“Yes,” Vadim says hoarsely. “We’ll be fine.”
If she’s convinced by his tone, Ms. Anderson’s wary grin doesn’t reveal much either way. With a small smile shaping her lips, she stoops down beside Magda and shakes her hand. “Be good. You all have my number if you need it. Even you, Mags.”
“I won’t be needing it,” Magda says with steely confidence. Her eyes continue to skim around the room as if taking stock of every single tile in the flooring and divot in the wallpaper.
“Well, goodbye.” Ms. Anderson leaves, and it’s as if she takes some of the air in the room with her.
The absence of a third party makes this all way too surreal. A mini female Vadim is prancing around haughtily while the original, older Vadim stands rigid in the corner, watching her.
And then there’s me, ogling them both with an increasing sense of panic. More than ever, I’m starting to sense what I was afraid of all along, that niggling suspicion that I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to belong here.
Navigating awkward social situations in the past has taught me that the only way to banish such an emotion is to force some small talk and hope for the best.
“I… Um, why don’t we show you to your room?” I croak, to break the silence.
Magda cocks her head at me, her gaze skeptical. “My own room?” she prods in that eerily charming yet cold cadence. “I don’t have to share it?”
“No.” I force out a strangled laugh. “Who would you share it with, sweetie?”
She eyes me directly and blinks once. “You. Aren’t you the other guest in the house?”
I grit my teeth in shock. My gaze cuts to Vadim, who hasn’t budged from his spot. He shakes his head, raking his hands through his hair.
“No,” he croaks. “She’s not—”
“Let’s show you around,” I say, jutting my chin with what I hope passes for poise. I start for the stairs. Within seconds, Vadim is by my side and, in our wake, resonate tiny, hesitant footsteps that trail behind during the entire ascent upstairs.
When we reach her room, Magda toes the threshold, eyeing everything with barely any expression. “It’s okay, I guess,” she declares after a few weighty seconds of silence. “I just wish…”
“What?” Vadim steps forward, suddenly animated, his jaw clenched. It’s as if the prospect of disappointing her does something to him internally. Shatters him.
Magda sighs and tosses It onto the bed, unconcerned as his floppy head rebounds off the headboard. “I just wish it was yellow,” she says, folding her arms over her black pinafore. “I hate blue.”
“You do?” Vadim’s expression further constricts. “But, Ms. Anderson—”
“She must have lied.” Dismissively, she shrugs her shoulders and moves to stand before her window. Her fingers ruthlessly clutch at her forearms, but I don’t miss how they twitch. Like someone aching to jump onto the window seat and peer through the glass in awe of the view. Or run their fingers through the fully stocked bookshelf. The more I watch her, the more I’m convinced. She’s Vadim’s through and through.
Meaning that every word and action is calculated and intentional. And right now, for whatever reason, she wants to see his guilt-ridden expression reflected off the window glass. In response to the sight, her small chin lowers, and her fingers grip her arms tighter in triumph.
“We’ll let you get settled in,” I suggest, reaching for Vadim’s hand. His is shaking though his expression reveals nothing but cold, careful blankness.
“What would you like for dinner?” he asks, his tone level. “You can ask for anything. You may have it—”
“I’m not hungry.” Whirling on her heel, Magda marches over and snatches her suitcase right from his grasp. She starts to place it down beside the bed only to notice something that makes her eyes widen as she pauses mid-act. “I have my own bathroom?”
My ears perk up. For a second, that haughty chirp cracked, revealing a hint of true excitement. As if aware of her failing façade, she kicks the suitcase over and sighs with the utmost nonchalance.
“Yes,” Vadim says, though I don’t think he noticed. He’s too busy watching her. Gaping at her. If I’m stunned by the similarities in them both, I can’t imagine what he must be feeling. “All of this is yours. Everything. And we can have the color changed tomorrow—”
“I’m tired.” Magda crosses over to the door and grasps the handle. “Can I take a nap?”
Vadim blinks. “Of course.”
“Okay.” She proceeds to close the door, forcing us to scramble out into the hall. The resulting slam resonates through the walls.
I look at Vadim. His expression is more controlled than ever, crafted to avoid displaying a hint of real emotion. But he can’t hide from me—not anymore. Confusion haunts his eyes as they meet mine, alluding to a pain he desperately scrambles to hide.
“Let’s go see about lunch,” he says.
I follow him into the kitchen, where I’m surprised to find the fridge and cupboards magically stocked with food fit for a child and not just enough sustenance to keep a reclusive billionaire alive. Ena’s even made a series of new meals to fill the freezer, it seems. Color coded, to boot—blue lids contain the usual meat and vegetable entre that Vadim appears to prefer. Yellow, on the other hand, looks to be an array of child-friendly fare from chicken nuggets and fries to vegetables cut in all sorts of appealing shapes.
“I have got to get myself a henchman,” I say as I examine another carefully crafted meal.
Vadim eyes me with the hint of a smile threatening his serious frown. “I have a feeling you’d be a lot more demanding than
