I'm so, so sorry.
The entire morning passed in a haze.
Getting Sofia dressed, feeding her breakfast, dropping her at daycare—I went through the motions like an automaton.
My mind was in complete chaos.
He was living next door.
Alexander Volkov was my next-door neighbor.
What kind of cosmic joke was this?
In all of New York City, among millions of apartments and houses, Yekaterina had somehow chosen the one right next to his?
I wanted to call her immediately, tell her we had to move. But she'd demand an explanation. What could I possibly say? That my daughter's biological father—a man I'd been hiding from for five years—happened to be our neighbor? A man who controlled half the city's underworld?
And besides, she'd gone to such lengths to find us this place, even arranged for Sofia to attend the excellent school nearby... How could I throw that back in her face?
But if we stayed, living next to Alexander day after day, it was only a matter of time before—
"Mommy!" Sofia's voice pierced through my spiraling thoughts.
I blinked, realizing I'd been sitting in the car outside the daycare, completely lost in my panic.
"Sorry, sweetheart." I fumbled with my seatbelt and helped her out of the car.
As I walked her to the entrance, she was still withdrawn and sullen.
"Sofia," I knelt down to meet her eyes. "I know you're upset with me. But I need you to trust Mommy, okay? Everything I do is to keep you safe."
She gave a reluctant nod.
I kissed her forehead and watched her disappear through the daycare doors.
Back in the car, I slumped forward against the steering wheel.
What the hell was I going to do?
The Morning Post building rose from the heart of Manhattan, its glass facade reflecting the midday sun like a beacon.
Before entering, I took several deep breaths and smoothed down my blazer, trying to project an air of competence and control.
The HR receptionist, a polished blonde, scanned my resume before escorting me to the editorial floor.
"Anna Parker," the editor-in-chief said without looking up from his computer. He was a stern-looking man in his fifties, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. "I've reviewed your portfolio. Solid work. Your focus has been on smaller stories these past few years, but your fundamentals are strong."
"Thank you," I replied.
"Your primary responsibilities will be content editing and fact-checking," he continued, finally meeting my gaze. "Occasionally we'll need you to cover local stories. Given your situation with a child, we won't burden you with too much field work."
"I appreciate the consideration."
"Tell me," he said, leaning back in his chair, "you worked in this city before?"
My chest tightened. "Yes, about five years ago."
"Then you understand how small the journalism community really is here," he said, studying me carefully. "Most major stories inevitably involve certain... powerful interests."
