I can’t help but glance over my shoulder now and then, half-expecting someone to step out and usher us back toward one of the main rooms at the front of the mansion. A housekeeper, a butler, maybe even Sergei Sorokin himself. But strangely, no one interrupts our impromptu tour.
Aside from the two men at the door and the faint presence of whoever’s handling my luggage, the house feels… empty. Not silent, exactly—there’s the soft hum of the heating system, the occasional creak of the wood floor beneath ornate rugs—but quiet in a way that makes me hyper-aware of every sound I make.
Yulia doesn’t seem to notice. She practically bounces as she leads me up another spiral staircase on the second floor, tugging me along by the hand like we’ve known each other for years.
“You like room,” she promises. “It is pretty.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say, though in truth, the entire house so far looks like something out ofArchitectural Digest. I’m half-convinced I’m about to be shown to a walk-in closet that’s five times the size of my entire apartment back home.
We reach the top of the staircase and turn down a wide hallway. Rich tapestries line the walls between antique light fixtures, andthe faint scent of lemon polish lingers in the air. Yulia doesn’t slow down until we reach the very end of the corridor, where a pair of white double doors with gold handles awaits.
She releases my hand and throws the doors open with theatrical flair. “Ta-da!”
I step inside and immediately stop in my tracks.
Damn, she wasn’t lying. The room isgorgeous.
A tall window framed with sheer cream curtains lets in the afternoon light, spilling across a plush king-sized bed with a tufted headboard and rich navy bedding. A fireplace sits against the far wall, though it’s currently unlit. A writing desk made of dark oak rests beside a tall bookshelf already stocked with a few worn paperbacks. There’s even a private en-suite bathroom tucked behind a sliding door near the bed.
The ceilings are high, the air smells faintly of lavender, and the space is warm and inviting.
Thisguest roomis better than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in.
How is any of this real?
This entire tour really feels like a damn fever dream.
Yulia hops up onto the bed without hesitation, bouncing slightly on her knees as she watches me walk around the large space. “You like?”
“I love it,” I say honestly.
At the foot of the bed on a long ottoman, my luggage has already been neatly placed. On top of the comforter sits a folded stack of towels and linens, along with a cream-colored envelope tuckedbeneath a silver cardholder. I pick it up and scan the front, seeing it’s addressed to me in elegant handwriting.
Inside is a simple card with a list of extension numbers for the household staff, along with a short note that reads,
If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask one of the staff. They are available 24/7 for your convenience. —S.
Sergei.
So he knows I’ve arrived, at least. Even if he hasn’t made an appearance himself.
I glance at the doorway.
Maybe he’s just busy. Important men like him probably have packed schedules. Miss Dori’s packet did mention he was some kind of high-level businessman, though the information had been vague.
No company name. No official title… Is that a bad sign?
His need for privacy is understandable to a certain extent, but there’s a point when I know it’s going to become too much for my curious mind not to want to figure out. Overstepping my boundaries this soon is a recipe for disaster, so I can only hope he makes an appearance sooner rather than later.
Yulia watches me unpack a little, occasionally pointing at things with curiosity.
“You bring books?” she asks, noticing a stack of paperbacks I pull from my carry-on.
“Yeah. A few,” I say, handing her one.
She flips through the pages with interest before setting it aside. “I want to learn fast. English hard, but I want speak like you.”
“I’ll help you,” I promise, touched by her determination.
