Idon’t know where the women have gone.
I’m standing alone in the velvet quiet of the Ivanov mansion, the sky dull behind the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere in the hallway there’s life—the shuffle of a staff member, a faint laugh off in the distance—but it feels like I’ve been left behind.
Wine would be divine right now. Rich, red, and numbing. But that’s a definite no. I spot a sleek bottle of still water nestled into the wet bar. The label’s in French, of course. I twist it open and take a long sip, savoring the absurd crispness, like melted snow filtered through a thousand-year-old glacier.
I start to wander.
Each room is more elegant than the last—library walls wrapped in walnut paneling, the scent of old books lingering like perfume; a drawing room with hand-painted silk wallpaper, low music playing from a hidden speaker; a formal dining space with chandeliers that probably cost more than my college education.
I peek into a sitting room covered in soft blues and creams, a baby grand piano in the corner like it’s waiting for someone toplay it. The house doesn’t feel ostentatious, it feels established. Generational. The kind of wealth that doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t have to.
I pass a winding staircase that dips below ground, and curiosity pulls at me. I tiptoe closer, peering over the iron railing. A bright, open room sprawls out beneath—colorful rugs, wooden toys, the sweet chaos of children echoing upward. A few adult voices float with them. Laughing. Guiding.
The place feels like a compound, and I feel like I don’t belong here. Yet, somehow, a piece of me knows I do. The thought drifts through me, uninvited and unexplained. I don’t know what to make of it.
I slip out onto the back balcony, sheltered beneath carved stone arches. Rain beads along the railing and splashes onto the garden below—rows of blooming flowers, manicured hedges, a gravel path curving toward a white gazebo.
It’s breathtaking. The kind of place you dream about or only see in movies.
I take another sip of water, trying to anchor myself. I wonder what’s next. Wonder if Yuri’s okay. Wonder what the hell I’ve walked into.
A throat clears behind me. I turn to find Grigori standing like a statue at the edge of the balcony. I straighten instinctively, like a kid caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.
“Sorry,” I say, brushing hair from my cheek. “I didn’t mean to wander. I was just?—”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s not unkind. “Think nothing of it,” he says. “You’re not a prisoner. You’re here for your own safety. You’re free to wander.”
The relief hits me like a tide. I nod, but something about his posture makes me feel uneasy.
Gently he adds, “That said, it’s time for you to go.”
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself. The question sounds almost childish on my lips.
“The boys have been set loose.”
My heart gives a startled thump.
“They’ll be back soon,” he continues, “and this house will no longer be a haven. It will become a hive, one of strategy, damage control, and things you ought not overhear. For your own good.”
I get it. I do. But it still stings, being gently edged out of a place that, not an hour ago, had begun to feel like it might become something more to me.
“I’ll be taking you back to your apartment,” he adds, unfolding his arms. “You should be safe there. We’ll place a guard across the street just in case.”
For a second, I consider telling him. About Spalding. About the offer. About the pictures. But something in me clutches it tight, like a pebble in a closed fist.
Grigori extends a hand, not to take mine, but in a gesture of invitation. “Come,” he says. “Let’s get you home safe and sound.”
I follow him wordlessly through the mansion, our footsteps echoing throughout its quiet luxury.
When we step outside, the rain has lightened, the air cool and sharp around us. The black G-Wagon is parked out front. Neither of us speaks as we approach it.
The car hums softly beneath us as the rain picks up again, tapping its rhythm against the windows like fingers drumming on glass. I sit back, exhaling slowly.
There’s a certain comfort in the silence. Maybe it’s Grigori’s calm, capable presence. He doesn’t chatter, doesn’t fill the space with unnecessary noise. He just drives, steady and sure.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His expression is unreadable behind his dark sunglasses.
“You always this quiet?” I ask, half-smiling.
