“Anfisa?!” a familiar voice thundered. “What are you doing here?”
“Oop—oops!”
I wriggled out of the man’s arms and looked up. The mountains were staring back at me—prideful and smug, in person.
“What a mess, Fisa!”
“Work…ed.”
Demyan silently looks me over and raises an eyebrow:
“A maid? You ran away from a well-off father to work in my hotel, seriously?”
“I ran from not-from father, but from the marriage that was forced on me—with your younger brother!” I lifted my chin. “And I’d be very grateful if you forgot that you saw me here.”
Silence hung in the hall.
But not for long.
Demyan’s daughter grabbed her blue skateboard and said with an angelic smile:
“Daddy, I lied. And let Anfisa be my mommy, okay?”