Page 5 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“…so, you can see why we were concerned,” a woman says, her tone shrill and haughty. “We love and nurture children of all ages, shapes, and sizes, but I hope you are prepared for that girl.”
“She can be…unusual,” a man interjects, his voice slightly more tolerable, almost apologetic. “That’s what you meant to say, right, honey?”
Rather than sulk upstairs like I should, I follow the conversation into the kitchen, drawn by the tone. It’s far too serious than I figure a typical visit would be—not that Vadim seems like the afternoon brunch type anyway.
I find him seated at the table, impeccably dressed in an ebony suit. Across from him are two strangers—the minivan owners, I assume. The woman wears a hideous sweater ensemble, her blond hair pulled back severely into a bun, while the man wears a faded suit and sports a thinning brown mustache. They certainly don’t look like the type to consort with a billionaire in his private estate.
Unless…
They’re Magda’s current foster placement.
As I falter near the doorway, the woman looks at me, her gaze honed sharp. “Oh, is this your wife?”
“Tiffany,” Vadim says by way of explanation, though he isn’t looking in my direction. His gaze is solely focused on a pile of documents scattered before him—the supposed topic of this meeting. “These are the Robinsons,” he adds, his tone crisp. “Magdalene’s current foster family.”
Ah. I struggle to resume my fake wife ruse and force a grin, tucking my wild hair behind my ears. In a heartbeat, I channel my mother, my anger pushed aside—for now. “Pleased to meet you,” I say charmingly. “I apologize for my appearance. I must have lost track of time.”
“Oh, it’s no worry. And I don’t want to be rude…” Mrs. Robinson wrings her hands together, her lips pursed. The judgmental part of me recognizes the expression for what it is—a pent-up busy body about to unload. “It’s just, I have to ask, did Angela tell youeverything? I know Magdalene is only a child, but I insisted upon a higher level of care for her. Perhaps…psychiatric in nature. I know it’s not politically correct to insinuate—”
“I am fully prepared to take her,” Vadim says sternly. It’s strange. His entire expression is a carefully constructed mask of utter politeness. But something in his gaze makes me shiver. I step forward, claiming the chair beside him.
“Yes,” I say, squaring my shoulders in a show of solidarity. “We’re ready.”
Poor Mrs. Robinson swallows hard and shifts in her seat, laughing nervously. “Yes, well… Honey, tell them.” She nudges the man beside her. “Tell them about theincidents.”
“Magda has only been with us a year, mind you,” Mr. Robinson admits with a heavy sigh. “And she had already been through so much, what with her health problems. We knew she’d need some time to adjust—”
“She’s terrorized the other children,” Mrs. Robinson blurts out, folding her hands over the table. “She’s damaged property. There’s this teddy bear she came with. Well, recently, we discovered that not only did she rip its head off, she then broke into my embroidery kit and sewed it back together with red thread! It’s ghastly. We think it was a threat intended to frighten the other children.” Horror laces her tone, her voice shaking. “She’s incredibly isolative. She won’t let you help her with anything. Not her hair. Not with bathing—”
“She’s independent,” Mr. Robinson cuts in with another apologetic frown.
His wife scoffs. “She’s stubborn. The teachers at her school say she hasn’t attempted to make any friends—”
“Some children can be shy in social settings,” I interrupt, driven by an instinct I can’t name to defend a child I don’t even know. Internally I scold myself—despite the irritation prickling in my chest, these people can’t be all terrible. Can they?
“Thatgirl isn’t shy,” Mrs. Robinson says with a sniff. “And with the cost of her education, you would think they’d try harder to drill some social skills into her curriculum.”
“Is that so?” A muscle in my jaw jerks, and I feel my smile twitching. “Well, children do learn by example.”
Mrs. Robinson’s brows furrow. “I’m sorry?”
“I…” Thinking fast, I try to smooth out my response. “As a teacher, I learned that it’s unfair to subject everyone to the same standards.”
Somehow, I maintain my polite tone—but it must crack, because both Robinsons flinch.Good.My hands are clenching, I realize, my nails digging into my palms. With difficulty, I flatten them against the table, keeping my grin firmly in place.
“Her grades are exemplary,” the husband admits with genuine awe.
“That’s the thing. She’s intelligent to an uncanny degree,” Mrs. Robinson says, her nostrils flaring. “Toointelligent. She likes to sing creepy little songs in foreign languages—but she refuses to say what they’re about. She carries that terrifying bear everywhere she goes. I assumed it was damaged at first and tossed it into the rubbish bin, and she threw a tantrum so fierce we had to call Angela over just to soothe her. A few weeks ago, Richard noticed that someone had been breaking into his office at night, using his work computer. The other children wouldn’t dare. When we looked at the search history, we noticed that whoever used it had been looking up drug companies. One of them manufactures a medication Richard takes for a heart condition. What if she was trying to find out some way to—”
“Thank you for coming.” Vadim stands and gestures politely toward the foyer, his posture stiff. “I would hate to keep you, given that you are so busy with your other children. I appreciate you stopping by.”
“Yes, thank you,” I snap, matching his tone as I rise to my feet. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand twitch as if aching to take mine. At first, I deliberately flatten my palm against my side—but then something makes me relent, grasping his.
Together, we start for the foyer, leaving the couple to follow.
Stunned, they blink in unison and share a quick glance. Then they hurry past us as Vadim opens the door.
“Angela is a wonderful social worker,” Mrs. Robinson adds as she lingers over the threshold. “I’m sure if you wanted to look into another child…”
That’s it.I feel my mask slipping, my grin flattening. If I didn’t understand Vadim’s determination to gain custody of Magdalene before, I do now. While unsure, he’ll strive to be a better provider to her than these people could ever be.
As if he’s reading my mind, a muscle in his jaw twitches, and Mrs. Robinson promptly scuttles after her husband. I join him in watching them leave, my thoughts swirling. On the one hand, they seem like the breed my mother used to loathe back in Cali—overly conservative busybodies. At the same time…
The child they painted seems well beyond the skill set of an ex-Sunday school teacher and an emotionally withdrawn businessman. Does he have any idea what he might have gotten himself into? I glance at him, surprised to discover that…yes, he does. His jaw is set, more determined than ever.
And in that lone expression, I see a hint of his daughter, and any doubt dies. Two creatures, easily misunderstood, requiring patience to read. Understand. Love. My fury returns, but wavers the longer I watch him, imagining him with Magdalene, unraveling her own guarded layers. The second he catches me staring, his expression softens, his voice rasping, “Tiffany, wait—”
But I don’t. Releasing him, I turn and head straight up to the bedroom, my heart racing.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
