Mile High Daddy: Chapter 11

The windowpane is cool against my forehead as I lean against it, the outside world a blur of green and gold. The sprawling gardens stretch far beyond what my eyes can take in, meticulously maintained. Nothing is ever out of place here, not even people.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since my life was yanked out from under me, since I was taken away from everything I knew. My job. My friends. My mom.

My mom.

The ache in my chest sharpens, and I clutch the piece of paper on my lap. The letter is half-written, the words scrawled in uneven lines that I can barely read through the blur of my tears.

Dear Mom, I don’t even know where to start. I miss you so much. I⁠—

The pen shakes in my hand, and I stop, pressing it against the paper to steady myself. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish by writing this. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get it to her. But it’s the only thing that keeps me tethered to her right now.

The rest is illegible, my thoughts tangled in the ache of missing her. I fold the paper carefully, my hands trembling slightly as I tuck it into my pocket. I don’t know how I’ll get this to her. The staff here watch everything, report back to Mikhail or his mother.

A sudden wave of nausea rises in my throat. My stomach clenches painfully, and I drop the pen as I lurch to my feet. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m doubled over, the contents of my stomach forcing their way out in heaving, painful waves.

The cold tile presses against my knees, my arms braced on the edge of the toilet as I try to catch my breath. My head spins, and for a moment, I just stay there, letting the stillness of the bathroom envelop me.

My entire body feels weak, every muscle trembling from the effort.

The sound of footsteps makes me glance up, and I freeze when I see her.

Mikhail’s mother stands in the doorway. She doesn’t move to help me, doesn’t even flinch at the sight of me curled up on the bathroom floor.

“You’re sick,” she says simply, her voice as cold as the tile beneath me.

I manage to push myself up slightly, leaning back against the wall. “Must have been something I ate,” I mumble, my voice hoarse.

Her lips press into a thin line, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, watching me like I’m some puzzle she’s trying to figure out.

“Get up,” she says finally, her tone brisk. “You look pathetic.”

Her words sting, but I’m too drained to respond.

When I don’t move fast enough for her liking, she clicks her tongue in irritation. “This isn’t the time for weakness,” she says. “You’re part of this family now. Act like it. You’re pale. You look awful.”

“Thanks for the diagnosis,” I mutter, pushing myself up slowly. My legs feel like jelly, and I grip the counter for balance, glaring at her through the fog of my exhaustion.

She tilts her head, her gaze flicking over me once more before she turns to leave. “I suggest you rest,” she says over her shoulder. “You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, just makes a face.

With that, she turns and walks away, leaving me alone on the cold, unforgiving floor. The faint sound of her footsteps echoes down the hall, fading into the distance.

My stomach churns again, but this time it’s a dull ache rather than a violent twist. I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

“Lila?”

The voice is softer, gentler, and I open my eyes to see Tatyana standing in the doorway. Her presence is instantly soothing in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

“Tatyana,” I manage, my voice hoarse from all the throwing up.

She steps inside, her movements careful, and crouches beside me. Her warm brown eyes scan my face, and I feel a lump rising in my throat.

“What happened?” she asks gently, placing a hand on my arm.

“Nothing,” I lie, trying to muster a small smile. “I think it was just something I ate.”

Her brows knit together, and she shakes her head slightly. “You don’t look like someone who just had bad fish. You look exhausted.”

I shrug weakly, not trusting myself to say much.

“Come on,” she says, standing and holding out her hand. “Let’s get you off the floor. You shouldn’t be sitting here like this.”

Reluctantly, I take her hand, letting her help me up. My legs wobble, but she steadies me with her arms.

“Sit,” she says, guiding me to the small bench by the vanity. “I’ll be right back.”

I sink onto the bench, too tired to argue. The nausea has subsided, but a deep exhaustion lingers, pulling at every muscle in my body.

Tatyana returns a moment later with a glass of water and a small plate of crackers.

“Here,” she says, handing me the water. “Sip this slowly.”

I do as she says, the cool water soothing my dry throat.

“And eat these,” she adds, holding out the plate. “It’ll help settle your stomach.”

I hesitate but take a cracker, nibbling at the edge. The bland taste is surprisingly comforting, and I feel a faint flicker of gratitude.

“Thank you,” I say.

Tatyana smiles, her warm gaze meeting mine. “Of course, Lila. You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Her words catch me off guard, and I blink at her, unsure of how to respond.

She sits beside me, her tone soft but serious. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Being here, away from your mother, your life…everything familiar. But you’re stronger than you think.”

Her kindness feels like a balm to my frayed nerves, and I swallow hard, fighting back tears.

“I don’t feel strong,” I admit, my voice trembling.

“You don’t have to feel it,” she says gently. “You just have to keep going.”

For a moment, we sit in silence, the warmth of her presence making the cold edges of this place feel a little less sharp.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” she says after a while, her tone thoughtful. “Someone with a fire in her that nothing could extinguish.”

I glance at her, curious. “Who?”

She smiles faintly, her eyes distant. “Your grandmother. She was a force to be reckoned with. And you…you have that same spark.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, letting her words settle. She knew my grandmother? Even I didn’t know her. My dad had a difficult childhood is all I know. He was never accepted by his father because he was born out of wedlock, and my grandmother was merely his mistress.

“Get some rest,” Tatyana says, standing and smoothing her skirt. “And if you need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me.” She turns to leave, her soft footsteps almost reaching the door when I find my voice.

“Tatyana?”

She stops, glancing back at me. “Yes, dear?”

I hesitate, clutching the empty glass of water in my hands, my fingers trembling slightly. “Can you…can you help me talk to my mom?”

Her expression softens, and for a moment, she looks as though she’s weighing my words carefully.

“I miss her,” I add quickly, my voice breaking despite my efforts to hold it together. “It’s been weeks, and she doesn’t even know where I am. She must be worried sick. Please, I just need to hear her voice.”

Tatyana walks back toward me, her warm gaze never leaving mine. She kneels beside me, taking my hand gently in hers.

“I know how hard this must be for you,” she says, her voice kind but cautious. “But things are…complicated right now.”

“I don’t care about complicated,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “I just want to know she’s okay. I need to talk to her.”

Tatyana sighs softly, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says after a moment.

The glow of the TV bathes the room in soft light as I sit cross-legged on the bed, absently flipping through channels. Nothing holds my attention for more than a few seconds. It’s all noise—distractions that don’t work.

My thoughts keep drifting back to Tatyana’s promise earlier. I’ll see what I can do.

I don’t know why, but a small part of me wants to believe her. Maybe because she’s the only person in this house who doesn’t make me feel like I’m completely alone.

A knock at the door startles me, and before I can answer, it opens.

Mikhail steps inside, looking me up and down. I feel my stomach do flips.

He’s holding something, a small box wrapped in plain brown paper, and his expression is unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead walking toward me with measured steps. I sit up straighter, my body tensing as he stops at the edge of the bed.

“This is for you,” he says, holding out the package.

I look at it skeptically, not moving to take it. “What is it?”

“Open it and find out,” he replies.

For a moment, I consider refusing, but curiosity gets the better of me. I reach out hesitantly, and as our fingers brush, a jolt shoots through me, sharp and unexpected. His knuckles are scarred, rough, the kind of hands that have done damage. Hands that don’t belong to a man who sits behind a desk all day. Hands that make me wonder just how much damage they could do to me.

I pull my hand back quickly, clutching the package to my chest as if that will stop the heat spreading through me. I hate the way my body reacts to him. The way even the slightest touch from him sets my nerves on fire.

I clear my throat, trying to focus on the package instead of the man standing so close. Carefully, I tear off the paper, revealing a sleek black phone.

I stare at it, my heart pounding. “What is this?”

“A phone,” he says simply. “It has restricted access, but you can call your mom on it.”

I blink at him, stunned. “What?”

“I spoke to your father,” he continues, his voice steady. “I got her number programmed into it.”

I don’t know what shocks me more—that he did this or that he spoke to my dad about it.

“You…you talked to him?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unyielding. “Tatyana mentioned you were feeling homesick.”

I glance down at the phone in my hands. I don’t know if I want to be mad at her for telling him, or grateful that she got me the help I needed—even if it was from my worst enemy.

“Why?” I finally ask, looking back up at him. “Why would you do this?”

His expression softens slightly, though his voice remains measured. “Because I can’t change the situation you’re in, but I can try to make it easier.”

“I don’t understand you, Mikhail,” I say, shaking my head. “You make my life a living hell, and then you do something like this. What am I supposed to think?”

“You don’t have to think anything,” he says. “Just call your mother.”

I stare at him, searching his face for some hidden motive, but all I find is a quiet intensity that leaves me feeling more unsettled than before.

Without another word, he turns and walks toward the door.

“Mikhail,” I call out, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Thank you,” I say, the words tasting strange on my tongue.

He nods once and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

I clutch the phone tightly, staring at the screen as a lump forms in my throat.

For the first time in weeks, I feel a sliver of hope.