Chapter 17
Izzy
"The hearing's been postponed."
Sergei's voice cuts through the phone, rough with frustration. I'm standing in our kitchen, coffee halfway to my lips, and the words take a second to register.
"What? How? Judge Galeotti was supposed to—"
"Elena's lawyers filed for a continuance. Some bullshit about needing more time to prepare evidence." I hear him moving, the sound of a car door closing. "They'll notify us when they reschedule."
My grip tightens on the mug. "That's her stalling. Buying time."
"I know." His exhale crackles through the speaker. "But there's nothing we can do about it right now. I have to handle this job in Philadelphia. Client needs protection detail for a high-risk meeting. I'll be back tomorrow night."
"Sergei—"
"I know the timing's shit. But I have to do this."
"Be safe," I tell him.
"Always am, kotyonok. Mila's coming over after school. You good with that?"
"Of course." I glance at the clock. Three hours until she arrives. "We'll make cookies or something."
"She'll love that." A pause. "Thank you. For this. For her."
"She's easy to love." The words slip out before I can stop them, too honest, too revealing.
Sergei's quiet for a beat. "So are you."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
He didn't say he loves me. Just that I'm easy to love. There's a difference, and I'm not sure which side of that line we're standing on.
At 3:30, there’s a knock on the door. I open it to find Mila on the front step, backpack slung over one shoulder, her face paler than normal.
"Hey, sweetheart." I step aside to let her in. Elena drives off before I can even wave—not that she'd acknowledge me anyway. "How was school?"
"Fine." She drops her bag by the door. "My stomach hurts."
"Hurts how?" I crouch down to her level, pressing the back of my hand to her forehead. Warm, but not feverish. "Like you ate something bad?"
"Like it's twisting." She wraps her arms around her middle. "Can I lie down?"
Warning bells start ringing. "Yeah, of course. Come on."
I guide her to the couch, grabbing a blanket and tucking it around her. Her face has gone from pale to slightly green, and she's curling into herself like she's trying to make the pain smaller.
"Want some water? Crackers?"
She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut.
I pull out my phone, texting Sergei. Mila's not feeling well. Stomach pain. Monitoring.
His response comes immediately. Keep me updated. Call if it gets worse.
Twenty minutes later, it gets worse.
Mila's in the bathroom, violently sick, and I'm holding her hair back while she empties her stomach into the toilet. She's shaking, tears streaming down her face, and my heart's hammering because this isn't normal food poisoning.
"It's okay, ptichka," I murmur, using Sergei's nickname without thinking. "I've got you."
She heaves again, and this time there's blood in the toilet.
My own blood turns to ice.
"Mila, sweetheart, I need you to tell me—did you eat anything strange today? Anything that tasted weird?"
She shakes her head weakly, slumping against me. "Just... lunch. From school."
Blood means internal damage. This isn't the flu.
I scoop her up and grab my phone, dialing 911 with shaking fingers while I carry her to the car.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Eight-year-old girl, severe abdominal pain, vomiting blood. I'm bringing her to the ER now, but I need them ready." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Mount Sinai Brooklyn, ten minutes out."
"Ma'am, I can send an ambulance—"
"I'm faster." I buckle Mila into the back seat, her eyes half-closed, skin clammy. "Tell them we're coming."
I break every traffic law between our house and the hospital. Red lights, speed limits, all of it ignored while Mila whimpers in the back seat, and I keep one hand reached back to hold hers.
"Stay with me, sweetheart. We're almost there."
The ER entrance appears and I'm out of the car before it's fully stopped, yanking open the back door and lifting Mila into my arms. A nurse sees us and immediately waves us through.
"Vomiting blood, severe abdominal pain, started forty minutes ago," I rattle off as they guide us to a bed. "She's eight, no known allergies, no prior medical conditions."
They take her from my arms, and I feel the loss like a physical wound. Doctors swarm, asking questions I answer on autopilot while they hook her up to monitors and start an IV.
"Are you her mother?" A doctor with kind eyes asks.
"Stepmother." The word feels strange but right. "Her father's on his way."
"We need parental consent for treatment—"
"I have medical power of attorney." I don't, but they don't know that. "Do whatever you need to do. Save her."
The doctor nods and disappears behind the curtain.
I collapse into a plastic chair, hands shaking, and dial Sergei.
"What's wrong?"
"We're at Mount Sinai. She was vomiting blood. They're running tests now." My voice cracks. "Sergei, something's really wrong."
"I'm leaving now. Two hours." I hear his car starting, the roar of the engine. "Stay with her. Don't let anyone make decisions without calling me first."
"I won't."
"Izzy." His voice drops, rough and raw. "Thank you. For being there. For—" He stops. "Just thank you."
The line goes dead, and I'm alone in the ER waiting room, with fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic and fear clawing up my throat.
Forty minutes crawl past. The doctors run blood tests, an ultrasound, ask questions about what she ate, where she's been, whether she could have ingested something toxic.
Toxic.
The word makes my skin prickle. Matthew's been trying to kill me for weeks. Would he go after Mila to send a message? Would he poison a child just to prove he could reach us anywhere?
I want to say no. Want to believe even monsters have limits.
But I've learned better lately.
"Mrs. Orlov?" A nurse appears. "Mila's stable. Asking for you."
I'm moving before she finishes the sentence, through the double doors to the room where Mila's hooked up to monitors, looking small and scared in the hospital bed. Her eyes find mine and fill with tears.
"Hey, sweetheart." I take her hand, smoothing hair back from her face. "You're okay. The doctors are taking good care of you."
"Where's Papa?"
"On his way. He'll be here soon." I squeeze her fingers gently. "How do you feel?"
"Tired. It doesn't hurt as much now."
Thank God.
The curtain rips open and Elena storms in, all fury and expensive perfume. She doesn't look at Mila first. She looks at me. Eyes narrowed, mouth twisted, like I'm the one who put her daughter in this hospital bed.
"What did you do to her?"
I stand, putting myself between Elena and the bed. "I got her to the hospital. Probably saved her life."
"Saved her life." Elena laughs, the sound sharp and ugly. "She was fine until she started staying with you. Now she's in the ER and you want credit?"
"She was at school all day. Whatever made her sick happened before she got to our house."
"Our house." She spits the words like poison. "You've been playing house for a few weeks, and you think you have any right to call it yours? To call her yours?"
Behind me, Mila makes a small sound. Fear. Confusion. The sound of a child watching adults fight over her like she's property instead of a person.
But Elena doesn't notice. Or doesn't care.
"I have the right because I was there." I keep my voice low, controlled, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a scene. "When she was sick. When she was scared. When she needed someone."
"She needed her mother."
"Then where were you?" I step closer, and Elena's eyes widen slightly. "Not at school pickup—you had the nanny do that. Not at the house when she started feeling sick. Not in the bathroom holding her hair while she vomited blood. Where were you, Elena?"
"I was—" She falters. Just for a second. "I had appointments. I can't be expected to drop everything—"
"For your daughter? Yeah. You can." The rage I've been swallowing for weeks crawls up my throat, hot and bitter. "But you won't. Because Mila isn't a daughter to you. She's a weapon. A bargaining chip. Something to use against Sergei when you want to hurt him."
"How dare you—"
"How dare I tell the truth? That's all I'm doing. You don't want custody because you love her. You want custody because you hate him. And you're willing to traumatize your own child to win."
Elena's face goes white. Then red. Her hand flies up—
I catch her wrist mid-swing. Squeeze hard enough to feel bones grind.
"Don't." One word. Soft and lethal. "Your daughter is in that bed, watching you try to assault someone. Is this the mother you want her to see? Is this what you want her to learn about how women handle conflict?"
Elena tries to wrench free, but I hold firm. Her eyes are wild now, humiliated fury mixing with something that might be shame if she were capable of feeling it.
"Let go of me."
"When you calm down."
"I said let go—"
"Mama, stop."
We both freeze.
Mila's sitting up in the hospital bed, IV trailing from her small arm, face pale and tear-streaked. She's looking at her mother with an expression I've never seen on an eight-year-old.
Disappointment.
"Izzy helped me," Mila says quietly. "She held my hand when I was scared. She drove really fast to get here. She didn't leave me alone." Her voice cracks. "You always leave me alone."
Elena's mouth opens. Closes. For the first time since she arrived, she actually looks at her daughter—really looks—and whatever she sees makes her take a step back.
"Mila, sweetheart, I—"
"I want Izzy to stay. Not you."
The words are quiet. Final. A child choosing where she feels safe.
And it's not with her mother.
I release Elena's wrist. She stumbles back, cradling it against her chest, staring at Mila like she's never seen her before. Maybe she hasn't. Maybe she's been so busy using her as a weapon that she forgot to look at her as a person.