Trying to be silent, twenty-seven-year-old Elizaveta Andreevna Malinkina eased along the corridor toward Alisa’s room—the room of the fourteen-year-old daughter of the house. She needed to make sure the girl was asleep before she could finally let herself sleep, too.
For the past two weeks, Liza had been filling in at billionaire Voropaev’s estate for her older sister, Antonina, who’d fallen ill while on vacation. The family needed this income; nowhere else in their district paid remotely as well. Antonina had two children—fourteen-year-old Marina and six-year-old Vanya—and Liza couldn’t let her sister lose the job.
The duties were uncomplicated: keep everything immaculate and, ideally, remain invisible to the owners. There was one catch—on nights when Aleksey Voropaev and his fiancée, Anzhelika, were away, Liza had to sleep over. Aleksey Anatolyevich’s daughter, Alisa, would otherwise be alone in the vast house, and the servants’ quarters sat on the far edge of the property.
Halfway up the stairs, Liza heard someone crying. She checked the time—three in the morning.
“What is this again? Always tears… this can’t be normal,” she murmured.
She gathered her nerve and knocked. Something about the sound made her certain this wasn’t trivial. With a life this wealthy, what could make a child sob like that?
Antonina had warned her in no uncertain terms—“Don’t show yourself to the owners”—but Liza pressed the handle anyway. Instead of standing in the hall to eavesdrop, she opened the door wide and stepped inside.
“What are you doing here?! Who let you in? Get out now or I’ll call security!” Alisa shrieked, flinging a pillow at the maid.
Liza caught it on the fly and tossed it back. It bopped the girl squarely on the head.
“How dare you! I’ll tell my dad and you’ll be fired!”
“Then have me fired,” Liza said, a thread of sarcasm winding through her voice. “This house is unlivable. Not even quiet at night. Someone’s always crying. Wonder who?—oh right, you. Is it because Daddy fetched the wrong star from the sky? Or did an acrylic nail break?”
Alisa burst into fresh tears. “You don’t understand anything! If you knew how much I hurt!”
“Oh, I do,” Liza said evenly. “Must be hell. If my chauffeur took me to school at fourteen, I’d cry too.”
“Why?” Alisa blinked, thrown.
“Because we used to finish classes, go swimming, pick mushrooms in the fall, grab ice cream at a café. And you? No one comes over. No one to talk to.”
Liza turned for the door, but Alisa blurted, “How do you even make friends? I don’t have any.”
“None?” Liza stopped, surprised.
“Not a single one. I had a mom. Then my parents divorced. They shipped me abroad for school, I got sick, and Dad brought me back.”
“Why are you with your father and not your mother?” Liza asked, a familiar ache twisting in her chest.
“Mom doesn’t want to see me. She has a new family—husband and little kids.”
“She told you that?”
“No. I haven’t seen her in ages. Dad says so,” Alisa sighed.
“Your father’s an idiot,” Liza blurted before she could stop herself. “Only a thoroughgoing egotist says that to his child.”
“Are you talking about me?” a voice asked from the doorway.
They both froze. A man around thirty-five stepped in.
“Dad—you’re back already?” Alisa squeaked, diving under the blanket.
“Stop calling Anzhelika a poodle,” Voropaev said with a hard glance, then to Liza: “Who are you, and what are you doing in my daughter’s room?”
“I’m the housekeeper. I only came to check that she was asleep,” Liza said, suddenly awkward.
“You were told: listen at the door, don’t enter. If there’s a problem, wake Tamara Petrovna. You do not barge in.”
“Yes,” Liza lowered her eyes, unwilling to betray Alisa. “I was told.”
“You’re fired,” Aleksey said coldly, moving toward the bed.
Liza stood there, not sure where to put herself, humiliated and already dreading how she would explain this to Antonina.
He turned back. “You’re still here? Leave. You’re dismissed.”
“Dad, no—she’s not at fault,” Alisa burst out. “I asked her to come in. I had a horrible nightmare.”
“Fine,” he said after a beat. “I’ll let it go this once. But if I see you near my daughter again—on your head be it.”
Liza fled to her room, cheeks burning. What a mess. She had nearly ruined everything for her sister. She swore she wouldn’t set foot in Alisa’s room again.
As she drifted toward sleep, Liza thought of her older sister, Antonina Grineva—the dearest person in the world to her, eight years her senior. She remembered the years when their father was alive and their family close, their mother attentive. Then their father fell ill, went into the city hospital, and never came home.
Their mother grieved—then slid into drinking. Liza was thirteen. She didn’t want to stay with her mother and her new husband, Yuri Zhukov, and she kept running away to her late father’s house. They dragged her back; she ran again.
Once, she took a train three hundred kilometers away. The police found her and returned her, and that’s when social services stepped in.
Antonina had just had her first child, Marina, when she said to her husband, “Sasha, let’s take Liza. The girl will be lost if we don’t.”
Alexander—an aircraft pilot who loved the sky—agreed, even promised to be home more often for Tonya’s sake, though he couldn’t give up flying entirely. Tonya lived with constant worry when he was on duty. But she had rescued Liza from her mother’s chaos. Their mother made no fight of it; freedom suited her, and Liza was “trouble.”
Handing over her younger daughter, she practically sighed with relief and drifted back into her careless life. Liza, lucky at last, found warmth in Antonina’s home—attention, steadiness, support.
Gradually Liza calmed, her grades improved, joy trickled back. After school she raced home not only to study but to help her beloved sister. She never visited her mother—though the woman lived only a few blocks away. The hurt was too great. At night she cried for her father, the irreplaceable one.
She finished school with a silver medal and sailed into university. Law degree in hand, she joined the bar within three years and quickly gained a reputation—sharp, promising, scrupulous. A towering influence in her rise was Naum Yakovlevich Goldman, among the best lawyers in the region. He was mentor, anchor—more than that, family.
He had a daughter once, but after his divorce the family moved to Canada and the bond frayed. He stayed in Russia and grew to see Liza as a spiritual daughter. To many, he was legend; to Liza, a genius with a tender center.
She knew her luck—studying under such a master. His one sorrow was solitude, and she became his solace. She even resembled his own child; he called her “my child” with gentle pride.
They’d met when she was chosen as his intern. After launching her own practice, she kept their friendship alive—constant, familial.
“I’ll never abandon you, Naum Yakovlevich. Don’t count on it,” she’d say, ferrying him to his dacha.
“My child, I can manage,” he’d grumble, eyes smiling. “Why the rush?”
“Get dressed,” she’d call. “I’m waiting in the car. Where are your things?”
“I’ll pack them myself. I’m a man, am I not? What do you expect me to do—swallow the suitcase? I’ll be quick; you’ll still have time to scold me.”
This was their rhythm—two people closer than kin. He even amended his will, leaving her half his estate—though Liza had no idea and never angled for wealth. His presence was wealth enough. With him she felt as she had in childhood with her father—calm, sheltered, safe.
He dreaded the day she might marry and drift away. He had survived losing his daughter; he didn’t think he could bear another parting. Yet he didn’t speak of it.
They were apart only during vacation each year, when Liza went to stay with her sister. Antonina had carried her for so long; now Liza tried to repay the debt in time and care.
She could afford fancy trips now; she still chose Tonya’s house. Gratefulness was a destination, too.
She’d urged Tonya to move to the city so they could rent a big apartment and raise the kids together. But Antonina said no. She was waiting for her husband, helicopter pilot Alexander Grishin, who’d vanished when his aircraft went down five years ago. His body was never recovered; he was declared dead.
Tonya refused to believe it. “I won’t leave, Lizonka. What if Sashka returns? How will he find us in the city?”
“We’ll leave a note with the address,” Liza would joke, swallowing bitterness.
She admired that fierce loyalty, that stubborn love—while fearing the years slipping by. Tonya kept waiting; life kept moving.
Semyon Krachkov had courted Tonya persistently. She always refused. “How can I marry when my husband is alive? No one saw a body. He’ll come home.”
So the Grishins stayed in the village. When Marina finished school and left for university, Liza would take her under her wing. Until then, Liza visited on holidays, some weekends, and every vacation.
It was during one such vacation that Liza rushed in to help. Antonina had been in pain for three days and couldn’t afford to miss work—she kept house for billionaire Voropaev. Wealthy families liked to hide away from the city, buying land and building compounds, hiring local staff. The village was near; ten minutes by bike.
Liza coordinated with the staff to cover the switch and keep her identity quiet. The owners would never notice; most employees were faceless to them. The rule was simple: be invisible.
Once, it hadn’t been so strict. Then Anzhelika moved in and everything changed. The fiancée had no patience for anyone without seven figures in the bank. She despised servants and didn’t want to see them at all.
Cleaning was to be done when the family was out of sight; if an owner appeared, staff were to vanish.
“So we’re to move like shadows?” Liza had quipped the first time she heard it.
“Something like that,” sighed the long-time housekeeper, Tamara Petrovna. “It’s all Anzhelika. Not even a wife yet and already giving orders.”
“Fiancée means guest,” Liza noted dryly. “Guests can request; they don’t command.”
“True,” Tamara said, “but no one wants trouble. Voropaev gave her a ring; the wedding’s soon.”
“Fine by me,” Liza smiled. “Nobody knows me, so no one will guess I’m Tonya’s stand-in.”
“Then hide if you see her,” Tamara warned. “You’re too young and too pretty for this place. Even your sister’s young for a servant—she’s about the same age as Mr. Voropaev. And you’re younger.”
“Is she really so jealous?” Liza mused.
“And how,” Tamara snorted. “She even fired poor Masha Grenkina—and Masha’s no beauty. But Anzhelika knows all the tricks women know. They say she used to be an escort. Now she’s settling down—the forties are creeping up.” The housekeeper dropped her voice to a whisper.
Everyone gossiped, Liza had noticed—only never outside the property. Breaking that rule meant the sack for everyone, not just the culprit. The job was too good to risk.
“Why would Aleksey Anatolyevich marry someone like that?” Liza asked.
“She’s clever,” Tamara said. “Fox-clever. Years in ‘hospitality’ taught her table manners. She speaks English, tracks the news, can chatter about politics, fashion, the arts. In public, she looks the part. Now you see.”
“Not really,” Liza said.
“Listen, he never truly loved anyone after Vera, his first wife. I’ve seen many women pass through here, and only Vera lit up his face. The rest… nothing. Anzhelika is optics. He buys her baubles, parades her about. A man like Voropaev needs a wife.”
“A married man reassures business partners,” Liza finished. “A bachelor doesn’t inspire confidence. So he’s purchasing the role.”
“You could call it that,” Tamara agreed. “He pays, we endure. And Alisa can’t stand her,” she added with a grimace.
“Why did he and Alisa’s mother split? The girl’s suffering.”
“Vera couldn’t stand this gilded cage. He loved her—showered her with protection—but never had time. Came home when she was asleep, left before she woke. Then he sent Alisa to Europe, and that’s when Vera really faded.”
“She met another man—an English painter, Jack—rich and famous. They crossed paths at a Russian exhibition where he bought some canvases. He came back to Russia a few times; they met in the studio Aleksey bought her.”
“One morning over breakfast she said, as if casually,
‘Lesha, I’m leaving.’
‘Why?’ he asked, stunned.
‘I fell in love.’”
Now Vera lives in London with Jack. After the divorce, Aleksey yanked Alisa out of Europe and put her in a Russian school. He forbade Vera any contact with the child—still does.
The girl hasn’t adapted. Three years back and she still doesn’t connect with classmates. Withdrawn. All that hurts has gone inward. Separation from her mother scarred her deeply.
“There’s a grudge lodged in his heart,” Tamara sighed. “But it’s his daughter who pays.”
“You’re a psychologist in disguise,” Liza smiled.
“Nonsense. I’m just old and observant. And I’ll tell you what else—” She tilted her head. “You’re not like us. Not the berry from this bush.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re educated, different—too refined for scrubbing floors. Your sister’s a simple soul. You—what are you, really?”
Liza didn’t intend to reveal more. “I’m from the district center. Grew up there. Studied in the city. Now excuse me—I need to clean the gazebo. They’ll take breakfast there.”
“Right!” Tamara startled. “What am I doing wasting time? If Kopeykin wakes, we’ll catch it.”
“Who’s Kopeykin?” Liza asked.
“Anzhelika,” Tamara laughed. “Plays the grand lady, but she’s actually Anzhela Vasilievna Kopeykin, the local zootechnician’s daughter. From my village—Sinkovka. Ring any bells?”
“It does,” Liza said with a grin, grabbing a brimming bucket and hurrying off.
She was moving so fast she collided with the master himself. The bucket sloshed; water cascaded over his trousers and shoes.
His eyes went wide. He recovered quickly. “You again. The only reason you weren’t fired last night was because Alisa begged. That won’t save you next time. Out—”
“I’m so sorry,” Liza stammered, fishing a brush from her apron and trying to herd the puddle.
“Have you lost your mind? Do you sweep up water with a brush?” he exploded. He turned to go and change, then looked back sharply. “Tell me—how long have you been a housekeeper? You don’t seem to know the first thing about it.”
“No—no, I do! I’ve done housework since I was a kid. Loads of experience.” Her heart hammered. If she lost this job now…
“Your name?”
“Liza.”
“Fine, Liza. Keep working. For now.”
She made for the gazebo and set to. On the way, she overheard a slice of conversation—Anzhelika’s voice, sharp as glass: “She poured water on you? You fired her, darling? Why not? Where is she—I’ll throw her out myself!”
Liza didn’t hear his reply, but his tone sounded like persuasion—calm, coaxing.
While she worked feverishly, Alisa appeared. “Hey. What are you doing?”
“Working. Please don’t distract me. Your father almost fired me twice in twelve hours. I need to keep this job. I have to.”
“Why?”
Liza stopped wiping. “It’s a secret. Can you keep one?”
Alisa flushed. “Of course.” No one had ever entrusted her with a real secret. She was always sent away when talk turned serious.
“Swear you won’t tell. Not even under torture.”
“I swear.”
“All right. Listen carefully. I’m not actually staff. I snuck in. I’m covering for my sister—she’s sick and in the hospital. I have two nephews—Marina’s fourteen, Pavlik is six. Marina’s trying to mind him while I work, but the responsibility is really on me.”
Alisa’s hands moved of their own accord; she began helping Liza clean. In minutes they were done, and that shared secret knit a quick, sturdy bond.
“I will never betray you,” Alisa said solemnly, hand to heart.
“Thank you. You’re a real friend,” Liza said, genuinely. The word “friend” struck deep; Alisa’s eyes watered.
“Truly? I can be your friend?”
Liza pretended to consider. “Alisa Alekseevna Voropaeva, I offer you the hand of friendship.”
She didn’t yet know she’d found the truest friend of her life. Alisa had never had friends, but she was bright, bookish, and keenly alive to what friendship meant. Guile and betrayal were foreign to her.
“Are you staying tonight?” Alisa asked. “What about Marina and Pavlik?”
“Yes, I’ll bring them over in the evening. But no one can visit my room—if your father finds out…”
“They can stay with us. We’ll swim, watch a movie in the theater, order pizza and sushi—Konstantin will cook.”
“Who’s Konstantin?”
“Our chef,” Alisa laughed.
“Absolutely not—I’ll be fired if they find out.”
“They won’t. My friend can go anywhere here,” she said with imperious playfulness. “And I’ll deal with the poodle.”
“What poodle?”
“Anzhelika.” They both snorted.
Just then the fiancée swept into the gazebo, eyeing Alisa and the maid with contempt. “Alisa, why are you here? Go inside. You’ll be called when breakfast is served. Until then you have no business here—especially not with servants.”
“You didn’t ask,” Alisa said coolly. “You’re nobody here. Go manage your village.”
“You… Listen, when my time comes, you’ll dance,” Anzhelika hissed, lips trembling, fists balled. She looked close to lunging—then her gaze snagged on Liza, who ducked her face. Tamara’s warning echoed: the fiancée sacked young maids without blinking.
The storm passed Liza by, this time. She took the chance to clean the master suite while everyone ate. As soon as Aleksey left on business, the household machine revved—gardeners, cooks, guards, maids—every one of them careful not to trigger the master’s displeasure.
After her rounds, Liza took a breather, phoned Marina and Pavlik, checked on her sister, and promised the kids she’d fetch them that evening to spend time at the estate. Pavlik was beside himself—Mama never allowed them into the mansion.
With her calls done, Liza headed to Aleksey’s study. The door stood ajar, which was odd—it was always locked. She had the key from the head of security and was supposed to return it after tidying.
She paused, set the cleaning caddy down, and edged toward the opening. What she saw took the air from her lungs.
Anzhelika was at the safe. She pulled documents, photographed them, slid them back, closed the door, wiped the metal with a handkerchief. She peeled off gloves, pocketed her phone, stacked papers neatly on the desk.
Liza managed to film and snap several photos. When Anzhelika finished, Liza grabbed her buckets and ducked around the corner, heart thudding.
A moment later, the fiancée emerged, locked the door, and hurried away. Liza exhaled shakily. She crept back, opened up to clean, and when she was done, she reviewed the footage until her hands stopped trembling. Then she sent everything to Naum Yakovlevich. They traded a flurry of messages. Liza smiled, said goodbye, and walked down the corridor with new purpose. She would follow her mentor’s instructions to the letter.
When she explained what she’d witnessed, Goldman sighed. “My little bird, how do you keep landing in the very center of scandals?”
“I don’t know myself, Naum Yakovlevich. I wasn’t meddling. Tonya got sick, I had to cover her or she’d lose her job. And the fiancée—she’s venom. You can’t imagine. Fires young maids for sport. Staff must be flawless—robots.”
“Voropaev… Aleksey Anatolyevich?” Naum asked, surprised.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“More than a little. I handled his family’s matters for years. His father, Anatoly Mikhailovich, was a decent man. I represented him back in the eighties. I’ve known Aleksey since he was a boy. So—you’re in his house?”
“I am.”
“Listen carefully. Don’t make any move on your own. I’ll check on Anzhelika through my channels and then we’ll decide. I promise it won’t take long. Can you hold out a couple of days?”
“Of course,” Liza said, relieved.
That weekend, once Aleksey and his fiancée flew to Sochi, Liza brought Marina and Pavlik over, and with Alisa they had a genuine holiday—games, laughter, the easy chaos of ordinary joy. Late that night, when the house was quiet, Liza peeked in on Alisa. The girl slept at last—deep and peaceful. Liza understood how hard life was here for her with a perpetually absent father and an icy fiancée. What the child lacked wasn’t opulence, but attention, care, love.
Liza decided that even when this ended she would stay in Alisa’s life. Years from now, she wanted to be able to say, “I’ve known Alisa Alekseevna since childhood. I was there when things were hard.”
Smiling at the thought, she walked straight into Aleksey in the corridor.
“You again?” he said, startled.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, panicking—her nephews were asleep in her room, the living room still a wreck from their impromptu party.
“I live here,” he said with a small laugh. “And you seem to, too. This is the second time I’ve found you wandering the halls at night.”
“Sorry,” Liza said, smiling back. “I was only checking that Alisa was asleep.”
“And?”
“She is. For the first time in ages—and without worries.”
“What did you do?” he asked, genuine curiosity breaking through his usual reserve. “She hasn’t slept well for years.”
“I became her friend,” Liza said simply.
“Come to my study,” he said. “We need to talk about my daughter. Standing in the hallway at this hour is ridiculous.”
They slipped inside. He offered a soft chair and a glass.
“If I may—why are you back early? Isn’t your fiancée in Sochi?”
“Business trouble,” he said. “Someone got hold of information he had no right to. Oleg Zaporozhnikov—an old friend and rival. Somehow he submitted our project ahead of the tender.”
“You think the staff can’t follow?” Liza asked, stung.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “Forgive me.” He paused. “About Anzhelika… I hate that she fires people for nothing. But she’ll be the mistress soon, and these decisions won’t be mine.”
“Then why marry her if you don’t love her?” Liza asked, blushing, but holding his gaze.
“It isn’t about love. I need a woman who can play the role—Mrs. Voropaev.”
“That’s a mistake,” she said softly. “A person can’t live without love. Love your child, your woman, your country—without it, what’s the point?”
“I don’t know how to love,” he said abruptly. “Those I loved—gone. My ex-wife, who I loved deeply, left me. Maybe I love wrong. Even my daughter…”
“Then learn,” Liza said. “But not from Anzhelika. She’ll hollow you out. She doesn’t love you the way you think.”
He studied her. “Could you teach me?”
Liza flushed—and the door opened. A sleepy Alisa shuffled in. “Liza, I was looking for you. I went to your room and you weren’t there.” She curled beside Liza and, within minutes, was asleep.
“So we still didn’t talk,” Liza smiled. “Will you tell me why you left your fiancée alone to fly back?”
“Let her be alone,” he said. “I have a crisis. The project my team built is compromised. A competitor filed my proposal first. I don’t understand how. There are no traitors among the staff.”
“Tomorrow I’ll convene the board. The day after, my lawyer arrives. If I must close the project, I will. We’ll move on.”
“Think who knew,” Liza said quietly. “Who stood to gain.” She already knew, but she’d promised Naum to hold her tongue.
On Sunday morning, Liza took the children to the hospital to see Antonina. Her sister was nearly well; the doctors planned to discharge her soon. That meant Liza’s time in the mansion was ending.
The thought pinched. She didn’t want to go. Aleksey had become… interesting, close. And he clearly saw her as more than a maid. But how could a promising attorney set down her practice and continue scrubbing floors? The idea made her chuckle.
After the hospital, Alisa begged them all to go to the beach. Liza agreed. Alisa’s face lit with wonder. She’d never eaten cotton candy, never ridden a Ferris wheel, never swum in a river. She’d traveled Europe and sampled luxury, but ordinary childhood joys had eluded her—jumping off bridges into cool water, wading through fountains, camping, roasting potatoes over a fire.
“This summer I’ll show you everything,” Marina vowed. “And if your dad says yes, we’ll even stay overnight in Liza’s city!”
“You live in the city?” Alisa asked, startled.
“Of course!” Marina blurted, and instantly clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Really?” Alisa said, stricken.
“It’s true,” Liza admitted gently. “I live in the city and I’m a lawyer. Don’t be sad, friend. We’ll see each other often. I think your father and I are building a good understanding. You’ll visit.”
Alisa hugged her. “Let’s have you marry Dad,” she whispered. “Imagine it.”
Liza didn’t answer; she only blushed. The idea no longer seemed absurd. Not long ago she’d been afraid of him. Now…
The day was glorious. Evening came; Liza and her nephews saw Alisa home and cycled back to the village. It was Liza’s first day off in ages. Tomorrow—back to the mansion.
Morning came too fast. The alarm nagged; she tapped snooze again and again. She was bone-tired—more work in a week than in a year, punctuated by midnight checks on Alisa. She was late. She pedaled hard but still rolled in after breakfast.
“If this were my real post, I’d have been sacked long ago,” she thought.
Alisa was waiting on the steps. “Hurry. I covered for you. Dad asked where you were. I said you were helping in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, darling—you’re a lifesaver,” Liza said, parking her bike and hurrying inside.
She changed and entered the living room with Alisa—and stopped. Two men sat there: Aleksey and Naum Yakovlevich.
“Good morning,” Liza said, flushing.
“Hello, Liza,” the owner said with a small smile. “I was looking for you.”
“I was in the kitchen… cleaning, chopping… you know…” she babbled, carefully not meeting Naum’s eye.
“‘Cleaning, chopping,’” Goldman chuckled. “Elizaveta, you overslept. Tell the truth.”
Aleksey glanced between them, puzzled.
“Aleksey Anatolyevich,” Naum said, swallowing a pill, “allow me to introduce my partner, my student, my friend—and one of the best lawyers in our city, after me of course: Elizaveta Andreevna Malinkina.”
“Sorry—this is my maid—Liza… what’s her patronymic?” Aleksey stammered.
“Elizaveta Andreevna… Malinkina,” she said meekly, eyes lowered.
Alisa sat back with a cat-satisfied smile. So the only person in the dark had been her father.
“What is happening?” Aleksey asked, half-laughing.
“I’ll explain,” Naum said. “Liza is on vacation, temporarily covering for her sick sister. She’s the one who caught Anzhelika rifling the safe and photographing documents. The video I showed you—Liza filmed it while ‘dusting’ your study. Thanks to her, the spy who was about to be your wife is unmasked.”
At that moment, Anzhelika trundled in with a wheeled suitcase, face thunderous. “You left me alone—no helicopter, no car, no one at the airport. I need to think very carefully about marrying you, Aleksey.”
“You won’t,” he said calmly. “Pack your things and go. Before I call the police.”
She stared, stunned. “What is that servant doing here? Why is she—”
Without a word, Aleksey pressed play and set the phone on the table. She watched herself in silence. The blood drained from her face, then returned in a hot wave; she began to scream—he was heartless, his daughter hateful, he’d regret this.
She left. The engagement was over. Aleksey lost the tender and had to shutter the project. But new avenues opened almost at once, and, oddly, he felt lighter. It had unfolded exactly as it should.
Soon he was seeing the city’s best lawyer (after Naum, naturally). Elizaveta became his beloved—and remained Alisa’s fiercest friend. Liza persuaded him to rebuild the bridge between Alisa and her mother. He did everything in his power to make their meetings easy and frequent.
In August, Vera flew in from London. Alisa hadn’t been that happy in years. And all of it began with Liza—who was preparing to give the girl one more gift: to become her new mother.