Chapter 27 - Bianca
The greenhouse is worse than I remembered.
I stand in the doorway, surveying the destruction in the gray morning light.
Shattered glass everywhere, crunching under my boots as I step inside.
Pots overturned, soil scattered across the flagstone floor, plants trampled and broken.
The careful restoration I spent weeks building—gone in a single night of violence.
Sergei's men did this. Came through here on their way to take me, destroying everything in their path. My sanctuary, violated. My work, undone.
I should feel devastated. Part of me does. But a larger part feels something else—a cold, quiet determination that's become familiar over the past two weeks.
They broke this place. I'll rebuild it.
I find a broom in the corner and start sweeping, gathering the broken glass into piles, clearing paths through the debris. The physical work feels good—mindless, meditative, a way to occupy my hands while my thoughts wander.
Two weeks since the rescue. Two weeks of sleeping in Misha's bed, eating Mrs. Novak's cooking, letting my body heal from everything it endured.
The bruises have faded. The cuts on my wrists have closed, leaving pink lines that will eventually become scars.
The morning sickness has settled into a predictable pattern—bad in the early hours, manageable by noon.
I'm getting stronger. But I'm also getting restless.
The life I had before—medical school, my apartment, my friends—feels like a dream now. Something that happened to a different person, in a different world. I've been avoiding thinking about it, avoiding the questions I don't know how to answer.
But I can't avoid them forever.
***
I find Misha in his study that afternoon.
He's on the phone, speaking Russian in clipped tones, his brow furrowed with concentration. When he sees me in the doorway, he holds up a finger—one moment—and finishes the conversation with a few sharp words before hanging up.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Supply chain issues. Nothing urgent." He sets down the phone and gives me his full attention, those ice-blue eyes scanning my face the way they always do, checking for signs of distress. "You've been in the greenhouse."
It's not a question. He probably has cameras everywhere. Probably watched me sweeping broken glass for hours.
"I needed something to do."
"How bad is it?"
"Bad. But salvageable." I move into the room, settling into the chair across from his desk. "I need to ask you for something."
"Name it."
"A phone. A secure one. I want to contact some people from my old life."
Something flickers in his expression—concern, maybe, or wariness. "Who?"
"Friends from medical school. My study group. They must be worried. I disappeared without explanation, and it's been weeks." I hold his gaze steadily. "I'm not going to tell them anything dangerous. I just need to... close that chapter. Properly."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me. Then he nods and opens a drawer in his desk, pulling out a phone I've never seen before.
"Untraceable," he says, sliding it across to me. "Encrypted. Use it for personal calls only—nothing that could identify our location or compromise security."
"Thank you."
I take the phone, feeling its weight in my hand. Such a small thing. Such a huge step.
"Bianca." His voice stops me as I turn to leave. "Are you sure you want to do this? Sometimes it's easier to let the past stay in the past."
"Easier, maybe. But not right." I look back at him. "They were my friends. They deserve to know I'm alive."
He nods slowly, accepting my decision even if he doesn't entirely agree with it.
That's something I've noticed about him, these past two weeks. He doesn't try to control me the way I expected. Doesn't make decisions for me or override my choices. He offers opinions, provides resources, keeps me informed about threats—but the final call is always mine.
It's not what I imagined when I thought about being with a man like him.
Maybe that's why it's working.
***
I make the call from the greenhouse.
It takes me twenty minutes to work up the courage. I sit on the one bench that survived the destruction, the phone in my hands, staring at the number I've dialed a hundred times before.
Leslie Peters. My closest friend from medical school. We studied together for two years, shared countless cups of terrible coffee, quizzed each other on anatomy until we could recite the bones of the hand in our sleep.
She must think I'm dead. Or worse.
I press call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings three times. Four. I'm about to hang up when the line connects.
"Hello?" Leslie's voice, suspicious. She doesn't recognize the number.
"Les. It's me. It's Bianca."
Silence. Then: "Oh my God. Oh my God, Bianca?
" Her voice cracks, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been going out of our minds!
David filed a missing persons report, and the police couldn't find anything, and your family—your family said you'd gone abroad for a family emergency but nobody believed them because you would have told us, you would have—"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?"
The questions pour out of her, tumbling over each other, and I close my eyes against the wave of emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. Her voice is so familiar. So normal. A reminder of the life I used to have, the person I used to be.
"I'm okay," I say. "I'm safe. I can't tell you where I am or what happened—it's complicated, and I don't want to put you in danger—"
"In danger? Bianca, what the hell is going on?"
"I can't explain. Not over the phone. Maybe not ever." I swallow hard. "I just needed you to know I'm alive. I needed to hear your voice."
Leslie is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more controlled.
"This is about your family, isn't it? Your father?"
She knows about my family. Not the details—not the trafficking, the auctions, the violence—but she knows they're bad. Knows I've spent my whole life trying to escape their shadow.
"Yes," I say. "And no. It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
I don't know how to answer that. How do you explain to your normal, medical-student friend that you were sold at an auction, rescued by a mobster, held captive by his enemy, and are now pregnant with his child? There's no framework for that conversation.
"I'm not coming back," I say instead. "To school, I mean. My life has... changed. In ways I can't undo."
"What do you mean, you're not coming back? Bianca, you're at the top of our class. You're going to be an amazing doctor. You can't just throw that away because of—"
"I'm not throwing it away. I'm just... taking a different path.
" I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the slight curve that's started to form there.
"I'm going to find another program. Continue my studies somewhere else.
But the life I had with you guys—the apartment, the study sessions, the plans we made—that's over. "
Silence on the line. I can hear Leslie breathing, processing.
"Are you in trouble?" she asks finally. "Real trouble? Because if you need help, we can figure something out. David's uncle is a lawyer, and—"
"I'm not in trouble. I'm just... in a different world now." I feel the tears pricking at my eyes and blink them back. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more. I'm sorry I disappeared without saying goodbye. I'm sorry for all of it."
"Don't apologize." Her voice is fierce now, the Leslie I remember—stubborn, loyal, refusing to accept anything less than the truth. "Just promise me you're okay. Really okay, not just saying it to make me feel better."
"I'm okay. Really. I'm with someone who... who takes care of me. Who would do anything to protect me." The words feel strange on my tongue, but they're true. "I'm going to be fine."
"Someone?" A hint of her old teasing tone creeps in. "Is this a man? Are you telling me you disappeared for weeks and came back with a mysterious boyfriend?"
Despite everything, I laugh. "Something like that."
"Well." She sniffs, and I can tell she's crying. "He better be worth it. He better be worthy of you."
"I think he might be." I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Take care of yourself, Les. Take care of David and the others. Tell them I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye properly."
"I will." A pause. "Bianca? If you ever need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me. Okay?"
"I know. Thank you."
I end the call before I can break down completely.
***
The medical school is a different conversation entirely.
I call the administration office, navigating through an automated menu until I reach a real person. I give my name, my student ID, explain that I'm inquiring about my enrollment status.
The woman on the other end is professionally sympathetic.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Benedetti, but according to our records, you were officially withdrawn three weeks ago. Family emergency, it says here. The paperwork was filed by your father, as your emergency contact."
My father. Of course.
"I didn't authorize that withdrawal," I say, my voice tight. "I didn't know anything about it."
"I understand this must be confusing. Unfortunately, the withdrawal has already been processed. Your spot in the program has been filled. If you'd like to reapply for next year's cohort—"
"Reapply." The word tastes like ash. "I was in my third year. At the top of my class. And you're telling me I have to start over?"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Benedetti. There are policies—"
I hang up before she can finish.
My father. Even now, even from wherever he's hiding, he's still controlling my life. Still erasing me, covering his tracks, making sure I can't go back to the world I came from.