[6months later]
Viktor Mikhailov's pale fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, a silent plea for divine intervention – or perhaps just five minutes of blessed silence. A low, internal growl vibrated in his chest. Боже мой, thiswoman could filibuster a stone into submission.
Perched on his knee, Misha was a warm, surprisingly heavy anchor against the storm of inanity. Her steel-gray eyes, miniature mirrors of his own, were half-lidded in milk-drunk contentment as she worked her bottle. The rhythmic suckle was the only sane sound in the room. Across the imposing expanse of Viktor's obsidian desk, Nanny Candidate #2 – a meticulously coiffed blonde radiating the confidence of someone who'd never been told 'no' – sailed obliviously on.
"...and of course," she trilled, flashing teeth too white to be entirely natural, "I simply adore mixed babies! They're always so... exotic, you know? Like perfect little designer accessories—"
Pop.
The sharp, wet sound cut through the blonde's monologue like a guillotine. Misha pulled the bottle nipple from her mouth with deliberate finality. Her storm-cloud eyes, suddenly wide awake and unnervingly focused, slid from her father's stony profile to fixate on the woman. Her rosebud mouth, usually a soft pout, compressed into a thin, disapproving line. Six months old, and already her bullshit detector operated with terrifying precision.
Viktor didn't move. Didn't blink. But the subtle twitch along his clenched jawline was as good as a detonation countdown.
"Yuri," he stated, the single word dropping into the sudden silence like a lead weight. It was spoken in Russian, flat and cold.
The study door swung open before the blonde could process the shift in atmosphere. Yuri filled the doorway, his expression one of weary anticipation. "Ah," he sighed, his cheerful tone belying the sharpness in his eyes as they scanned the room. "Number two already? Vitya, you're cycling through them faster than my third wife went through alimony payments."
Viktor ignored him. In one fluid motion, he stood, lifting Misha against his shoulder. The baby, inheriting her father's gift for dramatic exits, twisted her head, her tiny chin jutting out as she fixed the flustered nanny with a glare that could curdle milk. A tiny, judgmental gargoyle perched on a mountain of repressed fury.
Viktor didn't look at the woman. His gaze, glacial, met Yuri's. "Vybros' yeye." Throw her out. A beat. The slightest pause. "Ostorozhno." Carefully. Another beat. The ghost of something dangerous flickered in Viktor's eyes. "Ili net." Or not.
Yuri's grin was pure wolf. The colour drained from the blonde's face, leaving her foundation stark against her suddenly bloodless cheeks. She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to plead, but Yuri was already ushering her towards the door with a terrifyingly efficient politeness. "Right this way, madam. Let's discuss the terms of your... immediate departure."
---
The sharp bite of autumn air in Gorky Park was a cleansing shock after the cloying tension of the penthouse. Viktor adjusted the ridiculous, fur-lined hood of Misha's cashmere bear suit – a garment Yuri had produced, swearing blind it was a practical necessity, not spoiling. Lies, Viktor thought, but the sight of Misha's round face peeking out, cheeks flushed pink against the soft ivory wool, disarmed him. Her tiny fist, encased in a miniature mitten, gripped his index finger with surprising strength as he pushed the sleek, black pram along the leaf-strewn path.
"Da!" Misha announced imperiously, kicking her bundled feet.
"Da," Viktor murmured back, the Russian affirmation soft, almost lost in the rustle of drying leaves. "Ona byla dura." She was a fool.
Beside them, Yuri snorted, unwrapping a protein bar. "Next interview," he declared, lobbing the bar casually at Viktor's head. Viktor caught it without breaking stride or looking away from Misha. "Let me handle it. I'll ask the real qualifying questions. Like, 'Can you identify six pressure points to disable a grown man?' Or, 'Hypothetically, how fast can you run in heels carrying a twenty-pound liability?'"
A sudden, bright giggle erupted from the pram. Misha, delighted by Yuri's booming voice or perhaps the sheer absurdity of it all, beamed up at them.
The sound, pure and unguarded, did something strange to Viktor's stern expression. The perpetual tension around his eyes softened infinitesimally. The corners of his lips didn't quite lift, but the harsh line relaxed, hinting at something that might, under extreme duress and perfect conditions, resemble the ghost of a smile.
He looked down at his daughter, her eyes crinkled with laughter, her tiny hand still anchored to his finger. The meticulously ordered world he'd built, a fortress against chaos and vulnerability, lay in ruins around this small, demanding creature. The schedules shattered, the silence obliterated, the control perpetually challenged.
Viktor leaned closer to the pram hood, his voice a low rumble meant only for her, the words escaping in a language that felt suddenly inadequate for the magnitude of the feeling, yet the only one that fit:
"Nikakikh nyany." No nannies.
A pause. The wind caught a handful of golden leaves, swirling them past the pram.
"Tol'ko my." Just us.
And Viktor Mikhailov, heir to empires built on ice, realized with a jolt that settled deep in his bones: this chaos, this terrifying, beautiful, all-consuming mess, felt… soft. Like cashmere against the skin. Like a tiny, warm fist holding onto his world.