Chapter Sixteen - Rostya
I find it by accident, tucked behind a loose panel in the guest bathroom—too careless to be truly hidden, too desperate to be ignored. For a moment, I don’t process what it is. Just a slip of white plastic, the sort of thing anyone might overlook in a house this size.
Then I see the faint digital lines, the simple confirmation staring back at me in blue.
Pregnant.
My mind waits for the thunder, the instinctive surge of rage or betrayal or even pride.
But nothing comes. Instead, my chest goes strangely still.
The air in the room feels thinner. I sit down on the closed lid of the toilet, holding the test in my hand, turning it over and over with a strange, gentle care, as if it might shatter the world if I drop it.
I place it on the counter, precise and controlled, and stare at it for a long time, watching as the confirmation doesn’t fade. Then I slip from the bathroom, moving through the estate with a calm that feels borrowed from someone else’s body.
I don’t confront her. Not yet. Instead, I watch her at breakfast, head bent over her coffee, eyes shadowed and distant, her hands steady on the mug but her gaze sliding away from mine.
She speaks quietly with Miron in the hallway, a quick exchange I can’t overhear. There’s nothing in her voice to betray the truth, but my ear is tuned to the smallest tremor, every note now loaded with meaning.
She paces the corridors as she always does, hands trailing along the walls, pausing before the library window to watch rain bead on the glass. She doesn’t see me in the reflection. She never does. I wonder how many secrets she’s kept, how much of her has always been hidden in plain sight.
My expression is as cold and blank as ever. My mind runs sharp and fast—cataloging every moment, every possibility, every threat and every promise that the test conjures. I have weathered betrayals, endured ambushes, survived nights soaked in blood and violence.
This is different. This is not a bullet or a lie or a rival’s poison. This is a shift in the bedrock of everything I thought I could control.
My body hums with a strange unease, not anger. It’s as if the world has tilted, and I’m suddenly aware of how fragile everything is. How easily the things you never expect can upend the rules you’ve written in blood. I follow her movements, searching for a sign: fear, relief, hope.
She is as armored as I am, and so the secret holds.
Even now, with the truth resting in a drawer and not in her voice, I know nothing will ever be the same again. The foundation beneath us is cracked, and the ground is shifting with every silent step.
I surprise myself. Instead of breaking something, instead of demanding explanations or unleashing the cold violence that solves every other problem in my world, I feel a strange, icy composure settle over me.
It’s as if my own fury knows better than to interfere right now, as if the only thing more dangerous than rage is the quiet that follows it.
I find Ivan in the corridor and speak low, careful, so the words don’t travel.
“Change her meals,” I say. “No shellfish, no cured meats. Add fresh fruit, that Georgian khachapuri she likes, the almond pastries.” I rattle off the list without looking up, pretending not to notice Ivan’s raised brow.
He nods, slips away to the kitchen with no questions.
I return to my office, but my mind stays on her. When the tray is finally delivered, I appear in the doorway just to watch.
She’s at the table, shoulders tense, reading something on her phone. She looks up, startled by the spread of food—soft cheese, ripe melon, pastries, the kind of breakfast that suggests care she knows I don’t give easily.
Her surprise flickers across her face, quick and almost hidden, but I catch it. She glances from the tray to me, suspicion flaring. “What’s this?” she asks, voice guarded.
“Eat,” I say simply. “You skipped dinner.”
She hesitates, weighing me, then lifts a piece of bread. I watch her bite, cautious at first, as if the food itself might be a trap. She tastes the tea, sips it, then sets it down, withdrawing into herself. I can see the questions sparking in her eyes; why this, why now, what changed?
I stand there, unmoving, my arms crossed.
This is a test, and she doesn’t know she’s failing or passing or if there’s a right answer at all.
I watch the play of suspicion, relief, hunger, and defiance on her face, and something inside me settles.
She doesn’t know that I know. She doesn’t know what this meal means, what it costs, or what I intend.
It pleases me, the imbalance, the blade of knowledge hidden behind my back. I’ve always liked power most when it’s invisible, when the other person doesn’t even realize the rules have changed.
Beneath that, something else is shifting.
My calm is not mercy. It is not forgiveness.
It is a pause, a reordering of the battlefield.
I don’t want to punish her. I want to decide what comes next.
I want to weigh the future in my hand, to hold this secret until I know how it will serve me, or how it might break us both.
The calm is more dangerous than my fury. Even I can feel that now. As I leave her to eat in silence, the tension coils tighter, promising that nothing in this house will ever be simple again.
When the house sinks into quiet, when the footsteps of guards fade and the last kitchen door swings shut, I find her alone in the hall outside my office.
I don’t bother with pretense. I catch her wrist, draw her in, shutting the door behind us with a click that sounds final, like the closing of a cell.
No shouting, no storm. I want her in silence, want her to feel the gravity, not the chaos. I watch her from across the darkened office, see the way she lifts her chin, shoulders rigid, eyes wary but proud. There is defiance in the set of her mouth, and it infuriates and thrills me in equal measure.
I close the distance in two steps. My hand finds her stomach, fingers splayed with possessive certainty. The touch is not gentle. I press my palm flat, not just to feel the life that might be growing there, but to make sure she feels it too.
She tries to twist away, but I hold her still, locking her against the edge of my desk.
I lean in, voice low, clipped, every syllable meant to sear.
“You belong to me. The child belongs to me. There is no force in this world that will break this chain.” My eyes bore into hers, making the promise as real as the blood in her veins.
She stiffens, jaw clenched, hands fisted at her sides. I feel the tremor run through her—fear, outrage, maybe both—but she doesn’t cower. She will not yield, not even now. Her eyes meet mine, blazing, the green depths flickering with fury and something darker, something wounded and wild.
She doesn’t speak. Not a single word. Her silence is a challenge, a shield, a refusal to give me anything I haven’t already taken. For a second, rage simmers. Why won’t she beg, why won’t she cry, why won’t she break?
Beneath it, the thrill is undeniable. I want this fire. I want the fight. I want to know that even if she’s mine by law, by threat, by blood, she will not become something soft or easy.
The silence between us is alive, heavier than any scream. She trembles under my touch, but she does not bow. I see fear, yes, but I see fire too—enough to burn down every wall I build around her. It is intoxicating.
I hold her there, breathing in her defiance, the tension between us so taut it feels like a blade. For a moment, I let the chain settle around both our throats, knowing that now, with her and with this child, nothing will ever loosen its hold.
The house is dark and silent, save for the echo of distant rain against the eaves.
I pour myself a drink in the study—vodka, no ice.
The glass is heavy in my hand, the cold burn anchoring me to the present.
I settle into the old leather chair, staring at nothing, letting the hush settle over me like a shroud.
***
Later, the quiet doesn’t bring peace. Instead, it drags my mind backward, past the day’s events, past the weight of the secret I now hold, back into the shadowed corridors of memory I try never to revisit.
I see my father’s face, hard and sharp as broken glass.
I hear his voice—low, guttural, always a second from a snarl.
Arguments crackling through the old house like gunfire.
I remember the way the air changed when he was angry, the way the walls themselves seemed to shrink from him.
The lessons he taught were never gentle.
Control was a fist slammed into a wall. Loyalty was silence bought with bruises.
Kindness was a story told by mothers and nannies, something that never survived the sound of boots on hardwood floors.
I remember cowering in the dark corners of the estate, small and unnoticed, heart jackhammering as he bellowed at my mother, at his men, at anyone foolish enough to test him.
I remember the sharp, metallic scent of vodka on his breath, the heat of his anger, the cold calculation that followed every outburst. Safety was not a word I learned early.
Warmth was foreign. All I knew was fear and the lessons that fear brings: anticipate, obey, survive.
Now, staring into the flickering amber of the drink, I ask myself—should I be afraid of fatherhood? Of creating something vulnerable, something that could bleed or shatter in my hands?
The answer surprises me. I am not afraid. Instead, I feel something raw ignite deep in my chest, a dark hunger, sharper than the thirst for power, more enduring than lust. The thought of a child—my blood, my legacy—doesn’t terrify me. It fills me with a new, consuming purpose.
It’s not sentiment, not softness. If anything, it’s the opposite.
I want my child to be strong, unbreakable, untouchable.
I want to build a bloodline that will never be weak, never be prey.
The world that crippled me will serve as a warning, not a fate.
The very fear that twisted my childhood becomes the justification for my control.
Karmia’s child—my child—will not grow up cowering in corners, waiting for the next blow.
They will learn to rule, not to shrink. My obsession with her, my possessiveness, my relentless control—all of it becomes necessary.
Protection, I tell myself, demands strength, demands ruthlessness.
The world is a pit of wolves; I’ll raise a wolf, not a lamb.
I drain the glass, staring at my reflection in the dark window.
The ghost of my father lingers behind my eyes, but I push him away.
I am not him. I am something new, something worse and therefore stronger.
My cruelty will not be random, will not be wasted.
Every chain I wrap around Karmia, every lesson I carve into this family, will be a shield: hard, unyielding, and absolute.
It is a bitter comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
I set the glass aside, breath slow and measured.
I let the old violence in my bones become a vow: my child will never know fear as I did.
My child will never be powerless. In the world I build, only the strong survive, and I will make them stronger than anyone who came before.
I tell myself it is enough. That obsession is protection. That ruthlessness is love. I convince myself, as every monster does, that this is what it means to build a future.
Alone in the darkness, that lie feels almost like truth.