When she was passing.
“Thanks,” I say. “If you’re heading up anyway.”
“I just want to make sure I don’t disturb anyone. Is Nikolai still in the master bedroom?”
My hand stills on the pan handle.
I turn around slowly. Claire is watching me with an expression that reads as perfectly pleasant—a little too perfectly. There is no reason she should assume where Nikolai sleeps. She’s never in the penthouse early enough to have seen him come out of any room. And even if she had—the casual ease of the question sits wrong, like a line delivered a beat too late.
“He sleeps in the guest room,” I say.
Something moves through her face. It’s quick—the smile tightening, a coolness behind the eyes—before she smooths it over. “Of course. I don’t know why I assumed.” A small laugh, self-deprecating, already moving on.
I turn back to the stove.
The French toast sizzles in the pan, Hannah hums something tuneless at the table and the kitchen feels completely normal.
I keep my face neutral and file it away.
Claire turns back to Hannah and slides a plate of pancakes in front of her—golden syrup, a neat fan of strawberries along the side—like the conversation behind her never happened.
Hannah’s face lights up.
I watch from the stove, spatula in hand. Claire didn’t ask. Didn’t check whether pancakes were allowed, whether Hannah had allergies, whether I had a routine I was trying to keep. She just made them and served them, easy and warm, like she’d been doing it for years.
I know it’s a small thing.
I know Hannah is fine—more than fine, already dragging a strawberry through the syrup with focused pleasure. And I know that in the context of everything bearing down on us from outside these walls, one plate of sweet pancakes shouldn’t register.
But I’m her mother. That question goes through me first.
I decide to let it go and turn back to the French toast, pressing the bread down in the pan until the edges crisp. Claire moves around the kitchen behind me—dunking dishes, wiping the counter—and I keep my shoulders down, my breathing even, and tell myself I’m reading too much into a bad cup of coffee and an early morning.
Then Claire says a quiet goodbye to Hannah and heads for the stairs to fetch the sweater.
The shiver comes back the moment she’s gone. Cold and specific, climbing from the base of my spine upward, gone before I can name it.
I plate the French toast, set Nikolai’s portion aside to stay warm, and sit across from Hannah. She’s already halfway through the pancakes, syrup on her chin, entirely content.
I’ll mention it to Nikolai.
Not as a crisis—just a feeling.
He’ll either tell me I’m right to flag it, or he’ll talk me down from the ledge. Either way, I want him to know.
I watch Hannah eat and say nothing, and let the quiet kitchen tell me everything is fine.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nikolai
The technician’s twelve hours came and went.
Whatever the diagnostic turned up, it hasn’t reached me—and I’m not waiting on it.
I do a final sweep of every lock in the penthouse—front door, balcony, every window on both floors—and add a padlock to the front door latch for good measure. Then I go upstairs to the office and run through the camera feeds. Every lens clear. Every angle covered. The hallway cam holding steady where last night it gave me static.
For now.
