Alexei
Maggie’s hand is still in mine. I realize it when my thumb slides over the inside of her wrist where her pulse rests just beneath the surface.
I didn’t release her after helping her to her feet, and she didn’t pull away.
That holds my attention because most people withdraw the moment they realize they’re touching me, creating distance even when they can’t explain the instinct.
Maggie doesn’t. Her eyes focus on where our hands meet, her lashes lowering briefly before she looks back at me. There’s a question in her eyes. I don’t let her step away from it.
“Come,” I say, my voice lower now.
Her fingers tighten against mine in response. A small tingle travels up my arm and sinks deeper. She follows when I turn.
The house is quiet around us. The staff has cleared the space, leaving only the glow of the lights and the distant hush of the ocean beyond the glass. I guide her from the dining room into the living room.
The room opens wide, the windows pulling in the dark water beyond.
Light from the lamps falls across the space, brushing over polished wood, pale stone, and the clean edge of the glass table.
A long sofa faces the view, the rest kept simple, everything arranged and in its place.
And still, the moment she steps into it, none of that matters.
Maggie pauses just inside, her eyes moving across the room before landing on the windows, then the sofa, then the table.
She doesn’t linger on anything expensive or slow for the details meant to impress.
Her attention moves past all of it as if she’s already decided it doesn’t matter.
It lands on the photographs near the windows.
I know which one before she even moves toward it.
She steps closer, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the table as she leans in, her body angled toward the frame. The light plays through the soft waves of her hair over her shoulder, and for a moment, that catches my attention more than the photograph.
Ivy is small in that image. Barely two. Her cheeks are round, her curls shorter, and her hands grip the grass like she had only just discovered it. Clara sits beside her, her body angled toward Ivy, and her expression open in a way that feels distant now, though I remember it clearly.
Maggie studies the photograph before she turns her head toward me. “Is that Ivy’s mother?”
“Yes. Her name was Clara.”
She looks back at the image, her attention lingering with a gentle respect that doesn’t intrude. She doesn’t read into it or ask for more, and that alone impresses me.
“She’s beautiful,” Maggie says, her eyes on me.
“Yes.”
I keep my focus on her instead of the photograph. Her breathing speeds up.
I step closer, closing the distance between us. I don’t touch her, but I feel the warmth of her skin and notice the faint trace of her perfume. Her shoulders lift slightly, not pulling away, just aware of how close I am.
“She had a way of making people feel seen,” I add. “Even when they didn’t want it.”
Maggie’s attention focuses on the photograph again, then returns to me.
“What happened to her?” she asks gently.
I hold her eyes. “She died when Ivy was two. It was an accident,” I say, my jaw subtly clenching. “Wrong place. Wrong time.”
Maggie watches me, her expression softening. “I’m sorry.”
I nod once, glancing at the photograph before looking back at her. I say nothing more, and she doesn’t push for more details.
That choice doesn’t go unnoticed.
“How did you meet her?” she asks after a moment.
I look at the photograph again before answering. “It was in New York. At an event I had no interest in attending.”
That earns a small smile from her, one that lifts at the corner. “That sounds about right.”
“She came over anyway,” I add. “Didn’t ask who I was. Didn’t care.”
Something in Maggie’s expression changes, her interest pulling her deeper. “Most people do.”
“She said I looked like I was planning an exit,” I continue. “And then made sure I didn’t.”
Maggie lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “I think I’d have gotten along with her just fine.”
She steps away from the table, her fingers brushing along the back of the sofa as she moves.
“Does Ivy remember her at all?” she asks gently.
“No. She was too young.”
The words come out more easily than before. Time sands down the edges without completely removing them.
“She knows who Clara is. She’s seen pictures and heard stories.” I focus on Maggie. “But memories? No.”
Maggie nods slowly, like she’s thinking about Ivy more than the answer itself.
“That’s probably a mercy in some ways,” she says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I watch how she looks at the photograph again, not curious in the wrong way, or digging for details she hasn’t earned. Her attention stays on Ivy.
“What about Irina?” she asks after a second. “Your nanny. Ivy seems to love her.”
A faint breath leaves me, closer to amusement than anything else. “Yes. She does.”
“How long’s she been with y’all?”
“Almost two years.”
Maggie’s brows lift a little. “Only two?”
“There was someone before her,” I say. “She came right after Clara died. Stayed with us a few years.”
“What happened?”
“She went back to Russia. Her mother got sick.”
Maggie nods, understanding crossing her face. “And then Irina?”
“A family friend connected us. She came in, and Ivy…” I pause, thinking. “She took to her right away.”
Maggie leans lightly against the back of the sofa, listening.
“I like her,” she says. “She has this energy about her. Like she’d feed you, fuss at you, and threaten somebody all in the same breath.”
“That’s accurate.”
A low laugh leaves her as she shakes her head. “Ivy seems really happy with her.”
“She is,” I say. “Irina loves her like her own.”
“That’s good. Having that female presence in her life. Somebody she knows she can count on every day.”
My attention stays on Maggie.
“Yes,” I say, my voice quieter now. “You’ve been good for her, too.”
She stills at that, her eyes locking onto mine.
“She likes you,” I add. “More than most people.”
A smaller smile touches her mouth this time.
“Well,” she murmurs, “I like her, too. She’s a good kid, Alexei.”
“She is.”
I turn toward the bar, reaching for a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“What about you?” I ask after a moment.
She glances at me, her brows lifting slightly. “My family?”
I know enough about her already, pulled from a report my assistant put together that reduces everything to facts, but I’d rather hear it from her. She’s more interesting than anything written on a page.
“Yes,” I clarify. “Who you have. Who raised you.” I sit down beside her on the sofa, leaving only a small space between us.
She exhales softly, and then she begins to speak.
“My mama raised me,” she says. “She was seventeen when she had me.”
I watch her as she talks, noticing the change in her posture and the way her voice smooths out as she continues.
“She worked all the time. Still does. She’s a waitress at a diner. She works long shifts.”
“No father?” I ask.
She looks right at me. “No father.”
There’s no bitterness in it, only fact, and that alone says more than anything else could.
“She did everything herself,” Maggie continues. “Never complained or made me feel like I was too much.”
Her voice turns reflective on that last part, and her fingers curl slightly against the sofa.
I nod once. “She sounds strong.”
“She is.” There’s pride in that, quiet but firm. “And I have Jules.”
I glance at her. “Your friend from the shelter.”
“He’s my best friend,” she says, smiling a little at the thought. “My chosen family. He’s been there through thick and thin with me.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He started as a volunteer,” she says. “Just showed up one afternoon, said he wanted to help out. I figured he’d last maybe a week.
” She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “But we had a rough rescue one night, a real mess, and he stayed. Didn’t complain or walk out when it got hard. That stuck with me.”
Her fingers run along the stem of her glass as she continues. “After that, he just kept showing up. Day after day. Guess the place got under his skin a little, like it did mine.”
She glances at me, a hint of warmth in her expression.
“It gave him purpose, I think. Somewhere along the way, he stopped bein’ just a volunteer.
He’s family now. My family.” A small smile plays on her lips.
“Been side by side for five years. He runs his mouth more than he should, thinks he’s the funniest thing God ever made, but he knows when to quit. And he knows when I need him.”
“He saw something worth staying for,” I say, my attention on her. I hold her eyes, already knowing I wouldn’t have left.
Her breath gets uneven, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. I watch her closely, the way her pupils widen, giving her away even when she tries not to.
“How’d you end up with the shelter?” I ask. “At your age.”
She lifts a brow at that. “My age?”
“You’re young to run an operation like that.”
A small huff leaves her, almost a laugh. “I’m twenty-nine, not some kid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I reply, still focused on her. “Just not what I expected.”
She studies me quietly. “And what exactly were you expectin’?”
“Someone older. Someone who’s had more time to build it.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “Well, I didn’t exactly plan it that way.” She chew on her bottom lip, then adds, “You mean someone your age?”
“My age?” I repeat.
She tilts her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “You’re what, thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-seven,” she echoes. “Well… you wear it well.”
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away.
After a second, I ask, “How’d you end up with it?”
She turns a little on the sofa, angling more toward me as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I started as a volunteer,” she says. “Same as Jules. Just came in to help where I could.” A small breath leaves her. “That’s when I met Miss Eleanor. She owned the place back then and ran it for years.”