The door creaks open, and Anya steps inside, her eyes cast down. I’m struck again by how young she is. She’s maybe twenty, tops. Blonde hair braided tight. Her uniform looks like it’s been starched within an inch of its life.
“I have prepared your bath, Mrs. Belov,” she says, voice soft and dutiful. “And your clothes.”
I blink. “You… you ran me a bath?”
She nods like this is normal. Like it’s not completely bizarre that someone filled a clawfoot tub with steaming water and actual rose petals at the crack of dawn for a girl who still feels like she fell headfirst into a mafia fairy tale from hell.
“Of course,” she replies, glancing toward the marble bathroom like it’s part of the morning routine. Wake up. Brush teeth. Bath with roses. Casual.
I stare at the tub. There’s literal steam curling off the surface, and the petals look freshly plucked.
What is this? Bridgerton?
I mutter under my breath, “If you say you also have a team of woodland creatures ironing my sheets, I’m calling animal services.”
She doesn’t react, probably too polite or too trained to acknowledge my sarcasm.
“Where are you from, Anya?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Her gaze dips lower. “Eastern Europe.”
I press, gentler this time, “Do you have family back home?”
“I am trained not to speak too much, Mrs. Belov.” Her words are polite, but there’s an invisible wall between us. “Just maid.”
The way she says it—like she’s not even a person—makes my chest ache. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Well,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice, “thank you, Anya. For the bath. And the, uh, outfit. Though, fair warning, I may need help figuring out how to get into it. I’m used to sweatpants.”
A flicker of something passes over her face—not quite a smile, but close. Then, silently, she retreats to the wardrobe, laying out the dress like it’s made of spun gold.
Before I can process the next absurdity of my morning, the door slams open.
Two small hurricanes tumble in, breathless with energy. Lev and Alya.
Lev points at me with glee, his grin bright and victorious.
“See! I told you she’s still here!”
Alya’s face lights up for a split second, like someone flicked a switch inside her. She doesn’t run. No, she walks in slowly, the way kids do when they’rejustplaying it cool, but you know they’re secretly buzzing with excitement.
She’s clutching a soft, cream-colored teddy bear, the kind that’s seen years of love but still holds its shape. The fur is slightly matted in places, the seams a little looser, but it’s been carefully kept—clean, fluffed, and probably hand-washed by someone whose job it is to maintain bear perfection. The little satin bow at its neck is tied in a neat, slightly frayed knot, a hint that this bear has been loved hard and held close. Somehow, that well-worn bear in her arms feels more surreal than the marble floors and rose petal baths. Of course, even the bear is perfect in its own way. Everything in this house is.She’s wearing a tiny navy pinafore dress with white tights and shiny black shoes that look like they’ve been polished to military standards. There’s even a little white blouse under the dress, complete with a Peter Pan collar. I blink at her.
I’m still tangled in the comforter, not even fully upright yet, looking like I wrestled with my pillow and lost, while this child is dressed like she’s about to accept a Nobel Prize.
Alya surveys the room like she’s inspecting her future kingdom, her eyes shining.
“You’re coming to school with me today,” she announces proudly, hugging her bear closer.
I squint at her, still half-asleep. “I’m what now?”
“You’re driving me,” she says, as if this is common knowledge, as if we’ve had a full board meeting about it and I just missed the memo. “Papa said so.”
Papa?My eyes flick to Lev, who just grins like he’s watching the best show on earth. I follow Alya’s line of sight toward the door, where Konstantin decides to make his grand appearance.
Ofcoursehe does.
My pulse stutters. There he is, perfectly put together in a dark suit and crisp white shirt, like it’s not even slightly offensive to look that good at this ungodly hour. Meanwhile, I probably have pillow lines stamped across my cheek and hair that’s doing its best impression of a bird’s nest.
