[Little Ivy Sprouts Daycare]
The grand oak doors of Little Ivy Sprouts closed behind Viktor Mikhailov with a hushed, expensive thud. Inside, the air hung thick with the cloying scent of lavender disinfectant and hydrolyzed protein formula that cost more per ounce than single-malt Scotch. Polished hardwood floors reflected the gleam of crystal mobiles and abstract art worthy of a SoHo gallery. Somewhere, a child sobbed with the refined despair of future trust-fund ennui.
Viktor's Oxfords struck the floor like metronome beats counting down to an execution. He followed the sound of Yuri's voice – unnaturally bright, a sure sign of impending chaos – emanating from the 'Sunflower Room' conference space.
"Da, Misha," Yuri was saying, his tone straining under the weight of performative cheerfulness. "Ya ponimayu, chto derevyannyye kubiki – fashisty. No my ne brosayem ikh v golovu vospitatelyu—" Yes, Misha, I understand the wooden blocks are fascists. But we don't throw them at the teacher's head—
Viktor rounded the corner.
Yuri sat rigid in a miniature chair, looking like a bear stuffed into a dollhouse. Perched on his lap like a disgruntled tsarina sat Misha. Her dark curls were a chaotic halo, her little arms crossed over the smocked bodice of a dress Viktor recognized – the one with the embroidered ravens, Yuri's questionable choice. Her steel-gray eyes, exact replicas of Viktor's own, were fixed on the daycare director, Ms. Whitmore, with a glare that could freeze mercury.
The moment Misha spotted Viktor, the imperial fury dissolved. Her tiny face crumpled. A bottom lip quivered with Oscar-worthy pathos. She thrust a chubby finger towards Ms. Whitmore and unleashed a torrent of indignant babble:
"Aba! Gah-tuh-pthh! DAH-nah-NYET!" (Father! This woman dared to correct me! She said NO!)
Every head in the pastel-colored room snapped towards the doorway.
A clutch of single mothers, clutching porcelain cups of artisan coffee, froze mid-sip. Their eyes widened, darting from Viktor's face to the rosy pale hand of his that's a stark black against his pale skin, visible where he'd rolled the sleeves of his black turtleneck. Married couples stiffened; wives dug sharp elbows into the ribs of husbands whose gazes lingered a fraction too long on the man who looked less like a parent and more like a fallen angel moonlighting in dark academia. His crimson Harvard letterman jacket hung carelessly over one shoulder, a slash of violence against the room's curated serenity.
And in his shadow, radiating scandalous energy from Yuri's lap: Misha Mikhailova. Cambridge's most infamous infant.
---
[The Indictment]
Ms. Whitmore, a woman whose crisp linen suit and pearl necklace screamed 'progressive pedagogy priced by the hour,' adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses. Her smile was brittle. "Ah, Mr. Mikhailov. Thank you for coming on such short notice." She gestured to a chair opposite hers, sized for a normal human. Viktor remained standing, a monolith of silent expectation.
"Misha," Ms. Whitmore began, clasping her hands, "is remarkably… advanced for her age."
Viktor's gaze didn't waver from hers. "I know."
A flush crept up Ms. Whitmore's neck. "Yes, well. Her linguistic development is certainly impressive. Bilingualism is an asset, of course…" She trailed off, then slid a glossy photograph across the low table. It showed the daycare's colorful alphabet magnets. They had been meticulously rearranged. Not into 'CAT' or 'DOG'.
They spelled: НЕТ. No in scrawly scribbles that looked a bit neat at the same time.
Yuri snorted, the sound echoing in the suddenly quiet room. "Kid's fluent in defiance before she's fluent in please. You should invoice for the enrichment."
Ms. Whitmore ignored him, pressing on. "And then there was the… incident… with Henry Wellington the Third."
Viktor's gaze flicked to Misha. Her little face was the picture of injured innocence. "Why?" The single word was a blade.
Misha's tiny finger shot out, pointing unerringly across the room. There, in the 'Quiet Corner,' sat a blond toddler with cheeks like overstuffed pillows, gnawing ferociously on the ear of a plush giraffe. Saliva darkened the fabric.
Viktor looked back at Ms. Whitmore, his expression unchanged. "He was asking for it." Tch, the little ugly looking bastard.
A collective, barely audible gasp rippled through the assembled parents.
Helicopter Mom #1 (whispering frantically to her friend, eyes glued to Viktor): "Is he single? I mean—is the baby single? I— Oh God, did I say that out loud?"
Jealous Husband (muttering under his breath, glaring): "That's not a dad. That's a goddamn GQ spread walking."
Yuri (leaning infinitesimally closer to Viktor, voice a gravelly whisper): "Vitya, if we charged rubles for every fantasy happening in this room right now, Misha's PhD fund would be set. Just saying."
Viktor absorbed the stares, the whispers, the palpable tension like background radiation. His focus remained solely on the director. "What," he repeated, the word a flat command, "do you need from me?"
Ms. Whitmore took a steadying breath. Her plea was coated in pedagogical jargon. "Perhaps… a slight… reduction… in the intensity of her Russian immersion at home? Just temporarily? To encourage more… conventional peer interactions? And discourage the… biting?"
A low sound emanated from Yuri's lap. It wasn't a cry. It wasn't a whine. It was a pure, guttural growl. Deep, resonant, and utterly feral. A sound Viktor was certain no one had taught her. It vibrated in the suddenly frigid air of the Sunflower Room.
Viktor stared at his daughter. Her steel-gray eyes blazed back, defiant. A flicker of something dangerously close to pride sparked behind Viktor's icy facade, ruthlessly suppressed. He met Ms. Whitmore's desperate gaze.
"Ya podumayu," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. I will consider it. But Ms. Whitmore blinked twice tilting her head and Yuri sighs before translating for her, "He says he'll think about it-" Yuri says as he scratches the back of his head then he glances up at Viktor's face...oh now. "Vitya, let's leave it at that and go?"
The silence afterward was absolute. Broken only by the distant, refined wail of another Ivy-bound heir, and the vigorous, wet chewing sounds coming from Henry Wellington III.