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Delicately patterned silk wallpaper cloaks the walls, looking more like an artist’s loving masterpiece. Commanding the room’s attention is a king-size bed, its covers plush and making promises of endless comfort.
Across the room, a colossal window stretches from floor to ceiling, framing the vast estate in all its glory.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
My mind scrambles to catch up. Sophia the nanny, or Sophia the princess? Here I am, standing on the threshold of a room straight out of a high-end home décor magazine. It’s overwhelming. It’s outrageous. But above all, it’s real. I pinch myself, hoping to burst this surreal bubble. But no, it stays.
Welcome to the madness, Sophia.
A bizarre sense of amusement creeps in. I’m a nanny living in a princess suite.
God help me; what’s next?
Svetlana strides in, her movements sharp and concise, like a soldier on duty. She swings open a pair of doors to a massive dressing room that’s larger than my entire room back home.
“Your belongings. Here,” she dictates, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
I peer inside, my mouth dropping open. Clothes are already hung and neatly organized. But how do they know my size? Do they run this place with a one-size-fits-all rule?
“Standard Ivankov nanny uniform. You’ll wear this and only this.” I’m met with a row of black and white outfits. I’m not sure whether to be relieved about the lack of wardrobe decisions or horrified by the uniformity.
I set down my small suitcase and am about to protest when she extends her hand.
“Your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“No personal devices.” Svetlana’s tone is as flat as a pancake on a griddle. There’s no room for argument in her words.
I eye the hand stretched out, expecting my phone. I swallow a lump in my throat.
“But…but I need to stay in touch with my grandmother,” I plead, panic bubbling up.
Svetlana’s eyes are like ice, not a hint of empathy in them. There’s an uncaring monotone to her voice. “First off,” she starts, her gaze impaling me, “you’re Yulia’s nanny. Seven days a week, twenty-four-seven. Where she goes, you go. No exceptions.”
“But—”
“Two.” She raises a finger, halting my protest. “Once a month, you can take a day off. Leave the premises, do whatever you want. But that’s it.”
My mouth opens and closes, no words coming out.
“Three.” Another finger joins the previous two. “Private phones are for Sundays only. You want to call your grandmother? Do it then.”
“But my—”
“Four.” Her gaze hardens, the final rule punctuating her list. “Never share details of Yulia’s schedule with anyone. Ever. Understood?”
My head nods, the rules sinking in. This isn’t a job; it’s a commitment. Who the fuck talks like this? But the words slam into me like a freight train.
What about Nilo? Wren?
How am I supposed to stay fucking connected?
“I…” Reluctantly, I extend my hand, my phone quivering in my grip. It’s like I’m handing over a piece of my soul.
To my surprise, she opens a drawer, revealing an iPad, a high-end cell phone, and a walkie-talkie nestled within.
“Yulia’s routines are all listed under ‘Timetable’ in your device. Stay sharp,” Svetlana continues, her voice as chilling as a blizzard. Her words rain down on me like a hailstorm, and I’m left grappling with this deluge of information.
