I don’t know why, but that detail sticks in my brain strangely.
I wonder what happened to her mother. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
Hopefully, she isn’t some covert terror that her photo fails to suggest. Her eyes are kind looking, so I doubt it, but these days, you never really know. I’ve watched enough documentaries to know appearances can lie.
Still, I doubt this sweet-faced girl is going to flip the table mid-lesson and start plotting my demise.
Hopefully.
What Iammore worried about is her father.
The contract was extremely clear that I’m only to focus on English tutoring, nothing more. No nannying, no night shifts while she’s sick, no discipline or personal errands like I’m a glorified house manager. But contracts are just ink on paper. If Mr. Sorokin decides I need to take on more… well, I’m inhishouse inhiscountry, and I barely speak a word of Russian.
Before I can spiral too far, the gate agent announces the first boarding group, snapping me out of my internal monologue. I shove the Sorokin information packet back into my bag and stand, smoothing out my sweater and double-checking for my passport and boarding pass.
I don’t remember much after getting in my seat and pulling my eye mask down to rest, other than being woken up twice by one of the flight attendants to hand out drinks and then dinner. Afterthat, I fall in and out of restless sleep until finally, the wheels touching down on the tarmac wake me up completely.
Moscow greets me with grey skies and a chill in the air that cuts through the small gap the jet bridge attaches to the plane, sending a shiver running up my spine while passing by it.
Customs is its own circle of hell.
Despite everything being relatively orderly, the sheer mass of people funneling through the corridors, all half-asleep and trying to follow signage in stilted English, nearly sends me into a panic spiral.
I grip my documents so hard my knuckles ache, and by the time I get up to border security, I practically collapse against the desk.
Eventually, I make it through.
Then comes baggage claim. I nearly grab the wrong one twice before finally finding my luggage, yanking it from the carousel with a grunt. I’m sweating by the time I make it out of the maze of arrivals and into the main terminal. My coat feels too warm and my mouth tastes like sleep and recycled air.
A man stands just off to the side by the automatic doors leading to the streets of Moscow holding a clean white placard with my name printed in perfect, blocky handwriting. He looks straight at me the moment I spot him, like he’s been tracking every passenger who walks through trying to find the right one.
I hesitate for a second, adjusting my grip on my luggage, before walking over.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp black suit with a wool overcoat draped over one arm. His face is hard with stone-carved cheekbones, a sharp nose, and an unreadable expression.
Strangely, he doesn’t look unkind. Just… professional. The kind of man I can tell doesn’t waste time with flowery words and long, drawn-out conversations.
When I stop in front of him, he lowers the sign.
“Ivy Bennett?” he asks. His English is good, though heavily accented, clipped with the vowels rounded in a way I have to focus on to catch.
“Yes. That’s me.”
He nods once, then folds the placard and tucks it under his arm. Without another word, he gestures toward the sliding glass doors that lead outside. I trail after him, heart thudding harder again. When the doors open, the cold smacks me in the face like a slap.
It’s worse than I expected. It’s the kind of bone-deep chill that sneaks through your clothing no matter how many layers you have on. I suck in a breath, my lungs aching a little as we cross the pavement toward a sleek black Town Car parked at the curb.
He opens the back door for me and jerks his chin, silently urging me inside.
The seats inside are buttery leather and a heater hums warmly at my feet while he loads my luggage into the trunk. He says nothing when he returns to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel, but that’s fine, I’m too exhausted to make small talk, anyway.
The drive through Moscow is surreal.
Wide, icy streets cut between historic buildings with ornate façades and golden domes. I spot churches that look like storybook illustrations, their spires glinting against the pale sky.Between the old-world beauty are sleek designer storefronts, flashing LED ads, modern architecture stitched together with centuries-old brickwork.
The car finally turns off the main road and into a private drive. My ears pop slightly as we begin to ascend, winding up what looks like a forested hill. Tall pines border the road on either side.
My jaw drops when the trees break and I see, for the first time, the Sorokin estate.
