Nikolai Volkov's office occupied the most isolated corner of the manor. It was a vast room, lined with dark woodwork that seemed to absorb every stray particle of light. Behind immense floor-to-ceiling windows, the private road snaked through the pines—the only trace of civilization in this wild landscape. Nikolai did not like the unforeseen; he preferred to observe what was coming toward him long before it crossed his threshold.
On his screen, financial files piled up. Acquisitions, transfers, year-end balance sheets. To him, the world was a series of logical decisions. Companies were managed with firmness, and men always eventually fell in line behind reason or self-interest. He loved predictability. It was the bedrock upon which he had built his empire and his life.
But tonight, the numbers remained mute. His mind kept returning to the scene in the nursery. Faye Miller. He saw again the way she had settled in the middle of the room, without that cautious distance the others usually maintained. She wasn't there to obey an order; she was there for the child.
He stood up and approached the window. In the distance, searchlights swept across the estate, cutting cones of light into the darkness. Everything was in order. Everything was in its place. Why, then, did he have this sensation of having allowed in an element he could not control?
— The Weight of Legacy —
Nikolai had never envisioned fatherhood as a personal project. Camille, Aleksei's mother, was a woman who lived for appearances. She loved the sparkle of receptions and the image of power he projected, but she dreaded the reality of the everyday. When she had learned of her pregnancy, the silence that settled between them had been anything but peaceful.
He had not forced her to stay. He never held back those who wanted to leave. Three months after the birth, she had slipped away, leaving behind a crib and a generous financial settlement. To Nikolai, it was a manageable situation. A child needed a framework, care, and an education. He had hired the best specialists to ensure his son lacked for nothing.
Yet, he remained a stranger to Aleksei. He did not know how to approach him without breaking the silence he cherished so much. Children were fragile, changeable. They did not listen to arguments.
And now this young woman had arrived, with her certainties and a gaze that did not shy away from his.
— "He needs contact."
She had said it with such simplicity that it had irritated him. As if she held a truth that escaped him.
— The Nursery —
A sound from the speaker on his desk made him flinch. A murmur. A muffled whimper. Ordinarily, he would have waited for the calm to return. But an impulse pushed him to leave his office. His steps were swift in the corridor, the sound of his shoes on the parquet floor the only signal of his progress.
The nursery door was ajar. A dimmed light bathed the room. Faye was sitting in the rocking chair, Aleksei nestled against her. She wasn't singing; she was merely speaking to him in a low voice, a melody of indistinct words that nevertheless seemed sufficient. The child had calmed, his small head resting on the young woman's shoulder.
Nikolai remained on the threshold, invisible. He observed Aleksei's small hand gripping the fabric of Faye's shirt. It was a gesture of absolute trust, a physical attachment he had never dared to seek.
He took a step. The slight creak of the floorboard alerted Faye. She looked up at him, but she did not flinch. She remained still, holding the baby against her with an ease that disconcerted him.
"Did he have a nightmare?" he asked, his voice echoing lower than usual.
"He woke up looking for someone," she replied softly. "He just needs to be reassured."
Nikolai approached. He was now only a few steps from the chair.
"You should have notified me, or called Gabriel."
"I wasn't going to sound the alarm for a need for comfort, Mr. Volkov. It's not an emergency, and I am not supposed to bother you for that."
She threw his own rules back at him with a quiet confidence. He hated being confronted with his contradictions. He leaned in slightly, his gaze falling on his son's sleeping face.
Aleksei moved his small arms, mechanically reaching for support in his half-sleep.
Instinctively, Nikolai reached out his hand to brush the child's forehead—a clumsy, almost fearful gesture.
At that same moment, Faye adjusted the baby's position to better support him. Their fingers brushed against each other on the child's back.
The contact was brief, but the warmth of her skin against his made him pull back a step. It wasn't an electric spark, but a brutal intrusion of reality. He caught her scent—an aroma of soap and cotton, far from the sophisticated essences he usually encountered.
"Don't let yourself be overwhelmed by your emotions, Miller," he said, trying to regain his firmness.
"These aren't emotions, sir. It's common sense."
Nikolai did not answer. He felt like an intruder in this room, like a visitor in his own home. He turned around, his steps heavier this time.
"Good night," he tossed out before leaving.
— The Doubt —
Back in his office, he sat down heavily. The silence, which he usually appreciated so much, suddenly felt oppressive, almost empty. He looked at the numbers on his screen, but they no longer held the same meaning.
He understood that Faye Miller wasn't going to be content with just following a program. She brought something he couldn't buy, something he had carefully avoided integrating into his existence: the unpredictability of attachment.
He passed a hand over his face, his eyes fixed on the dark forest beyond the glass. The danger he feared wasn't an outside attack or a financial loss.
It was this crack that had just opened in his armor, caused by a young woman who, for the first time, had looked at him as if he were an ordinary man.