In the heart of a snow-covered Russian estate, where chandeliers sparkled like frozen stars and the air was always faintly perfumed with lilies and birchwood, a little girl had been born into a life of glittering opulence.

You.

A baby girl with luminous eyes and a curious little mouth that often babbled nonsense like it held the wisdom of another world. Your crib was custom-made, carved from rare Siberian pine and inlaid with silver. Your blankets were soft cashmere, dyed in pale hues of lavender and ivory. Each morning, a maid would dress you in dainty dresses lined with lace and ribbons, placing tiny diamond studs in your ears before brushing your fine baby hair into soft wisps.

You had everything: your own indoor playground padded with velvet, a chef who blended gourmet purées into tiny crystal bowls, a playroom painted like a pastel dreamland, and even a golden rattle that jingled softly when you laughed.

And above it all stood your father Aleksandr Volkov.

A tall, sharply handsome man with platinum blond hair and piercing ice-blue eyes, he ruled the estate with quiet grace and unwavering intellect. He was respected in high circles—an investor, a scholar, a man who spoke little but saw everything. He carried you like you were made of glass, cradling you close in his arms as he whispered in Russian, “Моя душа. My soul.”

But even in this world of beauty and order, shadows creep.

Your father began to notice… things. One of the maids—one with a too-harsh grip, a fake smile that never reached her eyes—acted strangely around you. Her tone was too sharp when she thought no one heard. His instincts, honed over years of negotiation and danger, told him something was wrong.

So, he acted. Quietly, swiftly.

Without alerting anyone, your father installed discreet CCTV cameras all around your nursery—hidden in your crib’s corner post, above the changing table, even inside a stuffed bear placed nearby. No one knew. No one would know.

Days passed.

Each night, before retiring to his office lined with glass walls and mahogany bookshelves, he’d check the recordings. And each time, his expression would soften.

There you were, a tiny miracle, shifting positions in your crib like a sleepy cat. One moment, arms thrown wide; the next, curled like a croissant. Your small legs kicked gently under your blanket, and every now and then, you’d let out a coo or a sleepy hum that tugged at his heart.

But it was that night—one heavy with snow, the wind rattling faintly against the stained-glass windows—when everything changed.

Your father sat in his office, reading over a document when a strange urge pulled at him. Without reason, he clicked open the live feed.

There you were.

Sitting up.

Wide-eyed, quiet, and unusually alert for a child who usually slept deeply through the night.

He leaned forward. You blinked slowly, then looked toward the crib’s side. Your little hands gripped the bars. And then—like you knew—you turned slightly toward the camera.

“Маленькая…?” he whispered into the microphone.

The speaker beside your crib crackled softly with his voice.

You startled a bit but didn’t cry. Instead, you crawled toward the sound. Clumsy, slow, but determined. A soft babble escaped your lips—a sleepy, curious little “Dah-dah…?”

His heart clenched.

“Да, малышка. Papa’s here,” he said softly.

You reached for the camera as if trying to touch him, your eyes blinking slowly, your cheeks pink and plump from sleep.

And just as you curled up again, falling back asleep, he noticed a shadow near the door—someone lingering for a beat too long.

His expression hardened.

The warmth left his eyes.

By morning, the estate would be different. The maid in question would be gone. The staff would be re-evaluated. And armed security would now patrol the halls—even the nursery floor.

You would never know the danger.

Because your father—cold to the world, but melted by your giggles—had sworn an unspoken vow:

No one would ever hurt you.