There it is.
Soft. Small. Like it snuck out without permission.
I nod. “Every day.”
Alya looks down at her shoes. Her voice gets even quieter.
“My mommy left. When I was a baby. Papa says I was six months old.”
Six months. That’s it. That’s all she ever got.
“I don’t remember her,” she adds. “Just pictures. And one time, I had a dream about her, but I think I made it up.”
My throat burns. I don’t know what to say. Whatcanyou say to that?
She keeps her eyes on the tile.
“Do you think some mommies stay and some don’t?” she asks.
Oh God.
I can’t answer. Not really. So I don’t lie. I just crouch there, heart cracked wide open, and say, “I think the ones who stay… try really hard. Even when it’s messy. Even when they’re scared.”
She looks at me.
And in that look—I swear—there’s a question she doesn’t say out loud.
Not“Are you my mom?”But something quieter. Something like:“Will you stay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Not yet.
I just reach out and gently fix the cheese stuck in her hair.
She lets me.
By the time I get back to the kitchen, the maids have gone fullMission: Pizza Impossible—moving in synchronized silence, sliding trays into stone ovens with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgical teams and bomb squads.
Alya’s back at the island, fingers drumming on the edge of her stool like she’s already planning the next round of toppings. Lev is poking at stray bits of pepper like he’s bored again. And Nikolai’s just watching, eyes flicking between the rest of us like he’s clocking everything without giving any of it away.
I look at them—really look at them—and something shifts.
They don’t feel like strangers anymore.
They feel like a lot of things—too quiet, too smart, too sharp around the edges—but not strangers.
The maids are cleaning the counters like they were never used. One’s adjusting a timer. Another is arranging fresh plates on a long marble credenza that looks like it was carved from a glacier. The dining area opens just beyond—tall windows framing thecliffside, a view so dramatic it could swallow you whole if you let it.
I take the empty seat near the head of the table. Not at the head. I’m not delusional. Just… close enough to see everything.
Alya climbs up beside me like nothing happened.
I glance over at Konstantin. He’s speaking to one of the older housekeepers near the espresso machine, voice low, jaw set. His hands move as he talks—brief, precise gestures—and she nods like she knows better than to make him repeat himself.
It hits me quietly.
This man raised them.
As I watch him speak to the housekeeper, I notice something I missed before. The way Nikolai tilts his head exactly like his father when considering something important. How Lev’s hands move with the same confident precision when handling the knife. Even Alya’s steely determination—it’s all him, imprinted on them like a genetic watermark.
