Chapter 23
PENELOPE
It had been four months. Four fucking months since I’d last seen Dmitri Volkov—since that night I’d surrendered to him completely, body and soul—only to wake to an empty bed and a villa that felt colder than stone.
The silk sheets still carried his sandalwood-and-steel scent, a cruel reminder of his absence. I thought he’d slipped away for an hour, maybe two, as he often did, but days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and he was gone.
Giovanni, his loyal shadow, offered no answers, his scarred face impassive when I demanded to know where Dmitri was, if he’d ever return.
The villa, with its marble halls and gilded cages, became an open prison, its silence suffocating.
I couldn’t make friends; Dmitri’s reputation had turned me into a pariah, eyes averting as if my presence invited death.
No friends, no companions, no escape from the loneliness that gnawed at me like a living thing.
I was a shadow of myself, betrayed, used, deceived.
The memory of our night haunted me—his hands claiming every inch of me, his voice growling milaya—as he filled me, the way he’d held me after, as if I were his world. Had it all been a lie? A game to break me further?
The hurt twisted like a knife, the boy I’d loved turned monster, leaving me to wither in his absence.
Had he taken my virginity, my trust, only to disappear, leaving me to rot in this opulent hell?
What hurt most was the secret growing inside me—his child, a small bump on my tummy that I hid beneath loose dresses.
The nausea, the fatigue, the pregnancy symptoms tore through me, relentless, with no one to guide me, no doctor to check me.
How could one night, one reckless surrender, leave me pregnant? I thought it took months, countless tries, but here I was, alone, carrying the heir of a monster who’d abandoned me.
I stood in his study, a place I haunted daily, surrounded by his books, his whiskey glasses, his lingering presence.
As for the paper my father had given me, it had vanished the moment I woke up after that night... that night I’d surrendered everything to Dmitri. I’d searched everywhere, my fingers rifling through the villa, heart pounding, but it was gone. Had he taken it? Seen what was written on it?
Was that why he disappeared without a word, leaving me to rot in silence?
God... I was losing my mind. The uncertainty gnawed at me.
I picked up the phone again, my thumb hovering over his name, each second a battle with my fear.
My tummy suddenly twisted, a slight pain at first, like a cramp, but it sharpened, intensifying until I doubled over, clutching my abdomen. Gosh, what was happening?
The ache spread, hot and insistent, my lower back throbbing as if something inside me was tearing apart. I gasped, sweat beading on my forehead, a wave of nausea rolling through me, stronger than before.
My vision blurred, the room spinning as I fumbled for the cell phone Giovanni had given me a month ago, when he’d pitied my isolation.
“Call if you need anything,” he’d said, but every call I’d made since had gone unanswered.
Hundreds. Days and nights filled with nothing.
I thought, foolishly, that we could be.. . something.
That night, giving myself to him, body and soul—had I been a fool?
My hand shook as I typed, trembling over the screen. “Dmitri, I’m carrying your child.” My chest thumped violently as I hit send, terror and hope warping together.
He already hated me—would he hate his own child too?
Minutes stretched into hours.
I stared at the screen, heart hammering, fingers curling around the phone.
Desperation clawed at me.
My thumb hovered again, typing, “Dmitri, I am four months along. I need to see a doctor, or our child could have complications.”
I was about to send it when a new message appeared.
“Erase it. Erase me.”
The words slammed into me like a steel blade.
My chest dropped a thousand miles, my hand shook so violently the phone nearly slipped to the floor. Pain, raw and suffocating, tore through me as tears cascaded down my face. The world fractured around me.
I blinked through the blur, reading the text again. Erase it. Erase me?
And then another beep. Another message. My tears smudged the screen, but I wiped them frantically.
“Let’s be clear, Penelope,” the message read, each word like a scalpel slicing through my chest. “Yes, I need an heir to secure my throne, but you—carrying my child—was never something I wanted. Do you even deserve it? You, who ruined me, whose family destroyed everything I held, who took from me what no one else could touch—do you think I’d allow you to bring my heir into this world?
The night we shared... it wasn’t love, it wasn’t mercy.
It was to claim you, nothing more. Four months of silence?
That was just the beginning. I haven’t even started to make your life a proper misery.
You’ll scream, you’ll beg, and death... death won’t come, milaya. Not for you.”
I collapsed against the floor, chest trembling under the weight of his words.
He had planned this—used me, my body, my heart, and abandoned me to ruin me further. And now, carrying the child he’d always wanted, hoping it might soften something in him... he hated me even more.
He didn’t care about his own child because it was mine, because I was mine.
Is this how I die? In silence?
Another message arrived instantly.
“You got too comfortable with my kindness, Penelope,” his words coiled through me like venom, merciless.
“Did you really think I was capable of tenderness? No. You forgot who I am. I’m not here to love you, not here to save you.
I’m here to break you—slowly, painfully—until suffering is all you know.
That’s the only gift you’ll ever get from me. ”
I slammed the phone onto the bed, my tears drowning it, but I couldn’t stop. I called him again, and again, my heart breaking each time there was no answer. My body shook, sobs wracking me, fury and grief tangling into a mess of raw despair.
I thought of Antonio, of the escape I’d rejected, of freedom I’d walked past for him, the devil I’d loved.
“I hate you!” I screamed, hurling the pillow across the study. My voice cracked, raw and ragged. “I fucking hate you, Dmitri Volkov!”
I refused to eat for the rest of that day, the food turning to ash in my mouth, my stomach churning with betrayal.
The boy I’d loved at fifteen—the one who’d kissed my cheek and promised stars—had done it again, abandoning me when I needed him most. But this time, it cut deeper, a wound that festered in the loneliness he’d crafted.
When the pain tore through me again, sharper, deeper, I staggered to the phone. My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped it, but I managed to dial his number. Dmitri’s number.
Why? Why was I still doing this to myself?
He’d made his stance clear, carved it into my soul with every cruel word—yet I couldn’t stop.
A small, pathetic part of me clung to the hope that it hadn’t been him, that the message was written in a drunken haze, that maybe—just maybe—my Dmitri still existed beneath the monster.
The line rang once. Twice. My breath caught, every second stretching like a noose tightening around my throat.
No answer.
Then the lingering ache in my stomach twisted violently, a stab so sharp it ripped the breath from my lungs. I cried out, clutching my abdomen, the phone sliding from my slick palm as my breaths broke into ragged gasps.
Still, I grabbed it again, dialing his number. Once. Twice. Five times. Ten. Twenty. I lost count, each unanswered ring slicing deeper than the last. Why wasn’t he picking up? Why wouldn’t he?
The agony built in brutal waves, my body contracting, squeezing until a hot trickle slipped between my thighs—then a gush, soaking through the thin fabric of my nightgown.
My gaze dropped, and horror punched through me. Dark red streamed down my thighs, warm and relentless, painting my skin in streaks that shouldn’t be there.
“No... no, no, no...” The words tore out of me in broken whispers, then louder, frantic, “Please, God, no—” My hands pressed uselessly against the flood, trembling, smearing it over my nightgown, over the marble floor, as if I could force it back inside, hold on to what was slipping away.
My chest heaved, sobs choking me as I stumbled back, my knees buckling.
The phone clattered beside me, Dmitri’s number still glowing on the screen, mocking me with its silence.
I snatched it again, bloodied fingers shaking, and hit redial, my vision swimming through tears.
“Pick up,” I begged into the empty room, voice shredded. “Please, just pick up!”
But the call rang and rang, the only answer was the wet sound of blood dripping beneath me, spreading like a grotesque shadow.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Panic clawed at my throat, suffocating, my breath hitching into sharp, uneven gasps.
This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.
I should call Giovanni, I thought, but I couldn’t stop dialing Dmitri’s line, as if his voice alone could save me.
The pain intensified, a burning tear inside me, my body convulsing as cramps wracked me, each one worse than the last.
I collapsed to the floor, curling into a fetal position, sobs tearing from my throat as the world narrowed to the fire in my abdomen.
I passed out, the darkness a mercy, but when my eyes fluttered open, hours later, the room was dim, the clock glowing 3 AM.
Something had changed—an emptiness settled in my core, the pain dulled to a throbbing ache.
I pushed myself up, my hands slipping in something warm and sticky. Blood. My chest caved, horror crashing over me as I stared at the pool beneath me, dark and viscous, staining the marble.
No... no, no... let it not be what I think. God, please, not my baby.
I reached between my legs, my fingers coming away slick with red, the metallic scent hitting me like a slap.
The bump on my tummy felt wrong, deflated, and a sob ripped from my throat as the realization hit—miscarriage.