Alyona
By the time I step through the front doors of The Lennox, my nerves are stretched so tight they hum. The building itself doesn’t help. Everything is warm wood and stone, light and layered together in a way that feels intentional rather than decorative. The scent of eucalyptus and just a hint of citrus hangs in the air. It’s clean without being sharp, and soft light filters in from high windows making the whole place feel insulated from the outside world.
I pause just inside the threshold, fingers curling around the strap of my bag, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that I am here because ofKazimir Baranov.
Because he made a call.
Doors are opening for me that normally wouldn’t, and I’m all too aware of it.I don’t deserve this. I haven’t earned it.
The thought makes my stomach twist as I check-in at the front desk. My name is already on the list, and my badge is already prepared. No one looks at me strangely, raises an eyebrow, or asks pointed questions. The woman behind the desk smiles warmly and tells me they’ve been expecting me. Her tone is so easy, it throws me off balance.
I follow her deeper into the spa, past softly flowing fountains and wide corridors lined with pale stone. The sounds are muted here, footsteps are absorbed by thick rugs, and voices are low and respectful. Every surface looks touched by care rather than money alone, and I find myself slowing, taking it in despite my nerves. Even though I’m here as an employee, I can feel how perfectly calming the environment they’ve created is.
I feel safe, quieter than I have in days. Safer than I have since I watched the man I shared a bed with one forbidden night get covered in blood; unflinching and unapologetic.
I keep waiting for the moment when someone will clock me as the Bratva boss’s fiancée. After all, we’re in and out of the news.
Power, Rockets, and Romance: Kazimir Baranov’s Engagement Marks a Rare Public Moment
Billionaire Aerospace King Off the Market: Who Is Alyona Demsky?
Beyond Quarterly Earnings: Kazimir Baranov Begins Planning the Baranov Legacy
That last one made me blush when Devin texted it to me. A legacy? At the time, I briefly imagined Kazimir as a father, but killed that thought quickly.
As I walk through The Lennox, no one gives me a second look.
Instead, a tall woman with sleek braids glances at me as we pass and says, “That color looks incredible on you,” nodding at my blouse like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A younger aesthetician flashes me a grin and asks if I’m new, telling me she loves my smile. The compliments land softly but steadily, and with each one, something in my chest loosens just a little.
No one looks at my body like it’s a problem to solve. No one looks at me like I need to shrink, which is all too common in thisindustry. You can have perfect skin and magic hands and still be judged for the space you take up.
When I’m introduced to the spa manager, I immediately understand why this place feels the way it does. She’s in her late fifties, maybe older, with long white hair worn loose down her back and laugh lines etched deep around her eyes. Her beauty isn’t polished or manufactured; it’s rooted in confidence. It’s the kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are and not apologizing for it.
“Alyona,” she says, taking my hands in hers with a firm, grounding grip. “I’m Brook. Welcome.”
“Thank you for having me,” I say, the words reflexive, a little too eager.
She studies me for a moment, sharp, but not unkind, then smiles. “You’re here because we think you’ll be good at this. Not because of who you know.”
The knot in my stomach eases enough that I have to swallow.
The tour is overwhelming in the best way. Treatment rooms that feel like sanctuaries, not clinics. Saunas lined with cedar and slate. Hallways that open onto quiet courtyards where water trickles over stone. When we take the elevator up to the roof, I actually gasp.
Thermal pools stretch out under the open sky, and steam curls upward in lazy spirals. The city feels far away from here, muffled and distant, and for the first time since arriving in Savannah, I feel something close to awe rather than anxiety. There’s a comfortable little bar and seating area where guests can get anything from cleansing drinks to a healthy meal.
“This is unreal,” I murmur.
Brook smiles knowingly. “It should feel like an escape.”
I spend the day shadowing Brook, and then another aesthetician, I begin to hear whispers—not about me, but about him. Kazimir. I catch fragments as staff pass by, low and careful, but not fearful.
He helped someone’s cousin get out of a bad situation. He paid for a woman’s medical bills when insurance failed her. He stepped in when someone was being squeezed by the wrong people and made it stop.
There are darker stories too, but even those are spoken with a kind of resigned respect. The picture that forms is complicated and unsettling, and far more nuanced than the monster I’ve been trying to keep neatly boxed away in my head.
By the time I’m shown where I’ll be working, my initial cringe—the fear that I’d walk in looking like a kept woman playing at a career—has softened into something else entirely.
I’m not being indulged; Brook seems to actually value my skill set. She has suggestions for refining my technique, but she asks my opinion on spa matters too.
