Chapter 6
IVY
It’s been hard to sleep since coming to Russia.
Though that’s the understatement of the century.
Most nights, I drift in and out, hovering somewhere in that strange purgatory between waking and dreaming. It’s the kind of rest that doesn’t feel like actual rest at all, like my body remembers how to lie still, but my brain refuses to shut off.
I toss. I turn. I count the minutes ticking by on the antique clock mounted across from the bed, each one a reminder of how few I’ve actually managed to get.
By the time dawn begins to smear the sky with that pale gray light, my limbs feel like they’ve been packed with sand—heavy and slow, aching with the kind of fatigue that makes my entire body feel wrong.
I’ve been cycling through every sleep remedy I know.
Warm chamomile tea before bed? Tried it.
Light yoga and stretching to relax? Didn’t work.
A long soak in the clawfoot tub with lavender oil and a book I’ve read a dozen times because it’s one of my comfort reads? Nothing.
No matter how carefully I follow the ritual—check off every soothing step like an obedient little soldier—my mind simply won’t cooperate.
Because no matter what I do, it always finds its way back to him.
Maksim.
Or rather, Uncle Maksim, as Yulia likes to call him.
There had been something about his eyes that refused to leave me alone.
They weren’t like Sergei’s, cold and distant.
No, his had been entirely different. His gaze had unsettled me for reasons I still can’t explain.
It wasn’t just the fact that he looked at me like I was something to be studied.
It was the way his gaze lingered on me like a predator needing to memorize my every move before striking.
Like I was a puzzle he wanted to figure out.
I’d asked Yulia later in the following days who those men accompanying her father were and had gotten little information aside from her telling me, in a chillingly calm voice, “I’m not sure. But sometimes, they have guns on them.”
What kind of child says something like that so casually? What kind of father allows them around his child in the first place? What kind of world is she growing up in where guns are just accessories on men who stop by to speak with her father?
And what kind of idiot am I for being surprised?
Miss Dori’s glowing review of Sergei Sorokin replays in my head like a cruel joke now.
“Private,” she had told me, “but very respectable within the community. Old money. Deep ties in the tech industry.”
Respectable… yeah, I’d respect someone too if they had men following them around constantly with guns tucked under their suit jackets.
Strangely, though, after that first run-in with Maksim and whoever the other two he’d been with were, there’s been no mention of them since. Not from the staff, or Yulia, aside from her occasional stories of Maksim coming in and out of her life at random when she was growing up.
Other than that, life seemingly goes back to normal.
It actually kind of starts to freak me out.
I’m starting to get the sinking feeling I’ve been dropped into something a hell of a lot bigger than I ever could have imagined.
No matter how many times I tell myself I’m being dramatic, that I’m overreacting, I can’t shake the feeling that something is deeply, profoundly wrong here.
The worst part? I don’t have proof. All I have are pieces, moments that make my stomach turn but could be explained away if I really tried.
The guns. Maybe they’re security because of Sergei’s insistence on moving silently in the world.
The men in suits. Maybe they’re business associates with whatever company Sergei owns.
The silence of the staff. Maybe they’re just professionally reserved or have poor English skills and therefore can’t talk to me.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
It’s the kind of game I’ve been playing with myself every night since I arrived. Talking myself in and out of panic, convincing myself I’m being ridiculous, then snapping wide awake at two in the morning because I heard something outside my door that didn’t sound right.
I can’t keep doing this.
By the time the light behind my bedroom curtains turns from silver to the dull yellow-gray of a cloudy dawn one morning, I’ve officially given up on trying not to freak out.
Later that morning at breakfast, I try very cautiously to ask questions.
If anyone in this house might be willing to talk, it’s Galina—the head housekeeper and the only person aside from Yulia who’s exchanged more than a handful of words with me since I arrived.
She’s older, maybe in her sixties, with a neatness to her that suggests she’s been running this household like this her entire life.
There’s something a little softer about her than the others, not warm, exactly, but less severe.
She’s humming under her breath as she collects my empty cup and replaces it with another without asking. The scent of black tea wafts up in gentle curls, steam rising like smoke.
Her silver hair is pulled into the same tight bun I’ve seen every day since arriving. It looks painful, but it doesn’t slow her down in the slightest.
“Thank you,” I murmur as she sets the cup down.
Yulia sits beside me, scarfing down what has to be her third helping of toast and preserves. Crumbs cling to the corners of her mouth, her little legs swinging beneath the table. The contrast between the two of them is strange and comforting.
So much so that I almost forget what I’m about to ask.
“Ms. Galina?” I begin, using the most polite tone I can manage.
She pauses, glancing sideways at me, her face unreadable.
I stir my tea around, avoiding her eyes for a moment. When a long beat passes over us, I force myself to set the spoon down on the saucer and look up again. “Do you happen to know what Mr. Sorokin does for work?”
She resumes moving, grabbing the teapot, and pours the steaming liquid into Yulia’s glass. “Yes. He works in the technology industry.”
“Right. That’s what I heard too. But I was wondering what exactly he does? What’s his title? Like… is he the CEO of something? Does he run a company?”
This time, when she does stop moving, she doesn’t look at me. Her hands rest lightly on the teapot as she settles it down onto the tray in front of her, fingers curling just slightly around the side of it.
When she finally answers, her voice is calm, almost kind. “It is not for you to worry about, Miss Bennett.”
That’s it, no elaboration. Just a gentle dismissal, padded with the polite manners all the Sorokin staff seem to have inherited.
She picks up the tray and turns to leave, sparing me only a brief glance. “Best not to waste your days on such matters.”
Then she’s gone. I sit there, blinking at the spot where she’d stood, my fingers curling around the teacup.
What the hell does that mean?
It’s such a vague answer that it might as well be code for don’t ask again or else.
Yulia is taken for an early morning piano lesson soon after breakfast, which leaves me with nothing better to do other than twiddle my thumbs until she’s done.
Back in my room, I pace like a caged animal, around and around the thick, plush carpet until I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my own skin.
Would it be weird of me to call Miss Dori and explain the situation to her? I’m terrified I won’t be believed and on top of that, by asking to be pulled from this family, I’ll be forfeiting my pay for not finishing out this contract.
God, fuck my life.
I grab my phone and call Alia instead. I need to talk to someone who isn’t involved in this situation. Someone capable of talking me off the ledge before I do something stupid and completely ruin this contract and throw away the thousands of dollars promised to me at the end.
Alia picks up after two rings, her voice bright with that half-drunken buzz she always gets when she’s just getting back from a night out. “Ivy! Oh my God, what time is it there?”
“Right around breakfast,” I say, glancing at the clock next to my bed. “Why, what time is it for you?”
“Nearly two a.m.!” she says, followed by the distant sound of keys jingling and a door closing. “You’re lucky I’m just getting back from the bar or else I’d be passed out in my bed right now, missing your call.”
A small snort escapes me before I can stop it. “Appreciate your answering. Speaking of which… you got a minute?”
“Yeah, of course. What’s up?”
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor for a long second, debating just how much to tell her.
But then it all just starts spilling out of me.
Three weeks of pent-up tension. The weird heaviness of this house.
The fact that I don’t know what Sergei Sorokin actually does for a living, or why no one will tell me.
I tell her about Yulia’s comment about Maksim and his men. About the guns she’s seen them carry. How it feels like I’m the only one actually taking care of this little girl outside of basic necessities despite the mansion being full of people.
I don’t embellish anything because honestly, I don’t need to. The raw, unfiltered truth is bizarre enough. When I finally run out of breath, there’s a long pause on her end of the line.
“That… Ivy, this doesn’t sound normal at all,” she finally says.
“I know,” I breathe out, raking a hand through my hair.
“I keep trying to rationalize it, but every time I get close to thinking I understand what’s happening here, something else throws me off.
It’s like… this whole house has one giant secret that I’m not supposed to know.
No one talks about anything. I feel like I’m surrounded by robots. It’s so weird.”
“Can you try Googling him?” she suggests. “There’s got to be something out there. Rich guys love publicity. I mean, if he’s as well-connected as your program director said, there’s got to be something out there about him. Articles, interviews, company bios.”
I blink. “Oh. I haven’t even thought about trying that.”