determined around my fingers. I have no idea where we’re going, but I follow her willingly, my suitcase abandoned to the care of the staff.
Yulia chatters as we go, her words a mix of English and Russian, pointing excitedly to different features of the house. Her accent is soft, her grammar slightly stilted, but her energy is infectious. I try my best to keep up with both her pace and her explanations.
“There is pool,” she says proudly, pointing through a massive archway where floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the glinting blue of an indoor pool, pristine and empty. “And garden. Very big. Papa says too big.”
“Too big for what?” I ask, amused.
“Too big for Mama’s flowers,” she replies with a giggle. Then she quiets for a moment, a shadow flickering across her face, but it vanishes just as quickly.
We pass a sitting room with velvet chairs and gold accents, a music room with a grand piano polished to a mirror sheen, and a formal dining hall with a chandelier so massive I’m afraid to breathe too hard near it.
After what feels like the tenth room, maybe even the fifteenth, I’ve completely lost track.
I can’t help but glance over my shoulder now and then, half-expecting someone to step out and usher us back toward one of the main rooms at the front of the mansion. A housekeeper, a butler, maybe even Sergei Sorokin himself. But strangely, no one interrupts our impromptu tour.
Aside from the two men at the door and the faint presence of whoever’s handling my luggage, the house feels…
empty. Not silent, exactly—there’s the soft hum of the heating system, the occasional creak of the wood floor beneath ornate rugs—but quiet in a way that makes me hyper-aware of every sound I make.
Yulia doesn’t seem to notice. She practically bounces as she leads me up another spiral staircase on the second floor, tugging me along by the hand like we’ve known each other for years.
“You like room,” she promises. “It is pretty.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say, though in truth, the entire house so far looks like something out of Architectural Digest. I’m half-convinced I’m about to be shown to a walk-in closet that’s five times the size of my entire apartment back home.
We reach the top of the staircase and turn down a wide hallway.
Rich tapestries line the walls between antique light fixtures, and the faint scent of lemon polish lingers in the air.
Yulia doesn’t slow down until we reach the very end of the corridor, where a pair of white double doors with gold handles awaits.
She releases my hand and throws the doors open with theatrical flair. “Ta-da!”
I step inside and immediately stop in my tracks.
Damn, she wasn’t lying. The room is gorgeous.
A tall window framed with sheer cream curtains lets in the afternoon light, spilling across a plush king-sized bed with a tufted headboard and rich navy bedding.
A fireplace sits against the far wall, though it’s currently unlit.
A writing desk made of dark oak rests beside a tall bookshelf already stocked with a few worn paperbacks.
There’s even a private en-suite bathroom tucked behind a sliding door near the bed.
The ceilings are high, the air smells faintly of lavender, and the space is warm and inviting.
This guest room is better than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in.
How is any of this real?
This entire tour really feels like a damn fever dream.
Yulia hops up onto the bed without hesitation, bouncing slightly on her knees as she watches me walk around the large space. “You like?”
“I love it,” I say honestly.
At the foot of the bed on a long ottoman, my luggage has already been neatly placed.
On top of the comforter sits a folded stack of towels and linens, along with a cream-colored envelope tucked beneath a silver cardholder.
I pick it up and scan the front, seeing it’s addressed to me in elegant handwriting.
Inside is a simple card with a list of extension numbers for the household staff, along with a short note that reads,
If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask one of the staff. They are available 24/7 for your convenience. —S.
Sergei.
So he knows I’ve arrived, at least. Even if he hasn’t made an appearance himself.
I glance at the doorway.
Maybe he’s just busy. Important men like him probably have packed schedules. Miss Dori’s packet did mention he was some kind of high-level businessman, though the information had been vague.
No company name. No official title… Is that a bad sign?
His need for privacy is understandable to a certain extent, but there’s a point when I know it’s going to become too much for my curious mind not to want to figure out. Overstepping my boundaries this soon is a recipe for disaster, so I can only hope he makes an appearance sooner rather than later.
Yulia watches me unpack a little, occasionally pointing at things with curiosity.
“You bring books?” she asks, noticing a stack of paperbacks I pull from my carry-on.
“Yeah. A few,” I say, handing her one.
She flips through the pages with interest before setting it aside. “I want to learn fast. English hard, but I want speak like you.”
“I’ll help you,” I promise, touched by her determination.
She beams. “You nice. Miss Dori say you kind.”
My heart squeezes a little. Ugh, this little girl is going to make me melt if she keeps this up. I already had been half-hoping we’d bond quickly, but from just these past few hours, I know we’re going to be inseparable soon enough.
“I’m really glad I came,” I tell her truthfully.
“Me too,” she says, scooting to the center of the bed and folding her legs underneath her. “Maybe we be friends.”
I laugh softly, the last of my travel-worn nerves finally starting to ease. “I’d like that.”
And I mean it. I really, really do.
Maybe living in a strange, foreign country won’t be as scary as I thought.
Yulia is still smiling at me like I hung the moon, and even though I know I’m supposed to be the adult in this situation, I’m suddenly grateful for her. For the way she’s making me feel not so alone.
Like I belong here.
Just like I’ve always longed for.