The estate appeared on no civilian GPS. To reach the Volkov manor, Faye had to follow cryptic instructions sent via secured courier: a succession of secondary roads plunging deep into the pine forest, where the mist seemed to stagnate even in the middle of June.
When she finally crossed the double wrought-iron gates, the manor did not welcome her. It observed her. It was a monolithic structure of white concrete and one-way glass—a feat of modern architecture that clashed violently with the savagery of the surrounding trees. Nothing was out of place. Not a dead leaf on the gray gravel driveway, not a trace of moss on the immaculate walls. It was a dwelling designed for order, not for comfort.
Faye cut the ignition of her aging hatchback, its tired engine making an almost obscene noise in the monastic silence. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She hadn't sought elegance, only functionality: a tight low bun, a heavy cotton shirt, black trousers. In this world, appearance was a currency, and she had no intention of being bankrupt from the very first minute.
She stepped out, bag over her shoulder. The air was sharp, thick with the scent of resin and something more metallic. Approaching the monumental door, she found no doorbell—only a keypad and a biometric sensor. Before she could even raise her hand, a sharp click echoed.
"Enter, Miss Miller. Second door on the right after the hall."
The voice, broadcast through an invisible intercom, was devoid of warmth. An automatic, purely procedural politeness.
— The Antechamber —
The interior was even more oppressive than the exterior. The entrance hall was a cathedral of emptiness. The gray-veined marble floor was so polished she felt as if she were walking on frozen water. Her footsteps echoed with metronomic precision.
She found the indicated room: a minimalist office where a man and a stack of documents awaited her.
Gabriel Stein did not look like an assistant. He wore a three-piece suit whose cut could have paid a year of Faye's rent. He did not stand. His eyes, a faded blue, flicked from his tablet screen to Faye's face with the speed of a scanner.
"You are two minutes behind the optimal schedule," he noted in a neutral voice.
"The fog on the coastal road was denser than anticipated," Faye replied, holding his gaze.
She did not apologize. In her experience, apologizing to men like Stein was a confession of weakness they used to reduce your salary or your rights. Gabriel gave a very slight twitch of an eyebrow.
"Mr. Volkov demands absolute punctuality, but he appreciates caution. Sit down."
He slid a folder toward her.
"You were selected from forty-two candidates. Your medical record is clear, your criminal record equally so, and your references from diplomatic families in London are excellent. However, here, the rules are different."
He paused, letting the weight of the silence settle.
"You will not be working for a family, Miller. You will be working for an institution. Mr. Volkov is rarely present, but his influence is constant. Aleksei's routine is the center of gravity for this house. If the center wavers, the structure collapses. Is that clear?"
"Crystal. What is the protocol for a medical emergency?"
Stein pointed to a discreet red button under the edge of the table.
"A paramedical security team is stationed in the West Wing. You don't have to think. You press, they intervene. Your role is daily management, cognitive development, and the child's immediate safety. The rest... the rest does not concern you."
— The Encounter —
They ascended to the upper floor via a silent elevator. Stein walked fast, forcing Faye to quicken her pace. The hallways were lined with abstract artworks that looked like open wounds on white backgrounds.
They stopped before a massive oak door, the only touch of warm wood she had seen so far. Stein opened it without knocking.
The nursery was a violent contrast to the rest of the manor. It was an oasis of softness, dimmed lights, and expensive fabrics. In the center, on a virgin wool rug, a small boy of about nine months sat surrounded by Scandinavian wooden toys.
Aleksei.
The baby had ink-black hair and porcelain-pale skin. When he turned his head toward them, Faye was struck by the precocious intelligence in his gaze. He didn't cry. He didn't smile either. He observed Faye just as Gabriel had: with a silent evaluation.
Faye felt a rush of fresh air in her chest. She liked children not for some mystical maternal instinct, but for their brutal honesty. She approached slowly, crouching to his level, respecting his personal space.
"Hello, Aleksei," she said softly, her voice losing its professional rigidity.
She didn't reach out immediately. She waited for him to make the first move. The baby tilted his head, intrigued by this new presence that smelled neither of disinfectant nor of Stein's expensive cologne. He crawled awkwardly toward her and placed a small, chubby hand on Faye's knee.
It was a test. She kept her hand still, simply smiling. Aleksei let out a small, high-pitched cry—a sort of victory gurgle—and hoisted himself up against her.
"Astonishing," Stein murmured behind her. "Usually, he ignores new recruits until they give up."
Faye lifted the child. He was heavy, solid—a vibrant little life in this glass mausoleum. As she rocked him, she felt a strange surge of adrenaline. She knew she had just signed on for much more than a simple governess position.
— The Shadow on the Balcony —
That was when she felt it. It wasn't a sound, but a change in the room's pressure, as if the air had suddenly thinned.
She looked up at the gallery overlooking the nursery.
He was there.
Nikolai Volkov did not look like the blurry photos in financial magazines. He was more imposing, more angular. Dressed in a black turtleneck and dark suit trousers, he almost blended into the shadows of the mezzanine. His hands were placed flat on the glass railing.
For five seconds, which felt like an eternity, their gazes locked. Volkov's eyes were the color of a storm, devoid of any readable emotion. There was no recognition, no kindness—only cold, analytical observation.
Faye did not lower her eyes, despite the pulse of blood thudding at her temples.
Then, without a word, without a nod, he turned and vanished into the dark hallway.
Faye remained motionless, breath short. She realized she was holding Aleksei a little too tightly and immediately loosened her grip.
"Mr. Volkov is satisfied with your first interaction," Stein said, having not missed the exchange.
"Does he never say hello?" Faye asked, trying to regain her composure.
"Mr. Volkov does not waste time on useless civilities. Your contract is for three months, with an absolute confidentiality clause. You will live here, in the adjacent suite. Your meals will be delivered. You have access to the secured garden, but any departure from the estate must be authorized forty-eight hours in advance."
He moved toward the door.
"The outside world no longer exists for you, Miller. From now on, your universe is reduced to this child and these walls. I hope you don't have too many ties to reality, because here, reality belongs to Mr. Volkov."
Faye watched the door close behind Stein.
She found herself alone in the soft light of the nursery with Aleksei. The baby had fallen asleep against her shoulder, his rhythmic breathing the only sound in the room.
She walked to the window. In the distance, beyond the security fences and the dense forest, she could make out the horizon line. She felt like an astronaut sent to a distant space station. Luxury surrounded her, but it was the luxury of a prisoner.
A storm was brewing on the coast, the sky darkening rapidly. Faye had always loved storms, but here, in the dead silence of the Volkov manor, she wondered if she would be able to survive when the thunder finally broke.
Because one thing was certain: the man on the mezzanine was no silent spectator. He was the architect of the chaos that awaited her.