Chapter 48

Chapter 47

Sophia

I WALK into the maid's quarters – a palace in its own right. It's larger than the house I grew up in, decorated with Russian luxury. Gold accents, ornate fixtures, the works. The room's abuzz with quiet whispers. Svetlana's meeting is about to start.

Holy hell. I eye the horde of maids gathered in the room. Do the Ivankovs employ the entire female population of Russia?

I keep my gaze low, avoiding the intensity of the curious stares boring into me. It feels like walking onto a stage in the middle of a performance – all spotlights and hushed anticipation. I keep my face blank, trying to exude a calm I don't feel. My heart thuds in my chest, a wild drumbeat against the quiet whispers around me.

I head toward a corner where the least number of gossipy hens are huddled. The room hushes down, and I feel eyes on my back like ants on a sugar trail.

I don't have to be a genius to know what's going through their minds. I can almost hear their whispers.

"There goes the ‘special' one," they whisper loud enough for me to hear, their glances sharp enough to cut glass.

Why wouldn't they talk? In a place where rules are as hard as iron, I'm the anomaly, the special case. I can see their curiosity, their envy, and even their disdain mixed in those sideways glances.

"She's got her own phone," a voice whispers a little too loudly from my left, a note of resentment lacing her words.

"Even eats with the young miss," another voice chimes in. The room fills with a murmur of agreement.

"Bet she's screwing the boss," yet another voice cuts through the whispers, a toxic blend of curiosity and spite. "Gotta be. Why else would she get all this special treatment?" The room buzzes with laughter, and more than a few agreeing hums.

I don't show any emotions, walking past the hushed voices and veiled glances. It's not like I asked for any of this. But they don't know that. They only see the exceptions, the privileges.

Two days back, Svetlana blasted into my room like a hurricane. My heart was pounding, thinking it was Luka. Dumb, I know, but I couldn't help it. I'm always waiting, hoping he'll show up unannounced. That night was no different. Yet it was Svetlana in the doorway, eyes on me like I'd just stabbed her favorite doll or something.

She threw my phone on my bed with a thud. "Use it," she snapped; her eyes were ice. Cold. Calculating.

"What—?"

"But…why?" I asked.

"It's an order from Mr. Ivankov, nothing more," she snapped.

Before I could ask her more questions, she interrupted me again. "You know why." Her icy stare made me want to jump up and slap her face.

Of course, I knew why. It's because I'm good at my job. Because Yulia likes me. Because I'm not just another maid in the Ivankov household, I'm Yulia's friend. Or at least, that's how Yulia sees me.

"And from now on, you're to have meals with Ms. Ivankov. That's also an order from Mr. Ivankov," Svetlana added.

Focusing back on the women gathered in the room, I swallow hard, trying to piece together what's happening. I haven't seen Luka in what feels like an eternity, and Yulia's starting to worry. He could at least— My thoughts break off as I feel eyes on me.

Turning, I spot Anya in the corner, the worry lines etched on her face. I try to give her a reassuring nod, but she just frowns and looks away.

Okay. Anya and I aren't quite buddy-buddy yet. I get it.

The chattering dies down, replaced by a chilling silence. And then, like a general entering a war room, Svetlana strides in. Her icy glare could freeze vodka.

Her eyes land on me, and my heart stops dead in its tracks.

Fuck me, this is it.

Suddenly, my mind starts racing. Scenarios flying through my head like bats out of hell. Anya had mentioned something about spyware, about people disappearing. Could it be?

Are they onto me?

I can feel paranoia creeping up my spine, a prickle of fear that threatens to consume me whole. Getting busted as a spy in a place like this isn't just a slap on the wrist; it's a one-way ticket to a hellhole. Or worse.

Just as I'm mentally preparing my last will and testament, Svetlana's voice rings out, cold and clear. "This Saturday," she announces, "we are hosting a birthday party for Miss Yulia."

Wait, what?

An explosion of relief. Over a party announcement? I let out a chuckle, uncontrolled and loud. I instantly wish I could grab that laugh and stuff it back into my mouth. Too late. Every maid in the room has spun around to stare at me. Guess it's my debut as the court jester.

"I…I," I stammer, caught in the merciless glare of Svetlana. "I apologize. I thought…I just… Yeah."

Svetlana's stare is turning frostier than Siberia in the winter. "We're not here for a comedy show, Miss Williams," she bites out. The air in the room drops a few degrees. Ignoring me with a vengeance, she commands everyone's attention. "We are celebrating Ms. Ivankov's birthday this Saturday. The venue is the Sunset Pavilion. We're catering for a hundred guests."

A hundred people? I blink, taken aback. Who the hell knows a hundred people, let alone wants them all at their birthday? Especially a little kid. The questions whirl in my mind, but I stay quiet.

"Chef Antonio," Svetlana directs her gaze towards a burly man with a chef's hat, "I need a carnival feast from your team. Something grand, something extravagant, and something absolutely delicious. You have free rein; just make it unforgettable."

"And the tasting?" Antonio, with his thick Italian accent, sounds more like he's confirming than asking.

"Mr. Ivankov would like to have a tasting by tomorrow," she replies crisply.

Antonio nods and turns to his crew – an eclectic mix of tattooed, muscular men who look more suited to a mobster movie than a kitchen. A tattooed giant with a butcher's apron starts discussing meat cuts animatedly with a skinny guy in a toque. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The Godfather meets Hell's Kitchen – that should be a reality TV show.

Turning toward two women, Svetlana continues, "For the decorators, Tatiana and Olga, we're going for ‘Lavish Grandeur.' I want every inch of the Sunset Pavilion to sparkle. Be creative, be lavish."

Ten thousand questions are popping into my head at once.

Then she sweeps her gaze across the room, landing on me for a second before continuing, "And we're bringing in a circus crew for Yulia."

I almost swallow my tongue.

A circus? For Yulia? Who decided that? Luka?

Suddenly, a phantom touch ghosts over my shoulder. I flinch. Turning, I find Anya right there, looking as inscrutable as ever.

"Geez, Anya. You scared me. You're like a ghost." I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

Ignoring my quip, Anya leans in, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's not just a party, Sophia." Her words are an ice-cold splash of water. The amusement seeping out of me just a moment ago freezes in its tracks.

"Wh-What do you mean, not just a party?" My voice is hushed, matching hers. My brow furrows, my mind whirring with a thousand possibilities. What kind of other "party" are we talking about here?

For a split second, an evil grin flickers across Anya's face, like a glimmer of moonlight on a dark pond. But it's gone as quickly as it came, leaving me wondering if I'd imagined it. Her eyes, though, are a different story – hard, cold, devoid of any semblance of warmth or humanity. It's like staring into the eyes of a shark.

In a voice so low, it's practically a breath of wind, she mutters, "Aleks wants you to get ready."

The name hits me like a sucker punch, knocking all the air out of me. "Anya…you're…" The rest of the words stick in my throat as if my vocal cords have gone on strike.

My heart skips a beat. Aleks. She's on his side. Anya, the aloof maid, is also Aleks's spy.

"Quiet!" Anya hisses, making me snap my mouth shut faster than a mousetrap. That chilling smile she wore moments ago vanishes as if it was never there, replaced by the usual wallflower act I'd expected from her.

I watch, flabbergasted, as she recedes back into the crowd, a chameleon in human clothing. It's like witnessing a two-faced monster shed its skin, transforming back into a harmless bunny.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

"Sophia!" Yulia cups her hands, small and warm, gently turning my face toward her. I can see the concern in her wide, innocent eyes.

"Sorry, Yulia," I mumble, my mind spiraling elsewhere. It's like I'm trapped in a storm of unanswerable questions, each one more menacing than the last.

What the hell does Aleks want me ready for?

Are there others lurking in the shadows of the Ivankov household, spies just like me?

Like Anya? Who the hell is she, anyway?

And where is Luka in all of this? Part of me is screaming to spill every nagging worry – every dark thought bubbling in my gut – to him. But can I really add to his already sky-high pile of shit to deal with?

Don't be nuts, Sophia!

That would be like committing suicide. Yet I'm itching for a chat with Luka just to spill all the chaotic thoughts swirling in my head. It feels like I'm navigating a minefield alone, without a clue or a strategy.

Ugh! I must be crazy. Luka would kill me on the spot.

"Sophia," Yulia tugs at my sleeve, pulling me back to reality again, "look at this." She thrusts a crumpled piece of paper into my hands.

As my eyes adjust to the flurry of colors on the page, I can't help but force out a smile.

"Aw, now this is a masterpiece!" I exclaim, my eyes tracing over the carefully scribbled drawing clutched in Yulia's small hands.

A bright grin splits her face. "You think so?"

"Definitely!" I affirm, pointing at the tall, imposing figure in the center of the page. "This is Luka, right?"

Yulia giggles, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yeah, that's him. But I made him smile. He should do that more."

I join in her laughter, charmed by her depiction. "Couldn't agree more, Yulia."

"And that," Yulia's tiny finger guides mine to the figure beside Luka, "is Dima. I drew a chef's hat on him because he's always so serious."

Her innocent humor has me laughing again. "I bet Dima would whip up some very serious pancakes."

We share a giggle before my attention shifts to the third man in the picture. "This must be Erik?"

"Uh-huh!" Yulia nods, an enthusiastic bob of curls. "His tattoos were hard to draw."

"You've done an amazing job," I assure her, utterly charmed. "And…is this me?"

Her smile broadens, nearly lighting up the room. "Yep! And I put a heart around us because you're my best friend."

A warmth fills my chest, spreading outwards like the rays of the sun. "And you're my best friend too, Yulia."

My eyes drop to the small, fluffy blob near the depicted Luka's feet. "And this cutie here must be Max?"

Yulia giggles, nodding so hard I fear she might strain something. "Yeah! I wanted to show him as the cute puppy he is, not like a big, scary dog. Do you like it?"

Looking into her eager eyes, I can't help but mirror her smile. "Yulia, I love it. This is the best art I've ever seen." Because it is. It's a window to her pure, innocent world amid our complicated lives.

God, I'm so sorry, my sweet Yulia.

"Hey, Sophia," Yulia's voice pulls me from my thoughts. There's an unmistakable hint of worry in her tone that makes my heart clench.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Do you…do you know where Luka is?" Her voice is small, a whisper of the cheerful tone it was moments ago.

I force a smile, meeting her questioning gaze head-on, my heart aching at the worry clouding her bright blue eyes. "No, I don't, darling. But I promise you, Luka will be back soon," I reassure her, infusing as much conviction into my voice as I can muster. "And when he does, he'll give you the biggest, squishiest hug ever," I say with added enthusiasm, remembering Svetlana's words about the food-tasting scheduled for tomorrow. That means Luka will surely be back by then. He wouldn't miss it.

This assurance brings a tentative nod from her. "Okay, Sophia."

I squeeze her hand gently, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin. "You do know that Luka loves you heaps and heaps and heaps, right?" My voice escalates in pitch with each "heaps," and I finish off with a tickle attack on her little belly.

"Yes, I know!" Yulia squeals through her giggles, squirming under my tickling fingers. In the chaos, Max starts barking, his tail wagging wildly as he joins in our merriment.

We cackle like hyenas, letting the noise drown out the buzz of chaos that's pretty much become our backdrop lately. It's just me and Yulia here, in this pocket of joy we've managed to carve out, holding the crap at bay, at least for a little while.

As I tuck Yulia into bed later, I pin her beautiful drawing above her bed where she can see it.

"Sweet dreams, Yulia," I whisper, brushing a kiss over her forehead. Max, who had been curled up at the foot of the bed, jumps up to lick my cheek, making both Yulia and I giggle.

But as I close her door behind me, the laughter fades, replaced by the unsettling silence of the mansion. It's strange. I haven't seen Luka, Dimitri, or Erik since – forever? It's as if they've vanished into thin air.

Fucking dickheads! They should've called, at least!

Frustrated, I step into my room and quickly close the door behind me. My eyes dart to the loose floorboard under the rug near my bed. Lifting it, I retrieve the burner phone that I've hidden there. It's my lifeline, my connection to the world outside this mansion.

A single message glares at me from the screen. It's from Aleks. "Follow her instructions. Get rid of the phone."

Nothing more, nothing less.

Her?

Is he talking about Anya? Now he wants me to get rid of the phone?

Why?

Could it be because of the increasing security at the house? My fingers hover over the keyboard, my stomach twisting in knots of anxiety.

I manage to punch out my reply: "When can I see Nilo and Wren?" I pause, holding my breath in anticipation, eyes glued to the screen, yearning for a response. But the screen remains stubbornly silent, void of any comforting words.

Come on, you fuckhead!

The lack of response gnaws at me, setting off a bitter ache in my belly. The silence from the phone is a mocking echo of my own desperation. It's just me and this damned screen, the universe's cruel joke. God, it's infuriating.

My heart pounds a rhythm of frustration as each second passes with no reply. In a fit of irritation, I hurl the phone onto the bed.

This is just fucking great!