Chapter 4
IVY
The house is silent when I slip out of bed later that night.
I tiptoe carefully down the hallway, barefoot and cautious, flinching slightly when the floorboards beneath the plush carpet shift ever so faintly under my weight.
My oversized sweatshirt, soft and worn and probably older than my last relationship, hangs loosely around me with the sleeves pulled over my hands as I wrap my arms tighter around myself. Not because I’m cold, but because I feel just a little too exposed in this massive, unfamiliar place.
I’d woken up maybe fifteen minutes ago with a scratchy, dry throat and a mouth that felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.
I had stumbled to the bathroom and tried cupping water from the sink into my mouth like some feral and dehydrated raccoon, but it wasn’t enough.
It tasted faintly like the marble basin and only left me more awake than before.
The obvious solution would’ve been to call someone.
There’s a list of extension numbers sitting right on the nightstand for moments like this. Sergei made it clear earlier that I wasn’t expected to lift a finger while staying here. Not for laundry, not for meals, not even to fetch myself a damn cup of tea.
Maybe it’s just how I was raised, or maybe it’s the very American “do-it-yourself-or-die-trying” mentality that’s been ingrained into me since birth, but the thought of picking up a phone to summon someone from their bed in the middle of the night to bring me a glass of water makes my skin crawl.
I’m not a toddler. I’m not dying. I can walk my own ass down to the kitchen to grab myself something to drink without forcing someone else to rise out of bed and do it for me.
Even if it’s probably the size of a school cafeteria and I have no idea where the hell it is. Hours later, Yulia’s rapid house tour is all blurred together in a jumble.
The hallway stretches out before me like a corridor in a museum with its long, dimly lit halls all lined with delicate framed art and antique furniture that gleam in the faint ambient light. Everything is pristine and there isn’t a thing out of place.
It’s beautiful, yes, but eerie at this hour.
My feet brush against the carpet with every step, silent and slow. I glance at every door I pass, half expecting one to creak open and reveal a watchful staff member chasing me back off to bed.
By the time I find the foyer, I’m ready to turn back and call it a night. Except an especially annoying twinge when I swallow has me fighting through the urge and trudging down another long hallway.
Why the hell is this place so massive?
Eventually, the hallway opens into a landing and a staircase. I grip the cool railing and take each step carefully, the banister smooth beneath my fingers. The deeper I descend into the mansion, the colder the air feels.
I turn left on instinct and round a corner, surprised when the hallway begins to widen slightly. After a few more steps, I spot the edge of a large archway and peer around the corner.
Bingo.
The kitchen is massive. Gorgeous. It looks exactly like one you'd see on the front of some glossy magazine, all marble countertops and matte black appliances. There’s a long central island with bar stools tucked under it and a tall industrial fridge humming softly along the back wall.
I move quickly but quietly, heading straight for the fridge and yanking the heavy door open.
A cool wave of air brushes my face, and I duck my head to peek inside.
There are rows of neatly labeled containers, glass bottles of sparkling water, and pressed juices.
A sleek pitcher of what looks like chilled water sits in the very back.
I lift it out carefully and close the door with my hip before searching the cabinets for a glass. The second cabinet I open reveals an organized row of tall crystal tumblers. I grab one, pour, and take a long, grateful sip.
Finally.
I finish the last of my water and rinse out the glass, drying it carefully with a hand towel before placing it back in the cupboard exactly where I found it. My bare feet whisper against the floor as I move through the kitchen, reluctant to break the spell of silence.
Just as I reach the archway to leave, a faint noise stops me.
Peeking my head out, I find another hallway running down the opposite side of the kitchen. There’s a door that’s been left slightly ajar at the end of it, light spilling out onto the carpet in a thin sliver.
My first instinct is to turn back, but for some reason, I instead find myself moving toward it.
Maybe it’s the jetlag making me careless, or maybe it’s that annoying itch of curiosity that always gets me into trouble. Either way, I slow when I draw closer, hearing voices on the other side of the door.
I can’t understand the words from here. They’re speaking in Russian. Fast, fluid, and very pointed. The cadence alone cuts through me instantly.
Whoever’s speaking doesn’t sound happy.
No, angry is more accurate. A cold, simmering kind of anger that sits low in the voice and bubbles up in short, punctuated bursts. It’s not yelling but it still sends a shudder racing down my spine. That kind of control and the restraint in the tone makes it all the more terrifying.
Another voice responds also in Russian. It’s deeper, rougher, and just as equally tense.
My brain screams at me to walk away. To respect the closed door—even if it’s not technically closed—and mind my own business, but I don’t. Instead, I creep forward like I’m possessed, morbid curiosity dragging me forward until I stop just before the sliver of light touches my feet.
Who would be up this late at night?
I lean over to catch a glimpse inside the room.
The room beyond is a private study. Shelves of leather-bound books line the walls, broken up by a heavy mahogany desk that dominates the far end. Soft lamplight casts long shadows that stretch and crawl across the space, a roaring fireplace flickering among the dark pockets.
My eyes move again and there, standing with his back to me near a tall window, is a man.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing sinewy forearms and a silver watch that glints under the light when his hand cuts through the air.
One hand is braced against the window frame while the other continues to gesture sharply as he speaks to someone I can’t yet see.
My stomach knots.
He’s angry. Dangerously angry.
I take another step, inching forward without even realizing it. My fingertips press against the wall for balance as I shift my weight slightly, angling for a better view of the rest of the room.
The man by the window stops talking. His shoulders stiffen, his head tilting slightly as if sensing something.
My breath hitches as I freeze in place.
Slowly, he turns and suddenly, I’m staring straight at him.
Oh, shit.
Then he moves—fast.
He circles around the desk and stalks toward the door. I barely have time to straighten before it’s pulled open with a sharp yank. It startles a gasp out of me as I stumble back, trying to put some distance between us.
He fills the doorway, his presence suffocating. He’s taller than I expected, built like a soldier with a hard, lean frame. His face is carved with sharp lines, and his pale eyes seem to glow in the light from the room behind him.
They land on me and pin me in place.
“I–I’m sorry,” I stammer immediately. “I was just… I was looking for the kitchen. I didn’t mean to…”
He doesn’t interrupt me. He doesn’t need to. His gaze alone makes the words die in my throat.
Up close, I can see the faint scar that runs along his jaw, just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.
His hair is dark, tousled like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours in frustration.
There's an aura about him, cold and restrained power, telling me he's the kind of man people do not cross.
“You are the tutor,” he finally says, his English flawless despite the slight accent.
I swallow hard. “Y–Yes. Ivy. I just wanted a glass of water. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
For a beat, he says nothing.
The silence stretches uncomfortably.
Then, finally, he leans back slightly. Something unreadable slips across his features.
“I see,” he says.
My spine relaxes the tiniest bit.
He studies me another moment before saying, “You should go back to your room.”
There’s no threat in his voice, just a command. I recognize it for what it is instantly, even though it’s dressed in civility and wrapped in a layer of careful politeness.
I nod quickly, breath catching in my throat and nearly choking me. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”
I don’t know exactly what I’m apologizing for. Eavesdropping? Walking in on his conversation? Breathing too loudly in his doorway? All of the above, probably.
His gaze stays locked on mine for a second longer. That pale-eyed stare doesn’t waver. I feel pinned by it, cracked open and laid bare in the soft light bleeding from his office behind him.
Then his chin ticks up. “Go.”
That single word launches me into motion like I’ve been yanked by an invisible leash.
I spin on my heel, almost stumbling over my own feet as I retreat the way I came, padding swiftly back down the hallway and up the staircase to the second floor with my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I swear it echoes in the silence of the hallway.
I don’t look back. Not even once.
Even after I’ve made it back to my room, quietly clicking the door shut behind me and leaning back against it as if I’ve just escaped a lion’s den, I can still feel the weight of his stare.
He didn’t introduce himself, though he didn’t need to. I know exactly who he is.
Sergei Sorokin.
My new boss.
What kind of man is Sergei Sorokin?
That question plagues me for the rest of the night, wrapping itself around my every thought as I lie awake in this unfamiliar bed.