I turn back to the window. The skyline looks washed in late noon haze—sun angled low, city pulsing with quiet. The kids would’ve been back from school two hours ago.
That’s the reason I’m calling, I tell myself.
To check on them.
Not her.
Never her.
A pause. Then, wry amusement: “Define okay.”
From the background, a sudden burst of sound explodes through the speaker.
“LEV, THAT’S NOT A LIGHTSABER, THAT’S A BREAD KNIFE!”
Nikolai yells something with theatrical flair—over-enunciated like a stage actor in a fourth-grade play. It sounds like he’s quoting a fantasy movie, sword fights and all. He’s not fluent in anything except drama.
Oleg exhales like a man three seconds from walking into the sea. “They’ve constructed a fort out of dining chairs, pool towels, and—God help us—crystal vases. Julian seems to be their commanding officer.”
I hear Alya yelling for backup. A new voice—female, quick, and defiant—counters with what I assume is Lila’s declaration of her own territory. It sounds like a civil war fought with snacks.
“So yes,” Oleg deadpans. “Domestic tranquility.”
A beat.
“Oh—and someone’s been stealing chocolates from the pantry.”
I blink. “You’re telling me someone’s stealing candy like it’s a Bratva secret drop?”
“Just reporting the facts, sir.”
Before I can roll my eyes, a small voice cuts through the line.
“IT’S BELLA!” Lev’s shout crashes through the speaker. “I saw her sneaking into the pantry at midnight! She took the whole box of those fancy Swiss ones you hide on the top shelf. The ones with the gold wrappers!”
Lev. Gleeful. Loud.
Her name shouldn’t hit like that.
I haven’t seen her in days. Haven’t heard her voice. But hearing it from Lev—like she belongs to the rhythm of the house now, part of the noise, the chaos—
It pulls something tight in my chest.
Laughter spills through the line. Someone shouts about Nerf darts. Chairs drag. A door slams.
And I just… listen.
I’ve never heard my house sound so alive. So completely out of my control.
I close my eyes for a beat. Something loosens in my chest.
“And the others?” I ask.
He pauses, but not long enough.
“Mrs. Belov is doing well. She’s off the crutches today. Dr. Nilsson’s pushing more mobility—resistance and grip coordination.”
Dr. Nilsson. Tall. Athletic build. Dark blond hair that always looks like he just walked off a private clinic ad. Young, confident, the kind of man who makes charm look effortless.
