There are plenty of Sorokins in Russia. Politicians, artists, professors, a few businessmen. Butnonethat match his face. No corporate bio. No LinkedIn. Not even a stray PR fluff piece from ten years ago on some obscure blog.
“He might as well be a ghost,” I eventually say, leaning back and rubbing at my burning eyes. “There’s not a single photo of him on the internet. And no company that seems to have him as aregistered executive. I can’t even figure out what industry he’s in.”
“You said tech, right?” Alia asks, sounding increasingly annoyed. “What kind of tech? AI? Cybersecurity? Biotech? What’s the company called?”
I stare at the empty Google search bar. The little blinking cursor taunts me.
“I don’t know,” I admit, voice hollow.
Alia leans closer to the screen. “Wait, wasn’t it in that packet they gave you before you left? Didn’t it say the name of his company or, like, what sector he worked in?”
I shake my head. “The packet was more about the job. There was a line about Sergei’s “involvement in tech-related ventures”, but that was it.”
She whistles low. “That’s shady as hell, Ivy.”
“No kidding.”
The silence that follows on the other end of the phone is heavy. By the time we hang up, my head is pounding hard, throbbing even when applying pressure to the sides of my skull.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Later that day,after Yulia’s lessons are finished and she’s wandered off to read in the enclosed patio, I spot one of the maids near the side hallway that leads toward the kitchens.
She’s younger than most of the others, close to my age if I had to guess. Early twenties, maybe a little older. I’ve seen her around several times over the last two weeks, usually carrying laundry or silently clearing dishes with quick precision.
She’s one of the few staff members Iknowspeaks some English, even if she avoids using it unless absolutely necessary.
I approach slowly, offering a smile that I hope reads as friendly instead of strained. “Hi, sorry. Would you be able to reach Mr. Sorokin for me?”
She pauses, straightening with a stack of folded towels in her arms. Her eyes go wide for a second before she gives a short nod.
“I was… thinking about taking Yulia into the city,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It might help her English if she practiced in public. Maybe at a café or bookstore. Something fun and low-key.”
She says nothing, just turns and disappears down the hallway.
I blink after her.
Well, that was a bust…
To my surprise, she returns to me within a few minutes, finding me in the sitting room with Yulia.
This time, her hands are empty except for the slim, sleek shape of a matte black credit card. She carries it with both palms as though it’s made of glass. When she gets closer, I notice her hands are shaking. It’s just barely, but enough to make the card tremble between her fingers as she extends it toward me.
“Mr. Sorokin approved. You may use this.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and take it from her.
Before I can thank her, she adds, “He told me to tell you to please remain alert.”
Her tone doesn’t carry the usual Russian bluntness I’ve grown accustomed to. It’s too soft. Almost… apologetic in a way.
“Thank you,” I say, offering a small, tight smile. She gives a swift bow of her head and disappears again quickly like they all do.
I head upstairs with Yulia to change, moving on autopilot.
My heart is thudding harder than I want to admit. Not out of fear, exactly, but anticipation. Something caught between nerves and hope, like I’m about to do something I’ve been forbidden to even think about.
Getting out of the house. Off the grounds of this estate. Out from under Sergei’s watchful eye and the carefully crafted world he’s created.
