One month passed. Then came autumn.
“You know, I’m done sleeping on the floor—it’s getting chilly,” Spartacus said one evening as they entered their bedroom.
Nadya glanced at him but said nothing. He was slightly surprised but didn’t press her. Fluffing his pillow, he lay down on one side of the bed. She quietly lay down on the other, turning her back to him.
“Good night,” he said softly.
“Good night. Sleep well,” she replied.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. What lingered instead was the quiet realization that she was trying—really trying—to fit in. She made no demands, held no grudges, never once complained.
And all this from a girl raised in luxury—used to bossing around maids and giving orders to drivers—who had now turned into a real-life Cinderella.
It wasn’t easy for her. Everyone saw it. At first, she would collapse onto the bed and pass out from sheer fatigue. Even Uncle Pasha, perhaps feeling guilty, would bring her little gifts now and then—scarves, a dress or two, sweets he’d split with Styopa. She started tying her hair with headscarves like her mother-in-law, mimicking her gestures.
And the house… it changed with her in it. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the table, washed fruit in a bowl, a certain warmth and quiet joy in the air. The only downside was the food—when she cooked, that was still a gamble. But the men ate, forcing down whatever came out of the pot, pretending it was the best thing they’d ever tasted.
She’d watch them nervously, asking, “Is it okay? Maybe a bit burnt… or undercooked? Too salty?” They’d smile and nod, chewing bravely.
But no one was more grateful than Katerina Alexandrovna, especially on days she didn’t have to cook. At last, she had weekends off.
Time passed, and Nadya began to adjust—to the house, to the family. Spartacus watched her slender back as she lay beside him and thought: maybe this… could actually work. Maybe it didn’t have to be about money or America. Maybe there was something real here.
He reached out a hand toward her—but it stopped mid-air. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. After a few seconds, he let his arm drop and closed his eyes with a heavy breath.
By the end of December, Spartacus was turning thirty. He usually didn’t care much for birthdays, but this time, the household insisted on a little celebration. Especially Nadya—she was getting the hang of cooking, and her pastries were starting to turn out surprisingly well. She promised to bake a cake, and Katerina Alexandrovna vowed to help her with everything.