“I don’t want to leave any of them,” she admits.
“You can’t take all of them,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says again, her voice thinning at the edges. “But I wish I could.”
I watch her shoulders dip just a fraction and her lips pinch together as if holding the feeling in place instead of letting it spill out.
“I’ll help you decide,” I reassure her.
Her head lifts immediately, hope cutting through everything else. “Promise?”
“I don’t make promises I won’t keep.”
She studies me carefully, considering the words instead of just accepting them. Then she nods once. That’s enough for her.
“Can we go back tomorrow?” she asks, her voice lifting again, cautious but hopeful.
I expected that.
“I’ll decide before you go to bed,” I tell her.
Her shoulders rise with a quiet breath, her expression changing as she processes it. Not a yes, not a no. She understands the difference.
“Okay,” she says. “But I hope you say yes, Papa.”
“I’m aware.”
That earns me a small, genuine smile before she turns back toward the window, her reflection faint in the glass as she starts talking again, piecing the shelter back together.
I let her keep talking, her voice filling the space while my attention turns elsewhere.
Maggie Hayes didn’t react to me the way most people do. There wasn’t any hesitation, adjustment, or attempt to read me before deciding how to respond. She looked at me, took in what she needed, and then turned her attention back to Ivy as if that mattered more.
Most people don’t do that. Most don’t ignore what I am. She did.
And Ivy… I glance at my daughter again, watching the way she gave herself over to that moment naturally, stepping toward Maggie as if she already knew her. That doesn’t happen. Not with anyone. Not since her mother.
The memory comes in a rush, leaving no room to ignore it. Clara used to listen the way Ivy does, like nothing else existed when you spoke. I tighten my grip against the armrest, holding the thought in place before it goes any further, and then I shut it down.
The car turns onto the private drive, the iron gates opening as we approach, security in place before we reach them. Everything is where it should be and accounted for. That’s the only reason I allow Ivy to move through the world the way she does.
I step out first when the car stops, scanning out of habit, then turn and offer her my hand.
“Stay close.”
“I always do,” she says, placing her hand in mine.
We walk inside together, and as the door closes behind us and the outside world shuts out completely, I allow myself to feel the difference between control and peace. They’re not the same, and I don’t confuse them anymore.
Ivy’s hand slips from mine the second she spots her nanny near the staircase, her entire posture lifting as excitement carries her forward.
“Can I tell Irina about Daisy?” she asks, already moving.
“I know you will.”
Irina Volkova is positioned just off the base of the stairs, her posture straight and presence composed, not drawing attention but never going unnoticed. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, not a strand out of place, the style as practical as it is precise. There’s a quiet authority in the way she holds herself, the stillness of her hands, and the calm set of her expression as she watches Ivy approach.
She’s been with us for nearly two years, long enough to understand the structure of this house without needing instruction, and to know Ivy’s routines better than anyone else. There’s a maternal warmth in the way she looks at her, not overwhelming or indulgent, but constant and present, never wavering when it matters. Ivy trusts her without question.
