When was the last time I made her smile like that?
Never.
The thought settles in my chest like broken glass.
I'm her father. I'd die for her. Kill for her. Burn the world down to keep her safe. But I can't make her smile. Can't make her feel safe enough to just be a child, instead of a haunted little ghost, cataloguing threats.
Valerie does it without trying, and that complicates everything.
I really need to get my act together; I have other things to do than thinking about a potential spy maid.
Three days after the bathroom incident, I find her in the west corridor, arms full of fresh linens from the supply closet. She doesn't see me at first. Too focused on not dropping the stack of sheets that reaches her chin.
I step out from the intersecting hallway directly into her path.
She freezes. The linens wobble, but she catches them, and her eyes go wide when she realizes who's blocking her way.
"Mr. Volkov." Her voice comes out thin. Shaky. "I didn't see you there—I was just—"
"Just what?" I don't move. Don't give her space to pass. Just stand there and watch her pulse hammer in her throat.
"Getting linens. For the guest rooms. Sofia asked me to—"
"I didn't ask what you're doing." I take a step closer. She takes one back, her spine hitting the wall.
Her breath quickens. I can see her chest rising and falling faster under the stack of linens, see her eyes dart to the nearest exit—twenty feet away, might as well be a mile—and then back to me.
"You seem nervous, Valerie."
"I'm not—" Her voice breaks. "I'm just trying to do my job."
"Are you?" I tilt my head slightly, studying her. The way her pupils dilate. The way her lips part as if she can't get enough air.The way her body goes rigid, but she doesn't run. "Because it seems like you've been trying to do something else entirely."
"I'm not doing anything else." The lie is immediate. Automatic.
I reach out slowly—giving her time to see it coming—and pluck the top sheet from her stack. She flinches but doesn't drop the rest.
"Then why do you look like you're about to bolt?" I let the sheet unfold between us, examining it like it's fascinating. "Why does your pulse race every time I'm near? Why do you jump at shadows?"
"I don't—"
"You do." I drop the sheet. It puddles on the floor between us. "And I'm trying to decide if it's guilt or fear."
Her eyes drop to the sheet, then back to my face. "Please, I need to—Sofia's waiting—"
"Sofia can wait." I take the last step, eliminating the space between us entirely. She's pressed against the wall now, linens clutched to her chest like armor. "Look at me."
She doesn't want to. I can see it in how her eyes try to focus anywhere else—the floor, the ceiling, the discarded sheet. But eventually, she looks up.
And there it is. That flash of something underneath the terror. Just for a second. Something sharp and defiant before the fear swallows it whole.
There you are.
"Good girl," I murmur. "Now tell me what you're really doing in my house."
"Cleaning. Working. I already told you—"
I lean closer, one hand coming up to rest on the wall beside her head. Not touching her. Not yet. Just caging her in. "Liar."
