It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was absolutely terrifying.
"The toys are all cleaned between uses," Jessica continued, gesturing to the shelves. "The stuffed animals are yours to keep if you bond with any. We have activities in the closet—coloring books, puzzles, building blocks. The kitchen has pretend food, but I can bring real snacks if you'd like. Just call."
She moved to the small table near the play kitchen, showing us a binder. "This has all our protocols, emergency procedures, and a menu of additional services if you need them. But honestly?" She looked at me with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Most people never open it. They just play."
Just play. Like it was that simple. Like I could flip a switch and become small without three years of trauma screaming that being vulnerable meant people died.
"Take all the time you need," Jessica said, and this time she addressed me exclusively. "This space is yours."
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made my stomach drop.
I stood frozen in the middle of the Garden Room, surrounded by everything Little Sophie had ever wanted, and couldn't move. My adult self was cataloging exits—one door to the hallway, one to the bathroom, window too high to be useful. Logging details—seventeen stuffed animals on the visible shelves, three different types of play food in the kitchen, two beanbags and four cushions. Processing contingencies—panic button left of the door, phone on the table, Nikolai's phone in his pocket if all else failed.
I couldn't turn it off. Couldn't stop the constant threat assessment that had kept me alive through my father's world and Sergei's death and everything after.
"Sophie." Nikolai's voice cut through the spiral gently. "Breathe, baby girl."
I sucked in air that tasted like artificial flowers and new carpet. My hands were shaking. My knee was starting to ache from standing too still. And underneath all the anxiety was want so acute it hurt—Little Sophie desperately reaching for the stuffed bunny on the second shelf, for the play kitchen's plastic vegetables, for permission to just be small without consequence.
But I was frozen. Caught between two versions of myself, unable to choose.
Nikolai moved to the rocking chair with that deliberate grace he used when he knew I was spiraling, settling into it like he had all the time in the world. He patted his lap, his voice dropping into that gentle Daddy tone that always bypassed my anxiety and spoke directly to some deeper part of me. "Come here, baby girl. Let's just sit for a while."
My feet moved before my brain gave permission. Three steps across soft carpet that felt like actual grass, then I was climbing into his lap, letting him arrange me against his chest like Iwas something precious instead of something broken. His arms came around me solid and warm, and he started rocking. Slow. Steady. The kind of rhythm that matched a heartbeat or a lullaby or the ocean I'd grown up near.
"That's my good girl," he murmured against my hair. "Just breathe with me. In and out. Nothing else matters right now except breathing."
I matched my inhales to his chest rising, my exhales to his falling. The rocking continued. Back and forth. Safe and predictable.
"I'm so proud of you," he continued, his voice low and hypnotic. "So proud that you came here. So proud that you're trying. So proud of how brave you are, even when you're scared."
The praise settled in my chest like warm honey. I was brave. I was trying. Those things were true even if I was also terrified.
"You're safe here," he said. "Completely safe. Nothing bad can happen in this room. I won't let it. Your Daddy is here, and I'm watching over you, and you don't have to watch over yourself anymore."
Don't have to watch. The concept was foreign. Revolutionary.
"You can be as little as you need to be," Nikolai continued, his hand stroking my back in time with the rocking. "Five years old? Three? Younger? Whatever feels right. Whatever helps. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything."
Five years old. I tried to remember being five—before ballet, before my mother's demands, before I understood what it meant to be a Volkov. Had I been happy then? Had there been a version of me that just played without analyzing the strategic implications of play?
"Let go," he whispered. "I've got you. You can let go now, devotchka."
My breathing was changing without me telling it to. Slower. Deeper. The tight band around my chest was loosening. Theconstant threat assessment running in the background of my mind was getting quieter. Not gone—I didn't think it would ever be completely gone—but receding like tide going out.
The rocking continued. His heartbeat under my ear was steady as a metronome. His voice kept murmuring reassurances—safe, loved, protected, good girl. Each word was a stone in a foundation I was building, or maybe rebuilding. A structure that said being vulnerable didn't equal being destroyed.
I was slipping. Could feel it happening. The world was getting softer around the edges, thoughts becoming simpler, the complex analysis I usually couldn't turn off simplifying into basics. Safe. Daddy. Warm. Good.
"That's it," Nikolai murmured, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "There's my baby girl. Letting go so perfectly."
The room was changing. Or I was changing. Hard to tell which. The ceiling seemed higher than before. The shelves of toys looked bigger, more exciting. The play kitchen in the corner was suddenly the most interesting thing I'd ever seen—look at the little plastic vegetables, they're so colorful, I wonder if they feel real or just pretend real.
Nikolai was bigger too. His arms around me felt more substantial, like they could protect me from anything. His chest was solid where my cheek pressed against it. His voice was deeper, the kind of deep that meant grown-up, meant safe, meant Daddy.
Daddy.
The word felt different in my head now. Not just a title or a role, but a truth. He was my Daddy and I was his little girl and that was all that mattered. Not the bratva or my past or anything complicated. Just this simple, perfect fact.
