The estate woke up early—
not to an ordinary morning, but to one that already smelled of noise, laughter, and an approaching catastrophe.
The air was cold and damp,
the sky thin as porcelain, and the ground still holding the traces of the night’s chill.
Servants hurried about in quick little strides,
like ants trying to rebuild their anthill in a single sunrise.
Large silver thermoses gleamed in their hands,
blankets for the stands unfurled like flags.
The house itself—
a huge, heavy, lazy animal—
lay under the sun.
Golden glints slid down its walls,
and the whole mansion looked as if it were lying on its side,
a massive creature dragged out of sleep earlier than usual.
It flicked its tail in annoyance—
and the wind picked up a bit.
Then it grumbled and rolled onto its other “wing,”
stretching out as if reluctantly making room for the celebration.
On the lawn—almost a military operation.
Constance Blake.
My housekeeper.
A woman-granite.
A woman-marching band.
A woman who walked across the field as if she were about to win a war.
“FLAGS — STRAIGHTER!” she roared.
“TIGHTEN THAT NET so I could play the violin on it!”
“Who set this tent TWO DEGREES TO THE LEFT?! I’ll send you back to learn geometry!”
I held back a laugh.
She really was magnificent—
that strength, that voice, that discipline.
But the funniest—perhaps the most awkward—part was
that no one in the estate could pronounce her name properly.
Officially — Constance Blake.
In reality — Consi, Conyasha, Consi-sunbeam, Consi-thunder.
And every time I called her that,
she… lit up like a lantern at a Christmas fair.
But there was only one person in the entire estate
who could turn her into a creamy dessert,
someone who embarrassed her even more than I ever could.
The Aristocrat.
He walked across the lawn—slender, refined,
with eyebrows drawn so perfectly
it looked as if angels had taken makeup courses
and were now practicing on him personally.
He didn’t carry the box like a normal human being—
he floated it,
holding it with two fingers,
as if it were a royal kitten whose peace must not be disturbed.
“Oh-oh-oh…” slipped out of her
as if she had spotted not a man,
but a cake being carried out from backstage.
He stirred something in her so deeply
that her voice softened by two full tones around him,
and she immediately began smoothing an imaginary wrinkle on her dress.
“We would make such a beautiful couple!”
He was thin and elegant, like a peacock groomed by the best stylist on the planet.
And she— a massive woman with axe-hands
who could lift a cow if it decided to stand in the wrong place.
Winning his heart, in her mind, was only a matter of time.
The only problem was
that the Aristocrat was so blatantly, unmistakably gay
that even the trees looked away politely,
so they wouldn’t witness her hope.
And so—this dream glimmering on the lawn
didn’t get a chance to gather momentum.
Because at that exact moment
five tiny demons—my beloved little angels—
were already pulling her by the hands, the elbows, the hem:
“Consta-a-ansa, come on! We did it! Hurry, hurry!”
Constance stood in a half-trance,
as if her soul were still lying on the grass at the Aristocrat’s feet,
while her body was being dragged somewhere
by five determined gnomes.
She tried to walk, but her legs refused—
the children practically had to transport her,
like a refrigerator being hauled to a repair shop:
centimeter by centimeter, millimeter by millimeter.
“A little more, Constance, right here…”
“No-no, not that way, this way…”
“Yeah, yes, stop! Stand right here!”
The children exchanged looks with the authority of a special-ops team.
She glanced back at the Aristocrat—
the way one looks at the sun that will never warm them in return—
She sighed, pulled herself together,
and turned to the children.
“Well done,” Constance said, already softer. “At least someone…”
And right at that moment — directly above her —
something quiet and suspiciously bubbled.
A drop of honey landed on her perfectly ironed dress.
Thick. Viscous.
Sliding down slowly, like truth at confession.
Straight from a branch.
The five little angels, in perfect unison, without a single twitch:
“IT WASN’T US!!!”
And vanished as if they’d been sucked into a portal.
Constance lifted her eyes to the tree.
Under the branch hung an empty jar from honey toast.
She exhaled slowly.
So slowly
that even the grass at her feet seemed to wilt.
And of course I had to walk out at that exact moment.
I just wanted to take a stroll, breathe some air,
but the second I stepped onto the lawn—
her gaze latched onto me.
Her eyes widened as if she had seen not me,
but a rescue helicopter.
And the moment I caught that look,
I instantly understood:
“Oh dear God… no. Not now.
Where—where do I hand her off?
Anyone? ANYONE?!”
Но было поздно.
Constance was already charging at me.
Not walking—
advancing,
like a massive warship that suddenly remembered it can accelerate.
The heat was brutal,
and this giant, magnificent woman—
flushed, sweating in the sun, overwhelmed and gleaming—
was thundering across the field,
dragging with her both air and shade.
I instinctively stepped back—
and at that moment, behind me,
a soft, almost musical sigh sounded.
It could only be one person.
The Aristocrat materialized the way rare exhibits appear at an opening gala:
without noise, but with attitude.
He emerged from a side alley,
holding his box as if he were carrying a unicorn egg,
and stopped beside me,
observing the scene
as if it were some peculiar folk performance.
“Kitten,” he said softly,
as if testing whether his velvet sounded too bright.
“I need to give you the fabric samples…”
And just like that he ended up right within my reach—
a perfectly delivered gift from fate,
or rather—my emergency life raft.
Constance didn’t notice him at first.
She was rambling about seating, drinks, tents—
and then froze.
Simply stopped.
Her eyes widened as if someone had opened the gates of heaven right before her.
“O-oh-oh!” she gasped, clutching her chest.
“How… how is he here… how… here?”
She took a clumsy step back,
almost tripped over her own shadow,
and I swear if I hadn’t reached out a hand—
she would have slowly fainted right at my feet.
The Aristocrat looked at her
the way one watches an opera enthusiast in their natural habitat.
I smiled — the smile I use to dissolve storms.
“Of course, Consi-sunbeam. But you know…
right now there’s someone who understands this far better than I do.”
And I gently nudged the Aristocrat forward…
He adjusted his cuff,
brushed an invisible speck off his shoulder,
and spoke in his signature baritone —
that velvety, lethal voice:
“Constance, let’s begin with the essentials.”
And he strode forward,
visually pointing out flaws and mistakes like a professor giving a live demonstration.
“The wind comes from the west,
so the refreshment tent should be placed closer to the south—
otherwise the smell of fried onions will overpower the aroma of cider,
and the guests will complain.
Second: the passage on the right must be blocked off—”
…“children will crowd there.
And—please—
three steps back, otherwise the flags break the visual line of the field.
This is a crime against aesthetics.”
He spoke quickly, crisply, confidently—
like a man who lived his whole life among charts,
flow diagrams, seating layouts, and schematics.
And I saw it:
Constance Blake… was dissolving.
Her eyes rounded.
Her mouth parted slightly.
Her cheeks flushed.
She looked at him
as if he weren’t a person at all
but a natural phenomenon
that overrides all her rules.
“Oh… this is… brilliant…” she whispered.
“You… you’re simply… incredible…
You…
you are a true maestro of logistical solutions…”
The Aristocrat jerked.
Physically.
As if someone had dragged their nails across glass.
“Please do not flirt with me in daylight,”
he said dryly,
and stepped back,
as if protecting his sensory system from overload.
But Constance did not hear him.
No.
She was in a state of pure adoration.
“You… you are dazzling,”
she exhaled.
“I always knew you had… an exceptionally refined mind…”
The Aristocrat’s second eye twitched.
He turned to me—
a look that clearly said:
“If you ever put me under this spotlight again,
I swear I’ll move in with the Twins
and become a monk.”
I barely held myself back from bursting into laughter.
And I walked on,
smiling quietly,
while behind me her breathless whisper trailed after us:
“What… talent… what precision… what noble lines!”
And the two generals,
the two idols of taste and drama,
marched onward—
forcing the entire staff to instinctively straighten their shoulders,
smooth out towels,
and try their hardest to look at least slightly less useless.
“Rotate the tent three degrees to the right,”
the Aristocrat was already commanding,
“And water!” Constance added behind him,
in a tone one uses to give orders on a ship in a storm.
The maids jumped out of their way,
the gardener pretended he didn’t exist,
and the cooks in the distance simultaneously hid their trays behind their backs.
The lawn ahead buzzed
like a beehive that had just received a surprise inspection.
Rough, long rakes combed through the grass
as carefully as if a secret code were hidden underneath.
The gardener—poor, exhausted, miserable—
walked alongside with the expression of a man
who had already accepted
that at any moment one of his blades of grass
could spark an international scandal.
“God forbid an extra leaf,”
he muttered under his breath.
“They’ll take my head off…”
The goal nets were tested for tension:
every knot, every loop—
like tuning a musical instrument before an orchestra.
One of the workers tugged the net and flinched:
“Phew… holding. Thank all the saints.”
Along the edges, tiny white flags were being hammered in;
the ribbons—fresh, silky—
danced in the wind,
and the whole composition looked as if the estate itself
were preparing to sit an exam on hospitality.
One of the servants dragged a box of balls.
They gleamed with wax—
some brand-new,
others lightly scuffed, like veterans of past battles.
The children, already out on the field,
were stomping around the box, arguing:
“This one is magical! It will definitely bring victory!”
“No, this one shines like a dragon!”
“But this one smells like a new morning!”
And truly — the balls smelled of leather,
the field of freshly cut grass,
the tents of lemon water and grapes.
In the distance, the cooks unloaded containers:
bread, salads, fruit,
and one held a massive tray of tiny pastries
that looked far too luxurious
for an ordinary football match.
Someone arranged little baskets with blankets—
beige, cream, matching the estate—
and the air above them carried a faint hint of laurel.
All of it together created the feeling of…
not just preparation for a charity match,
but of preparing for some ancient celebration
that the estate remembered better than the people did.
Light.
Grass.
The whisper of servants.
The soft ring of metal stakes in the ground.
The world was forming around me
like a large, warm painting,
And the field—smooth, even,
stretched like fabric across a great frame—
waited for its players.
Football.
The boys.
And most importantly—Nate in uniform.
I stood at the edge,
as if gathering my thoughts,
feeling everything inside me stir with anticipation.
I trembled at the thought of Nate.
Flushed,
in uniform,
running across the field,
with that low growl of his,
and a gaze that burns the skin even from a distance.
I tried to pull myself together,
but everything in me melted,
as if the sun had decided to shine only on me.
The boys were warming up, chasing the ball as if it were a Champions League final.
And among them—our entire adult elite, who, frankly, were supposed to be at a meeting long ago:
Jonathan — far too elegant for football.
The Aristocrat — who, strictly speaking, “does not run on fields.”
And Nate — who somehow looked like a national team captain even if he was just walking to get water.
A trio who were meant to be handling serious matters—
and instead were playing football better than all the local boys combined.
The Game
Nate
The very first pass wasn’t just a pass.
It was a shot.
He didn’t give the ball with his feet.
He delivered it with the spirit of a field general
who suddenly realized that sports
are simply another way to command the world.
Broad back, uniform stretched tight, hair tousled,
tension carved into his cheekbones
— the kind that makes grown women forget how to breathe.
He moved beautifully, powerfully, fast.
A pass — precise.
A strike — a mini-war.
And when his ball flew into the goal,
after one stunned second
the entire field camp exploded in shrieks.
Jonathan
Jonathan
was untouchable.
If every step Nate made was dominance,
then every step Jonathan made was cunning.
He didn’t run — he danced.
Springy, slippery,
slipping past defenders so easily
you’d think someone had greased him with olive oil.
A pass to Nate —
clean, perfect, like a mathematical equation.
And that sly smile of his —
half-hint, half-secret —
made half the girls on the field unfit for normal breathing.
The Aristocrat
And then…
there was the Aristocrat.
Poor thing.
He tried to look athletic,
but his body lived its own separate life.
Passing to him was honestly dangerous.
He received the ball as if a landmine were rolling toward him.
Returned it like he was fighting off a bear.
And all of that in the most beautiful outfit
— which he, of course, refused to take off,
because “aesthetics matter more than oxygen.”
“Aristocrat, WHY are you jumping like a heron?!” Jonathan yelled.
“IT’S MY STYLE!” he snapped back,
and missed the ball by a full meter again.
And every girl who saw his stances and falls
immediately understood two things:
No, he is NOT a contender.
But he is very, very cute.
When, for the sake of theatrics, he tried to trap the ball with his chest,
it hit him so hard he spun in a full circle
and landed face-first in the grass.
The girls gasped for a second,
then burst into laughter.
(He laughed later too.)
The match began.
The match didn’t end.
The match — was a show.
Nate passed to Jonathan,
Jonathan danced past half the field,
passed back —
and Nate scored with such force
the ball flew past the goal and rolled into the alley.
Meanwhile the Aristocrat stood somewhere to the side,
in a Napoleon pose,
pointing to the boys where to run.
At one point Nate commands:
“Aristocrat, pass!”
“Yes-yes! I’m ready!”
And immediately lets the ball slip between his legs.
The boys howl.
The girls howl.
Even Luna, sitting by the field, whines with laughter.
The Aristocrat wipes his palms on his trousers and announces proudly:
“I was distracting the opponent. It’s strategy.”
Nate rolls his eyes.
I’m clutching my sides.
The girls squeal:
“Naaaate!! Jooohn!! Uuuuuu!!”
And one lonely voice:
“Aristocrat, we love you — just not in football!”
We sat a little farther back — me and the Adventurer —
while the others insisted on staying strictly under the tent,
as they preferred.
Separate tents for the most terrifying beings on earth:
girls aged 19–25 who have just spotted handsome men.
They split into camps
faster than countries in a world war:
“I’m for Nate!” one shrieked.
“I’m for Jonathan — he kisses better!” yelled another.
“Whoever loses, I’m taking him home!” laughed a third.
And then the betting began.
Bets.
On men.
At some point the atmosphere heated so much
it became genuinely uncomfortable —
the girls stopped being spectators
and turned into full-blown fanatics.
The girls practically screamed with every one of Nate’s passes.
With every one of Jonathan’s sprints — they jumped.
I tried to breathe evenly, calmly, but
the girls were shrieking louder and louder,
and it was beginning to seriously irritate me.
Another glance at Nate,
who was commanding with his whole body,
turning, shouting instructions,
letting out that wildness
that always, always drove me insane.
“God… oh God…”
Finally the game began coming to an end.
Nate wiped his face with his own jersey —
sweaty, burning hot —
the shirt pushed up, showing his abs and that glorious line.
The girls ROARED.
“Oh they’re about to flood the field,” the Adventurer muttered.
“Nate is mine and I’ll prove it if I have to.”
Attempts to calm down led nowhere.
“Mother of— I’m furious as hell.
I’m going to change and pull myself together.”
“Accepted,” said the Adventurer.
“Make sure no one gets pregnant,” I said.
She burst out laughing.
“No promises.”
I headed up the path toward the house,
and on the way Sophie caught me —
flustered, running everywhere,
folders in her hands, some stamps,
her sweet eyes shining with worry.
“Nazokat… I’m sorry but I need to clarify one thing about the charity fu—”
I was so angry I couldn’t even think.
I gently pressed her by the elbow.
“Sweetheart… I’m so sorry.
The entire field right now is… about to explode.”
I even made a strange gesture with my hands,
trying to explain it politely,
knowing how she reacts.
“Because of Nate I need to breathe for a second.
Please — later.”
“Of course, sorry.”
I smiled.
“You’re an angel.”
I turned — and headed to the house.
At first quickly, then almost running.
Children flashed past with bottles of water,
chefs carried trays of fruit,
security murmured into radios,
and I — a fired arrow, overheated, furious,
as if my skin had thinned,
every movement irritating me to the point of trembling.
At the porch the butler tried to say something about the guests,
but I only lifted my hand:
“Later.”
He bowed —
unshakable, almost a statue —
but stepped aside, sensing my pace.
I flew up the stairs
as if my own madness were chasing me by the heels.
Every step pulsed in my blood,
rage boiling in my chest,
my mind still trembling from the sight of Nate,
that line on his stomach,
that shirt dragged up,
that moment he wiped sweat from his neck —
how is someone allowed to look like this?!
On the second landing I ran into one of the waiters.
He only managed a squeak:
“Miss—”
“Move that.”
The poor guy almost dropped the tray,
and I was already around the corner.
The house lived its own life:
downstairs kitchen doors slammed,
someone in the living room discussed the match results,
an ice cart rattled,
and somewhere down the hall children were laughing.
But my world at that moment
narrowed down to a single point.
The bedroom.
I approached the door.
And a couple of steps before reaching it, I heard—
voices.
I froze.
A high, ringing, girlish tone.
I pushed the door open.
And there—
Nate.
Shirtless.
Flushed, dripping after the game,
his jersey thrown over a chair.
His back shining with sweat.
Breathing uneven.
Veins swollen along his arms.
How the hell did he outrun me?
Stop.
Next to him — some girl.
What the hell.
Nate immediately understands how this looks.
The girl stands there stunned.
“My love, I—”
I raise my hand, telling him to be quiet.
I am calm as a snake,
but I need to think.
Nate and cheating are incompatible.
Impossible.
A short extraction:
Breathing.
Short, shallow, skipping on the exhale.
— stress.
— trying to hold back words.
— complete disorientation.
Collarbone, chest, neck:
— paler than usual,
— no blood rushing to the torso: fear and shock, not excitement.
Pulse.
The pulse is wild—
but the type is wrong:
short, sharp bursts (pure adrenaline).
If he were aroused, it would be long, rhythmic, stretched pulses.
And trust me, I know.
Pupils.
Dilated not from desire—
but from sudden panic.
With desire, pupils deepen, soften;
with Nate now — they’re sharp, cutting.
Body posture.
He’s slightly pulled away from the girl,
shoulders forward like someone bracing to shield,
but unsure what to expect.
Knees tense, feet not angled toward her.
Zero bodily orientation toward the object of desire.
The girl.
Positioning.
She’s standing closer to him than he is to her.
Her shoulders tilted toward him—
his torso turned away.
Meaning: she approached him, not the other way around.
Microexpressions.
Fear → guilt → plea → attempt to explain.
Not one micro-line of desire or arousal in her face.
The conclusion:
His body isn’t giving any signal —
not even the smallest —
of sexual interest.
He’s in panic, not passion.
This is a pure stress cascade —
he’s terrified of losing control,
terrified that I’ll misunderstand,
terrified for both of us.
Crystal clear.
The mind sees everything.
Understands everything.
And I — am not my mind.
Another second.
The bedroom drifted behind me,
as if it gently let me go —
a tired mother who needs
just one small pause,
one deep breath.
It passed me into the Corridor—
a relative who can hold you without words,
who always receives you like their own:
with a patient sigh
and quiet understanding.
I don’t even remember the moment I reached the office—
I just suddenly felt the door yield,
opening under my palm,
as if saying:
“She needs space to breathe.
Let her in.”
Inside,
I paced from corner to corner,
heating the room with anger and nerves
like a furnace lit too fast.
One thought:
That damned bitch.
Hades trembled with excitement and frenzy,
he was in collusion with the devil —
the woman no longer belonged to herself.
Those two took control.
My soul hid, crawled somewhere
where they couldn’t reach it.
The only part of me Nate needed
was no longer available —
she was licking her wounds.
How did this even happen?
How did she get into the house?
Into the bedroom?
I’ll strangle security.
Not metaphorically —
for real.
With my hands.
With a crunch.
I will drag that bitch by her hair
and throw her down the stairs
or dismember her in the basement.
I’ll cut out every organ she has
or burn her on a pyre.
I’ll torture her, pour poisons over her
until she begs.
That damned bitch.
The darkness surged forward
and some ancient mechanism barely held it,
caught it,
clamped it in my throat,
didn’t let it fully break out.
I got scared.
Truly scared.
What if Nate walks in?
I don’t want him to know
how ruthless I can be —
that I can become nearly inhuman,
without empathy or mercy
when the darkness takes over.
And the traumas resurfaced
with rusty, rotten nails
scratching across a clean soul,
reminding me
that if needed
they would show what real pain is
and use it against that whore.
My own darkness terrified me to madness —
I know exactly how principled I am,
and how far I can go
to do very, very bad things.
The devil seized my mind.
Not figuratively.
Not poetically.
Literally.
He tormented,
twisted,
walked across my nerves with his fingers
like over piano keys.
He controlled me
as if my movements
were threads under his hand.
I felt him take my morality,
my upbringing,
my empathy —
and snuff them out
like candles in the wind.
The woman doesn’t think.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
The field.
A little more to recover… or a lot.
Damn.
I lost track of time.
At first I simply paced the office,
but soon it became something else.
Nervousness rose along my skin
like heat that doesn’t ask permission.
My fingers trembled,
my palms clenched and unclenched
—as if my body were searching for something to grip.
It wasn’t even anger anymore —
it was instinct.
That ancient one,
the one that rises from the pit of the stomach
and whispers:
“I can destroy her.
I am capable of it.
And I will do it.”
Another second — a tiny beep in the mind: prepare.
My pulse dropped so sharply
that my inner ear rang
as if I were sinking underwater:
104… 86… 72… 60…
Too even.
Too calm.
This wasn’t calm —
this was the stillness of a predator.
Hormones shifted instantly.
Adrenaline burned off,
cortisol leveled,
and something else replaced it—
icy, like noradrenaline,
the world narrowing and becoming too sharp.
The pupils widened suddenly,
unnaturally,
like a nocturnal predator.
Facial muscles froze for a moment,
as if my skin forgot how to blink,
as if the eyelids forgot how to close.
The image before my eyes changed:
a faint haze around the edges,
like a thin film,
and the center —
too sharp,
as if someone had twisted the focus until it hurt.
This was no longer a human gaze.
This was the gaze of something
that had chosen its target.
Nazokat disappeared.
Simply ceased to exist.
Left the body
like a hostess stepping out of a room
as the door gently clicks behind her.
And what remained
lived by other laws.
Movements became smooth,
precise,
unnaturally exact,
as if someone had shut off emotions
and switched on the beast’s autopilot.
The shoulders dropped.
The neck lengthened.
The center of gravity tilted forward.
Breathing grew long,
cold,
rare —
like a shark
preparing for a single decisive strike.
I didn’t feel myself.
But I felt the target.
Clearly.
Coldly.
Without hesitation.
The world narrowed to a point.
And in that point,
there was no mercy.
Time tore, fractured,
became ragged pieces.
At some moment I realized
I no longer heard my own steps.
I didn’t feel the floor.
Even the air lost its scent.
As if coming to,
I walk out onto the field.
And again — it isn’t me.
My body moves,
steps steady, precise,
no trembling,
no softness,
none of my usual living spark.
Volunteers are gathering boxes,
the boys are running back and forth,
pretending to help but mostly getting in the way.
And the trio —
Nate, Jonathan, and the Aristocrat —
gesticulate so actively
you’d think they were wrapping up a military evacuation.
Jonathan is waving his arms,
explaining to someone where to take the equipment.
The Aristocrat is yelling into a radio
as if commanding an entire division,
even though they’ve simply lost a bag of isotonic drinks.
Nate —
flushed, disheveled, drenched,
at the edge of his patience,
snapping on every third word.
Finally.
I took my place.
We stood in a straight line by the gates —
as proper hosts of the estate.
Smiles, waves,
verbal gratitude,
all the expected phrases.
I smiled —
perfectly, mechanically,
as if the smile were part of the costume,
not part of the body.
I wasn’t shaking.
I wasn’t trembling.
There was simply a cold center of gravity inside me
that held everything in absolute order.
Nate noticed me immediately.
Of course.
He always feels it.
He turned sharply,
as if he’d heard a quiet metallic sound.
And froze.
His eyes —
wider,
close to fear,
but unable to look away.
He saw that I wasn’t there —
everything in me betrayed an unnatural coldness.
And he didn’t understand
where I had gone,
or who was standing in my place.
But he had to behave.
The match was over,
the children were happy,
the world had to remain whole —
at least on the outside.
The last car rolled away from the gates,
we waved,
I waved too,
my hand moving smoothly,
like a doll’s,
my chest not rising,
my breath steady and quiet,
like a predator waiting
for its prey to pass by.
And then —
the wheels crossed the gravel line,
the gates closed.
A thud.
Flat.
Sharp.
The door shut —
and the outside world disappeared.
I turned.
Went up the stairs —
not running,
the movement was too precise,
too light.
Nate followed.
Without questions,
without words,
with that inner tremor of someone
who understands
that something is about to begin.
“My love, I… my love, please, I… I just went in to change…”
I throw a calm, icy glance over my shoulder.
“Oh, of course. Of course.
Tell me — she’s eighteen, yes?”
He pales.
White as chalk.
“My love… I… no… God, please… I don’t know how to prove it… my love… I would never…”
He shifts from foot to foot,
his shoulders trembling,
his gaze darting like a man who realizes
his life hangs by a thread.
I raise my hand —
evenly, calmly —
And I turn away.
A gesture of silence.
A gesture of stop.
And I have to hold back a burst of laughter
scratching at me from the inside.
A thin hysterical tremor —
I hide my hand so he won’t see it.
He stands there
as if waiting for a sentence.
Breath uneven,
face pale as paper,
veins on his neck pulled tight.
“My love… I… I’m begging you… I didn’t… I… I… I would never… I… my love…”
“I know you didn’t cheat.”
He wipes his face with his palm,
as if trying to bring his breath back.
“Wait— hold on—”
he shakes his head, still not understanding
what’s happening.
“But how did you know?”
I soften.
Just a little.
Exactly enough to give him the truth.
“Even if your **** were inside her,
I’d assume you’d been kidnapped,
drugged,
dragged to another state,
and forced to participate.”
He blinks.
Twice.
Three times.
I take a step closer.
Just one.
“In other words:
I have an unshakable conviction.
You will never cheat on me.
You love me.
And I love you.”
He swallows.
You can hear his Adam’s apple click.
He shakes his head.
Another minute.
He falls silent.
Standing there, breathing raggedly,
like after a run,
as if his whole body was trying to catch up
to a reality he wasn’t ready for.
His chest rising and falling,
his hands still trembling —
even his fingers —
like someone who had seen the end of the world
and only now understood
that everything was alright.
He ran a hand down his face.
His hair slightly disheveled.
He inhaled again,
slow, deep,
as if extinguishing a fire inside.
Then he lifted his gaze to me —
and his eyes were still unfocused,
as if he still didn’t fully believe
I was standing in front of him.
3:21
I woke up and packed my things.
A note for Nate, so he wouldn’t lose his mind:
“I can’t leave this as is.
I’ll call when I’m done.”
And I swore under my breath —
When he wakes up,
he’ll be furious.
That kind of fury that makes the walls vibrate.
But that’s my nature.
I simply can’t do otherwise.
Before leaving, I kissed his shoulder and the top of his head —
my favorite places in the whole world —
and asked God and the spirits, silently,
to protect him while I’m gone.
The door closed softly behind me,
and the cold inside burned brighter.
Bedroom 17
“Kodi.”
I knocked.
Once. Again, harder.
Behind the door came sleepy grumbling, then footsteps,
and the Adventurer cracked the door open—
Hair messy, one eye half-closed,
the face of someone dragged out of a very sweet sleep.
“I need you,” I said. “Urgently. I’ll explain on the way.”
She blinked.
Then again.
Looked right, then left —
as if trying to remember what year it was.
Then glanced at the clock.
“Alright,” she exhaled at last.
I stayed by the door while she quickly gathered her hair,
pulled on the first pair of jeans she could find,
fighting with the zipper like it was a sleeping snake.
Her consciousness was waking up in layers —
but her trust in me was already working better than coffee.
“All set,” she finally said.
“Let’s go.”
We stepped toward the exit,
and I glanced back for just a second—
On the floor, right by the bed:
black trousers.
Too formal.
Too “uniform.”
Too… waiter-coded.
“Wait,” I said quietly.
She froze.
Then slowly looked in the same direction.
Her cheeks faintly, barely noticeably flushed.
I pointed at the trousers.
“Tell me… that’s not one of the waiters
who served us at the tent today?”
She covered her face with her hand.
“Please… not right now…”
I couldn’t help it — I smiled.
What kind of creature are you.
Try going without sex for two months —
then we’ll talk.
And we left.
France
16:00
France greeted us with the familiar hum of the city —
steady, alive, a little drowsy from the August heat.
Time stretched lazily,
and the golden light lay on the pavement like soft fabric.
We stepped out of the airport,
I fumbled for my phone in my pocket,
and breathed in air that smelled of coffee, hot baguettes,
and wet stone.
A taxi pulled up quickly.
We rode in silence —
now and then the leather seats creaked quietly,
and the radio murmured softly somewhere on the dashboard.
Outside the window drifted by:
balconies with black wrought-iron railings,
white shutters,
small grocery shops with overturned crates of fruit,
parked bicycles.
Ordinary city life —
not trying to be anything more.
Hotel
I went up to my room,
shifted my bag from one hand to the other,
took off my coat,
and stood by the window for a couple of minutes,
watching the sun crawl along the wall of the neighboring building.
I changed without rushing —
the way you dress before an important conversation
that needs a final full stop.
At the front desk I asked for a taxi.
The girl nodded,
smiled her soft, tired French smile,
and handed me the car number.
The ride to the café took about ten minutes.
The streets around it were narrow,
paved with pale sandy tiles
that echoed softly under the heels of passersby.
The doorway smelled of rosemary and toasted almonds—
coming from the kitchen inside.
We stopped.
Ordinary France.
Calm, slightly rumpled, alive.
At the back of the café—
her.
Yolanda.
Yolanda—something vile and sticky,
like a mix between a hamster and a mud worm.
With that strange, eternally smug look,
as if she owned the entire block.
I walked between the tables,
slipping past waiters
who lifted their eyes just enough
to see whom I was heading for.
“Hello, darling.”
And the scene began.
She recoiled—just for a couple of seconds—
and then that arrogant face again.
Yolanda was easy to find,
because the Aristocrat always curated our circle with surgical strictness,
and no one ever got in by accident.
I mentally thanked him
for that almost manic filtration of influence.
“So,” I folded my hands together
as if choosing a handbag in a boutique.
“So,” she leaned back in her chair.
What a bitch.
For a couple of seconds
we smiled at each other with fake politeness.
Then she exploded:
“Nate wanted me himself.
He wanted me the whole match.
He couldn’t take his eyes off me.”
I snorted,
picked at my teeth with my pinky
as if she’d said something boring.
She shrank—
a microsecond of disgust.
Perfect.
“Alright, listen up,” I smiled sweetly.
“You know, we weren’t planning on expanding to France,
but… why not.”
She burst out laughing.
‘Laugh while you can, bitch,’ said the Adventurer.
I suppressed a chuckle.
Kody always calls things by their names,
thank God.
Exhale.
“So. Your daddy—
and your mommy too—
could be very helpful to me.”
She laughed again:
“They’re booked through 2029, good luck with that.
My mom’s busy till 2031.”
Oh, I straightened my shoulders.
“Alright then.”
I pulled out my phone.
Lifted a brow.
“Move closer, darling.
Come on. Closer, please.”
And that smile of mine—
the try disobey me, sweetheart,
and I’ll wipe this table with your face smile.
Her eyes widened.
The camera caught everything—
and not just “everything.”
The angle, the light, the tone,
the flutter of her lashes,
the twitch of her eyelid,
the way her lips trembled.
Our cameras miss nothing.
Because that’s my principle.
My religion.
My way of keeping the children’s world
absolutely safe.
Our cameras are everywhere.
In every lamp.
In every toy.
In every tool the staff touches.
In every picture frame.
In every motion sensor.
In the warm corridor lights,
in the elevator buttons,
in the soft wooden panels
that look like simple décor.
Even in the walls.
In the figurines.
In the china sets.
In the vase stands.
In the carved cabinet patterns.
In the artificial stones along the path.
In the outdoor lanterns.
In the door handles.
In places no one would ever think to check.
The estate isn’t just a house.
It’s almost a headquarters.
My own personal panopticon.
Every breath is recorded.
The children are under my protection—
which means the world around them
is obligated to stay crystal clean.
Questions of legality or ethics never even came up—
because when you have that much money,
the world reveals itself from the other side,
and the hardest questions
get solved with a pleasant little smile.
“Did you see everything?
Can you zoom in?”
She snorted:
“So what? This violates my rights.
You won’t show this.”
“Oh, of course, of course not,” I smiled.
“But I know a couple of guys.
The kind who would sell their own mother
for the amount I’d happily offer them.”
I leaned against the table.
“I’ll have to give Lévi a call.
He adores girls like you.
Fast, clean, no screaming.”
“Marek will stop by too.
He likes order.
Especially the kind of order that’s left behind afterward.”
“And Doc…
well, Doc simply loves
when all the paperwork matches.
You know how it goes.”
She flinched—
but then tried to pull on that mix
of confidence and disgust again.
“Kitten,” I sang sweetly,
“look over at that table there.”
She jolted.
I genuinely thought:
I don’t even want to imagine
what they could do to you.
“My father—
he won’t allow this.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that, kitten.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth
and bit my lip from rage.
Blood trickled down in a thin line.
Yolanda recoiled in horror.
I leaned in even closer.
“Listen here, you little bitch.
If you still haven’t understood—
I will drag you out from under the ground.
I will personally organize
and personally fly in
for your dismemberment.”
“Look here, you dumb little slut.
See this?
It’s your entire schedule.
I know every step you take,
where you go,
and with whom.
I even know how many hours you sleep
and how often you piss.”
“So one more time,
you stupid little bitch—
I will burn your heart out
and eat it.
I’ll make sure they don’t dig you up
for years.”
We stepped out of the café—
the Adventurer and I—
and bumped fists.
France exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly.
The conversation was over,
and I had nothing left to do in this city.
We split.
Two cars pulled away.
I slid into the back seat
and closed my eyes—
I needed to build a plan,
a real one,
heavy,
legally precise.
I had to fly out immediately—
no sleep,
no rest,
not even a breath to reset.
A transfer in Zurich,
then a charter,
then finally
a night flight home.
It all took about five and a half hours.
I didn’t feel time at all.
Only the anger held me—
clean, cold, directed.
I reached the estate
closer to two in the morning.
The house slept.
The silence breathed.
Only one light was on—
mine.
And there it was—
the moment of truth.
CHAPTER: THE HUNT, THE FLIGHT, THE BASTARDS, AND THE NEGOTIATIONS
1:50 a.m.
I’m standing in front of Jonathan’s door.
A knock.
I need him—
not the friend,
I need the CFO.
The brain.
The predator.
Another knock, and the door swung open.
“Sweetheart, I need you.”
At first he didn’t believe I was actually standing in his bedroom—
rubbed his eyes again—
but he didn’t ask a single question.
He always reads my face.
He knows when the clock has started.
Fifteen minutes to pack—
and even that was more for the documents than for us.
Another thirty—
to get the bird in the air.
The flight attendants smiled with that soft, polished service warmth.
“Not now,” I threw without looking up.
My exhaustion was already clawing through my skin.
I was wound tight,
furious,
as if someone had yanked a thousand nerves inside me all at once.
“Jonathan, I really need… I need… like…”
“I’m open,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Talk.”
He’s heard worse.
But I—true to myself—
always tried to spare him.
I hated being crude around him.
“Sweetheart… switch to night mode.
I need the dirt.
You understand?”
He thought for a second.
Then nodded quietly.
I managed to get angry at myself:
Damn it, I’m probably stressing him too much…
But while I was drowning in that thought,
he was already sitting there with his laptop,
a glass of warm water,
his face perfectly calm—
the face of a CFO
ready to work himself to death.
I exhaled.
It’s a gift to know that such power,
such a strategist,
my Jonathan,
is on my side.
After that, everything turned into a hunt.
Two laptops.
Whiskey with water—rivers of it.
Jumping across the country at insane speed.
Jonathan’s precise diagrams—
who to catch,
who to call,
who to pay.
We worked so relentlessly
that only on the third day I suddenly realized
I hadn’t changed clothes even once.
Time dissolved.
Days blended into one long, sticky, echoing stream:
work — bite of food on the run — work — sip of water — work again.
Sleep — right at the table,
on my arms, on the documents,
on the laptop, its warm metal square imprinting itself into my cheek.
Hours blurred.
My T-shirt clung to my body,
my back burned from tension,
my hair was tied up any which way—
one hand doing it blindly
while the other kept typing.
The kitchen smelled constantly of coffee—
no one ever drank it hot.
We’d grab a cup, take one sip,
forget it for half a day,
and only the evening sun glare across the table
would highlight the cold, abandoned liquid.
Papers lay on the chair,
more papers spread across the floor,
someone’s phone on my lap—
we didn’t even hear it ringing.
Crumbs from rushed snacks
stuck to the tabletop,
Plans went straight into memory,
and the charts went straight into our eyes—
eyes that could no longer be forced awake.
Every breath pulsed in my temples.
Every thought fell heavy,
like wet fabric.
We fell asleep in our chairs.
Dropped into sleep
like people worn down to the bone,
and woke just as abruptly—
because someone would whisper again:
“We need to finish this part…”
Sometimes I’d lift my head,
taste metal from exhaustion in my mouth,
and realize:
the light in the room had shifted three times—
morning, afternoon, evening—
and I hadn’t gone to the bedroom once.
What am I saying—
I hadn’t even changed clothes.
This wasn’t just a marathon.
This was a small war room.
A battle against time, tasks, and our own endurance.
And we held.
We bribed everyone we could:
top lawyers,
archives,
officials,
one entire accounting department,
a household staff,
two people from the municipal office.
Money poured like a river—
I didn’t regret a single euro.
And then the two lunatics from the Aristocrat’s list.
Real bastards.
Even over the phone they radiated something rotten—
a thick stench of amorality,
like air left to decay.
But there were no alternatives.
With wolves, you speak the wolf’s language.
Jonathan wired the obscene amount so fast
it felt like his fingers weren’t even touching the keyboard—
and we received guarantees
that those two wouldn’t be bought off
by anyone,
under any circumstances.
After a week without sleep,
after flights,
transfers,
bribes,
firings,
interrogations,
legal loopholes,
insider calls,
gnawing nights,
and frayed nerves—
we got the document.
Not a document.
A weapon.
Brilliant.
Cruel.
Legally impeccable.
A trap that snapped shut on its own.
With tiny clauses that turned their entire position into ash.
We returned like two monsters.
