I shut the thought down.
Pakhanfirst. Everything else is noise.
The children’s quarters are tucked away in the east wing, past the hall of portraits. I keep their world separate. Safer. Uncluttered by the business of my life.
Their wing is quieter now, save for the sound of Lev and Nikolai waging their usual bedtime war. The twins’ room is chaos wrapped in luxury: dark blue walls dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars, books and wooden swords scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers. The clock reads 9.45 p.m.
“Papa!” Lev scrambles across his bed, launching a pillow at his brother like a missile. “The pizza needed more pepperoni. I’m just saying.”
“And less basil,” Nikolai adds, more measured, adjusting the corner of his blanket to neaten it. “It tasted like the garden climbed onto the plate.”
Lev snorts, falling back against the heap of pillows.
“Yeah, way too much garden. Next time, Papa, we need proper pizza. Serious pizza.”
Nikolai stays quiet for a breath, eyes on the ceiling like he’s thinking it through. Then, in his careful way, he adds softly, “Bella smiled when we said that. Like she thought it was funny.”
His words settle between us, quieter than Lev’s bursts of energy but heavier somehow.
I feel it—their ease, the way her name slips so casually from their mouths. This house has been a kingdom of men and silence. There has been no woman here for them to know, no softness in these halls.
Of course they would notice her.
Of course they would latch on.
Dangerous. Far too dangerous.
I bury the thought beneath iron discipline.
“Focus on your studies,” I say, redirecting. “On your training. Discipline earns my respect.”
They quiet, as they always do when I drop the weight of finality into the room. I adjust Nikolai’s blanket, pull it up to his chest, and run a hand over Lev’s hair once before standing.
“Lights out. Now.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I step out, closing the door halfway behind me, and let the silence fall over their room. The hallway here feels different fromthe rest of the house. No guards pacing. No tension humming under the surface. Just the muted hush of bedtime.
A few maids finish tidying in the common area outside the children’s rooms, quietly folding miniature uniforms and lining up tomorrow’s lesson plans. I nod once to them, and they bow their heads, scattering like shadows.
Alya’s door is slightly ajar, the light from her reading lamp spilling into the corridor. As I approach, her nanny, Marina, slips out, clutching a basket of folded laundry. She dips her head low.
“Mr. Belov,” she whispers. “She is waiting for you.”
“Go,” I command softly.
Inside, Alya’s room is a small kingdom of quiet rebellion. Pale pink walls, but with fierce splashes of crimson from her drawings taped along the edges. Stuffed animals line her headboard like soldiers awaiting orders. A small bookshelf stands beside her bed, each volume alphabetized, no doubt by her insistence.
She sits upright beneath her quilt, arms crossed like she means to interrogate me rather than say goodnight.
I close the door behind me with care, the soft click settling into the quiet of her small kingdom.
“Papa,” she begins, steady for someone her age, “do you think your new wife will be happy here?”
The question lands hard.
I cross to her bedside and lower myself onto the edge of her mattress. The frame dips beneath my weight. My thumb brushes along the seam of her blanket as I straighten it, a small, unnecessary action to steady my thoughts.
