Split

Chapter 4

4

B y some miracle, Roman doesn’t make any attempt to consummate our marriage the first night. After dinner, the two of us part ways at the split in the staircase, him continuing on to the east wing while I retreat to the west. My sleep is fitful, and as soon as I wake the next morning, I begin plotting my escape.

I may not have anywhere to go or a dime to my name, but I’m willing to endure a life on the streets begging for scraps if it means never being subjected to another one of my husband’s dehumanizing power trips. A little piece of me died at the dinner table last night, somewhere between him force-feeding me bites of steak and stroking my hair down my back while calling me his good girl.

I don’t want to be his good girl.

I don’t want to be his wife.

I don’t want to be his anything.

My only way out is to run, and if I want to make a clean escape, I’ll have to form a solid plan. It won’t do me any good to be impulsive about this and risk getting caught. If Roman knows I’m trying to get away from him, I have no doubt he’ll put measures in place to prevent it from happening.

No , if this is going to work, I’ll only have one chance at it, so I’ll need to play it smart.

A gentle knock on the bedroom door interrupts my tangled mess of thoughts, the sound of a key turning in the lock prompting me to sit up in bed as I cast a wary glance toward it. The door creaks open on its antique hinges as Clara lets herself in, balancing a tray in her hands.

“Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” she greets in a clipped tone, stepping into the room and carrying the tray over to a small table near the windows. She places it on top, then moves aside to sweep the curtains open, flooding the room with light.

I slap a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, groaning in protest, but she just continues onto the next window, not stopping until all the curtains are thrown wide.

“I’ve brought your breakfast,” she says as she walks back over to the table and uncovers the tray.

I toss the covers off my body, twisting to set my feet on the floor. “I’m not hungry.”

“Mr. Volkov instructed me to make sure you eat.”

“Did he also tell you to hold me down and feed me if I refuse?” I mumble bitterly.

Clara lifts her head to glance in my direction, a strange expression crossing her face that I can’t quite read. Then she drops her gaze back to the tray without a word, picking up a carafe of coffee and pouring the steaming dark liquid into a mug.

I shove up from the bed with a sigh, stretching my arms over my head. The silk pajama set I’m wearing was waiting for me on my bed when I returned from dinner last night, the comforter peeled back invitingly and the pillows fluffed. I have no doubt it was Clara’s doing while I endured my dinner with the devil.

“Mr. Volkov is a good man,” she mumbles, sliding a plate from the tray onto the table and placing a set of silverware neatly beside it. “He’s just trying to take care of you.”

“He’s a monster,” I scoff. “You have to know that. Whatever he’s paying you, surely it can’t be worth…”

“Excuse my boldness, ma’am , but you have no idea what Mr. Volkov has done for me,” Clara interjects, snapping her head in my direction and narrowing her dark eyes. “He’s offered you a good life here. The least you could do is show a little bit of gratitude.”

“ Gratitude? ” I ask incredulously, mouth falling agape. “You think I should be grateful for being sold off into a marriage I never wanted with a complete stranger?”

Clara just shakes her head, dropping her gaze to unload the rest of the tray. I watch her for a moment, folding my arms over my chest and rubbing my hands against my bare biceps for warmth. I was plenty warm last night in bed beneath the blankets, but the thin silk shorts and camisole I’m wearing do little to fend off the morning chill now that I’ve climbed out from underneath them.

“I can’t imagine why you’d actually want to work here,” I grumble, venturing closer to the table.

“My own husband is quite ill,” Clara murmurs absently as she arranges small baskets of fruit and pastries. “There came a time last year when we didn’t think he would make it, but then Mr. Volkov stepped in to offer the best care money can buy. He’ll continue to do so, providing I remain in his employ.” She steps back from the table, smoothing her apron as she looks over at me. “I understand my duty to my husband well, and working here means a great deal to me because it’s my way of taking care of him. I don’t believe you’ve judged your own husband fairly at all. Say what you will about the man, but Mr. Volkov takes care of what’s his.”

“And now I’m his,” I mutter under my breath, picking up on her insinuation.

“You should count yourself lucky for it. Excuse me.” Clara turns on a heel, heading for my closet and disappearing inside.

So I guess I shouldn’t start making the two of us matching friendship bracelets anytime soon. Apparently Clara only sees me as an ungrateful brat, not an unwilling captive.

I approach the small table where she’s laid out my breakfast, glancing down at the food resentfully. In addition to the fruit and pastries, there’s a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon, the sight of it so enticing that my stomach immediately growls.

I never ate breakfast back at home. My father made enough comments about my food intake during our other meals throughout the day that it just seemed easier to skip one altogether. Coffee is something that I always indulged in, though, so I reach for the steaming mug, eager to get my morning dose of caffeine.

Clara emerges from the closet with a stack of folded clothing in her hands, her black Mary Janes clipping against the hardwood floor as she strides past me to place it at the foot of the bed.

“Should I run you a bath?” she asks, moving around to the rumpled side of the bed I just climbed out of.

“No thanks,” I mumble as I sink down into the chair at the table with the coffee cup still clasped in my hands. I take a hesitant sip from it, pleasantly surprised to find the coffee has cooled to the perfect temperature. As Clara fusses with making the bed, I pick at a piece of the bacon on the plate, unable to resist a taste.

Once she’s finished, Clara rounds the bed and moves toward the door, lingering there like a shadow rather than exiting through it. I can still feel the weight of her judgment hanging over me like a dark cloud.

“Are you really going to watch me eat?” I ask, casting her a wary glance.

“Mr. Volkov said…”

“I don’t care what he said!” I blurt, slamming my coffee cup down on the table so hard that it rattles the silverware. I bury my face in my hands, memories of last night’s horror show in the dining room pummeling my brain. “Just go, please,” I groan, my voice muffled behind my palms. “I want to be alone.”

“But I need the laundry, ma’am.”

I pick my head up, narrowing my eyes on her in question. “What?”

She gestures to me. “Your pajamas.”

I push up from my chair with an exasperated huff, grasping onto the lace-trimmed hem of my sleep tank and rucking it up over my head. Then I yank my shorts down my hips, stooping down to gather them from the floor before crumpling both silk garments in my hands. I march over to Clara in all my naked glory, shoving them at her chest with an irritated, “Here.”

She averts her eyes as she reaches out to take them from me, keeping her expression neutral. “I’ll be back for your tray shortly.”

“Great,” I mutter, turning away and stomping toward the stack of clothes she left at the foot of my neatly-made bed. I hear the click of her shoes against the floor as she retreats, the door creaking closed behind her.

Still fuming, I pull on the clothes she laid out for me– a bra and underwear, black leggings, a white cotton camisole, and an oversized gray cardigan– all brand new. I sweep my hair up in a messy bun, then grab an apple out of the fruit basket on the table before walking over to the glass French doors that lead out to the balcony.

The crisp morning breeze billows into the room as I pull them open, stepping outside onto the wide stone terrace. In any other context, a setting like this would seem almost romantic. The balcony outside my room gives off Romeo and Juliet vibes, though I somehow doubt I’ll ever find a lovestruck boy standing beneath it, spouting poetry. I suppose it’s fitting to have that particular story come to mind, considering they both die in the end. That’s what love is in my world: a death sentence .

I’m not sure if I loved Wesley. I liked him, though, enough to sneak him into my room late at night and climb beneath the sheets with him. It was awkward and clumsy and nowhere near as satisfying as I imagined sex would be, but at least it was my choice.

Evidently, it was the last one I’d make for myself.

Stepping up to the wide stone railing, I lean my elbows against it, raising the apple to my mouth and sinking my teeth into the fruit as I look out over the sprawling property below. My eyes drink in my surroundings as I chew, flitting from the pristinely clipped lawn, to the meticulously maintained hedges, to the tangle of forest beyond. I mentally catalog every detail, mapping out possible escape routes in my mind until a blur of movement catches my eye.

I perk up at the sight of the large black dog trotting along the border of the lawn, as if he’s hard at work doing a perimeter check. I smile as I watch him for a few seconds, still munching on the apple as the seed of an idea begins to take shape in my mind.

Pushing off from the railing, I spin around and head back inside, grabbing a blueberry muffin from the basket of pastries on the table and tucking it into the pocket of my sweater.

If I’m going to escape, I’ll need a sound plan. And the first step is familiarizing myself with the security around here.