“I’m going for a walk,” I tell him coldly. A part of me flinches at my tone. Chill out, Tiffy. Again, I can’t understand why I’m so angry. Why a sick part of me thrills at making him flinch. Survival instinct? Maybe. I’ll guard my heart at all costs from him, even if it kills me. “Don’t follow me,” I add as I slam the door.
Driven by nervous energy, I explore his property with a singular focus and find myself surprised by how big it is. And at the same time, just how empty it seems. He must control acres and acres, their boundary defined by wooden posts placed at seemingly random intervals. The house itself overlooks a wide pool set in gray stone as well as a private dock and a vacant boathouse. There’s even an empty, lonely stable at the back overlooking a view of the waterfront.
It’s a home that any little girl would dream of living in, and yet it’s almost entirely devoid of anything she might want to do. There is no playground. No dollhouse. No sea of toys to drown herself in.
It’s as if the man found the perfect blueprint for a family home but had absolutely no clue how to fill it. And now the clinical emptiness of the house makes more sense—he’s stuck, torn between who he is at his core, and the man he seemingly wants to be.
A father.
If I weren’t so angry with him, I’d gently suggest he work some color into the décor. Build a swing set and maybe a garden for her to play in. Does he even have a room picked out for her?
Yes, I suspect, recalling the one upstairs that he requested I avoid. But something tells me that even it is empty. Was he expecting his fake wife to lend him expertise in that arena? It sounds so stupid—a man like him with so many resources could easily hire someone to help him design a little girl’s room. At the same time, it fits. Vadim is so cripplingly self-conscious, he wouldn’t trust anyone to help. Not even me, the woman who bared her soul to him. Who claimed to want a relationship with him.
Who now hates him.
I reinforce that last statement as I return to the house dripping sweat, only to find an unfamiliar vehicle in the driveway—a stocky, serviceable minivan. When I ease open the front door, a sharp voice reaches my ears, and I hesitate over the threshold, straining to listen.
“…so, you can see why we were concerned,” a woman says, her tone shrill and haughty. “We love and nurture children of all ages, shapes, and sizes, but I hope you are prepared for that girl.”
“She can be…unusual,” a man interjects, his voice slightly more tolerable, almost apologetic. “That’s what you meant to say, right, honey?”
Rather than sulk upstairs like I should, I follow the conversation into the kitchen, drawn by the tone. It’s far too serious than I figure a typical visit would be—not that Vadim seems like the afternoon brunch type anyway.
I find him seated at the table, impeccably dressed in an ebony suit. Across from him are two strangers—the minivan owners, I assume. The woman wears a hideous sweater ensemble, her blond hair pulled back severely into a bun, while the man wears a faded suit and sports a thinning brown mustache. They certainly don’t look like the type to consort with a billionaire in his private estate.
Unless…
They’re Magda’s current foster placement.
As I falter near the doorway, the woman looks at me, her gaze honed sharp. “Oh, is this your wife?”
“Tiffany,” Vadim says by way of explanation, though he isn’t looking in my direction. His gaze is solely focused on a pile of documents scattered before him—the supposed topic of this meeting. “These are the Robinsons,” he adds, his tone crisp. “Magdalene’s current foster family.”
Ah. I struggle to resume my fake wife ruse and force a grin, tucking my wild hair behind my ears. In a heartbeat, I channel my mother, my anger pushed aside—for now. “Pleased to meet you,” I say charmingly. “I apologize for my appearance. I must have lost track of time.”
“Oh, it’s no worry. And I don’t want to be rude…” Mrs. Robinson wrings her hands together, her lips pursed. The judgmental part of me recognizes the expression for what it is—a pent-up busy body about to unload. “It’s just, I have to ask, did Angela tell you everything? I know Magdalene is only a child, but I insisted upon a higher level of care for her. Perhaps…psychiatric in nature. I know it’s not politically correct to insinuate—”
“I am fully prepared to take her,” Vadim says sternly. It’s strange. His entire expression is a carefully constructed mask of utter politeness. But something in his gaze makes me shiver. I step forward, claiming the chair beside him.
“Yes,” I say, squaring my shoulders in a show of solidarity. “We’re ready.”
Poor Mrs. Robinson swallows hard and shifts in her seat, laughing nervously. “Yes, well… Honey, tell them.” She nudges the man beside her. “Tell them about the incidents.”
“Magda has only been with us a year, mind you,” Mr. Robinson admits with a heavy sigh. “And she had already been through so much, what with her health problems. We knew she’d need some time to adjust—”
“She’s terrorized the other children,” Mrs. Robinson blurts out, folding her hands over the table. “She’s damaged property. There’s this teddy bear she came with. Well, recently, we discovered that not only did she rip its head off, she then broke into my embroidery kit and sewed it back together with red thread! It’s ghastly. We think it was a threat intended to frighten the other children.” Horror laces her tone, her voice shaking. “She’s incredibly isolative. She won’t let you help her with anything. Not her hair. Not with bathing—”
“She’s independent,” Mr. Robinson cuts in with another apologetic frown.
His wife scoffs. “She’s stubborn. The teachers at her school say
