But I hear voices from upstairs. Soft and familiar.
I take the stairs silently, following the sound to Mila's room.
The door is cracked open. Through the gap, I see Valerie sitting on the edge of Mila's bed, book in her lap, reading quietly.
"—and the princess realized that bravery wasn't about not being scared," Valerie's voice is gentle, soothing. "It was about doing the right thing even when you were terrified."
Mila is curled against her side, small body tucked under Valerie's arm, eyes already closing.
The image does something to my chest. Something uncomfortable that I refuse to examine.
Because Mila hasn't trusted anyone like this since Katya died. She hasn't let anyone hold her, braid her hair, or offer comfort without flinching away.
But she trusts Valerie. Curls into her like she's safe. Like the nightmares won't come if Valerie's there. And Valerie—who's terrified of me, who I caught spying, who I shoved over my desk and tormented hours ago—holds my daughter like she's precious. Like she actually cares.
Fuck.
I don't know what to do with that.
Don't know how to reconcile the spy gathering intel with the girl who braids Mila's hair, reads her stories, and makes my daughter smile for the first time in years.
Valerie finishes the chapter and carefully extracts herself from Mila's grip. Tucks the blankets around her. Turns on the nightlight. Moves with practiced ease like she's been doing this forever instead of three weeks.
When she turns toward the door, she sees me and freezes completely, her eyes going wide. She raises her hand to her throat in that nervous gesture I've memorized.
She's really terrified of me.
I step aside to let her pass, and she slips out of Mila's room like a ghost. Starts heading toward her own room, moving fast, trying to escape.
I let her get five steps before I move.
My hand wraps around her wrist, and she gasps, a small sound of shock and fear as I pull her in a different direction.
Toward my study.
"Please—" She tries to pull away. "I need to—I should—"
"Come with me." My grip tightens. "Now."
She doesn't fight. Just follows on trembling legs because what choice does she have?
I pull her into my study and close the door. Lock it with an audible click that makes her flinch.
The room still smells faintly like her—lavender and fear and arousal from this afternoon. The planner is back on my desk, where it belongs. Her torn underwear is gone—I kept it after she left.
She stands in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, looking anywhere but at me.
I move to the cabinet and pull out vodka. Pour two glasses. Turn back to find her watching me with those wide brown eyes.
"Drink." I hold one out to her.
"I don't—"
"I don't care. Drink it."
Her hand shakes when she takes the glass. She brings it to her lips, takes a tiny sip, and winces at the burn.
"All of it." My voice is flat. "Now."