Chapter 37
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
KAYLANI
The cell stank like sweat, bleach, and old mistakes with a sprinkling of helplessness. The concrete bench pressed cold through the thin fabric of my breeches like a sick reminder of where I had been. Of how happy I had been before it all came crashing down.
My wrists still burned from the zip ties, and my shoulder stung from being forced down, making every breath painful. A reminder that I had been treated like I was nothing. That in my father’s eyes, I was nothing.
Unable to sit any longer, I got up and paced the small cell. I stopped at the bars and wrapped my fingers around the metal.
“Hey, Officer,” I called, voice steady. “I want to see Goran.”
No answer.
“Hey. I know you can hear me.” I tried again, louder. “My bodyguard is being held somewhere in this shithole. I want to speak to him.”
Footsteps passed in the adjoining hallway. Keys jingled. Someone laughed as if this were just another Sunday.
No one came.
I leaned my forehead against the bars and forced air into my lungs. Panic was useless. Tears were useless. If I fell apart, I would never get back up. Not in here. Not with my father waiting somewhere in the shadows like a spider.
I can’t believe he did this.
I straightened.
“My name is Kaylani Mikhailov,” I yelled, projecting in the way I had been trained to speak to rooms full of donors and board members. “You will acknowledge me, or I swear I’ll get all of you fired.”
A snort came from behind me.
“You’re gonna get yourself a face full of pepper spray or tased. Sit down and shut up.”
I turned slowly.
The woman in the cell with me was maybe in her late thirties. She had tired eyes and the kind of confidence that came from knowing this place better than anyone should. She sat on the opposite bench as if she owned it, elbows braced on her knees, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
She gave me a slow once-over and rolled her eyes, as if she had already decided she didn’t like me. She hadn’t spoken since they threw me in here, and I wasn’t inclined to listen to her comments now.
“I didn’t ask for your advice,” I said, crossing my arms.
“You don’t need to ask. You’re ten feet away and hollering loud enough to give me a headache. These people don’t care who you are.”
“Yeah, I’m becoming aware of that.”
She tilted her head and stared at me like I was oblivious.
“You’re not aware of anything. You’re doing that spoiled rich girl thing where if you speak loud enough, you think you’ll get what you want. Maybe it’s worked in the past. But here, yelling at the officers won’t help, and it’s pissing me off.”
She had a point. I was rich. And I was used to getting my way. But I had never purposely used it before. Then again, maybe there had never been a need.
I shook my head, pushing the thought away.
“I’m not that kind of rich girl.”
She laughed.
“Honey. Look at me. Do we look like we come from the same place? You’re a pampered snowflake. A princess that hasn’t realized she’s fallen out of her castle window and landed amongst the peasants.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.
Something about the word princess struck deeper than it had before, causing an ache to form under my ribcage. Father called me a princess when reminding me of my duty to the family. Men used it when they wanted to soften or control me.
The only time it didn’t bother me was when Goran said the word.
He never made me feel ashamed of my life. At least he hadn’t until today. He knew this was coming. He knew and kept it from me, because I was nothing more than a princess who needed protection.
I wasn’t fragile. I could handle the hard stuff.
But right now, I was tired, furious, and terrified for Goran in a way I couldn’t admit out loud.
“I’m going to see him,” I said, unsure who I was trying to convince.
“Sit down.” Her voice sharpened. “Before you make this worse for both of us.”
My pulse pounded in my throat. I took a step forward.
She stood too, squaring her shoulders like she was waiting for a reason.
The air grew thick between us. The kind of tension that came right before a fight broke out.
My body shifted automatically. Feet planted, weight grounded, balanced.
Years of training to defend myself. Years of competing and pushing my body harder than most people thought possible.
Years of learning how to control adrenaline and anger narrowed into this moment.
I wasn’t looking for a fight. But I wasn’t afraid of one either.
“There’s something you need to learn in a place like this. You don’t make the rules. The strongest survive, and the rest are fed on. Remember that if they toss you in the state pen.”
She stepped closer.
“Don’t.”
She smirked.
My hand curled.
Heavy boots echoed as they marched closer.
The woman quickly returned to the bench and sat down.
“Lucky girl,” she murmured, and a chill raced down my spine.
“Kaylani Mikhailov,” a male voice barked.
Relief flooded my system so fast it made my vision blur. Not because hearing my name from an officer was good. But because it was movement. Something was finally happening.
I turned toward the bars. The officer was already there. Tall. Bored. Keys in hand. He didn’t bother looking at me.
“Turn around.”
“Why?”
“I said, turn around,” the officer ordered.
My heart sped up as I complied with his demands.
“Step back and put your hands through the bars.”
Metal cuffs were slapped around my wrists, none too gently.
“Step forward.”
I was suddenly aware of how helpless people probably felt living inside walls like these for years at a time.
He opened the cell.
“Come with me.”
He locked the door after I walked out, then grabbed my arm.
“Where’s Goran,” I asked, as he unceremoniously pulled me along with him.
No answer.
“Where is he?” I repeated.
Still no answer.
He tightened his grip and yanked me forward, a silent warning to shut up.
“You are hurting me,” I snapped, trying to rip my arm free.
He jerked me to a halt.
“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” he warned.
My nostrils and lips pressed into a thin line as I met his hard stare. My temper sparked, but I could still feel where an officer had driven their knee into my back and yanked my shoulder so hard it throbbed. More than that, I remembered Goran’s face pressed into the dirt.
I swallowed the anger, refusing to make things worse for him.
“Tell me where you’re taking me.” My voice cooled as he started to march me forward again. “I have rights. I know I get a phone call.”
He ignored that, dragging me down the hallway, past men calling out crude jokes, past a woman sobbing into her hands, and past a row of rooms that looked like something from a medieval dungeon. They weren’t, but it felt close enough.
My stomach twisted, and I shivered, wanting to get the hell out of here as fast as possible.
Goran, where are you?
I couldn’t stop myself from scanning every face, every shadow, every door.
Nothing.
They had made sure he wasn’t anywhere near the path we were taking. Then a dark thought hit me. What if they hadn’t brought him here at all? What if they took him to a different jail? What if my father had arranged to have him picked up, shot, and tossed in a deep desert hole?
Fear sliced through my heart.
No. Stay calm.
We turned a corner and stopped in front of a plain door with a small pane of glass. The officer opened it, uncuffed me and shoved me inside, before slamming it shut behind me.
“Oww, you asshole,” I growled, rubbing at my wrists.
A single table dominated the room along with two metal chairs. It was clearly meant for lawyers to meet with their clients or for the officers to conduct interrogations. Deals were made, and people were cornered here.
And there he was in all his pristine glory.
Dimitri Mikhailov.
He sat there as if this were his office instead of a jailhouse. Grey suit, perfectly pressed, hands folded, and expression unreadable. He embodied power and wealth. A perfect example of a man who had never heard the word no, at least not without consequences following the word.
My chest ached as a memory of my father, standing by a fence and watching me ride, surfaced.
It was my sixteenth birthday, and he had just gifted me Atlas. I had run into the stall and hugged my horse before rushing back to throw my arms around my hero and tell him how much I loved him.
He had called me his princess. Back then, it had sounded like affection, not ownership.
I crushed the image before it could take hold, along with every good memory I had ever attached to him.
“You,” I breathed.
His gaze shifted to the door, then returned to me.
“Sit down, daughter.”
I didn’t move.
“Go. To. Hell,” I snarled.
His jaw flexed. A small tell. A crack in the perfect armor he wore like a suit.
Then he sighed as if I were a problem he was trying to solve.
“If you want Atlas—and you want Goran out of the mess you’ve created—sit down.” He paused. “Please.”
He said that final plea as if it hurt him. It hung between us like a threat. It was the first time I remembered hearing it from him. That alone terrified me.
I stared at him, searching for the trap.
He stayed perfectly still, patient. He could sit here all night and watch me bleed out slowly without blinking.
Resistance was futile. He had us right where he wanted us, vulnerable. I walked to the chair across from him and sat down. I needed to hear what he had planned, and I wanted Goran out of here.
Dimitri watched me carefully, possibly wondering why I had acquiesced so easily. Then he glanced at my chest. My necklace. They hadn’t taken it, and it hung half hidden beneath the seam of my blouse. The gold band rested there just waiting to be discovered.
I didn’t dare touch it. If I did, he would know it was something special.
His gaze lingered on it a beat too long before he lifted his eyes back to mine.
“Do you love him?”
I said nothing. My silence was answer enough.
Father’s mouth thinned.
“I asked you a question.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”