Chapter Twenty-Three - Elena
The nausea that hits in waves, especially in the morning. The exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch. The way certain smells make my stomach turn violently. The tenderness in my breasts that wasn’t there before.
It could all be stress. Trauma from the kidnapping. My body reacting to captivity and forced marriage and everything that’s happened in the past months.
Except I know it isn’t. Petrov sowed the seed of doubt, and I know better than to stay in denial.
I need to know. Need certainty instead of this spiraling anxiety that’s eating me from the inside.
Getting a pregnancy test while living under constant surveillance requires strategy.
I find Aleksandr in his office three days after the kidnapping. He’s been hovering since we got back—not obviously, but I feel it. The way he tracks my movements through the house, the increased security, the careful attention to whether I’m eating, sleeping, healing.
It should feel suffocating. Does feel suffocating.
There’s something else underneath. Something that feels dangerously like care.
“I want to visit my family,” I say from the doorway.
He looks up from his laptop. “Why?”
“I haven’t seen them since the wedding. I choose my words carefully. “I’m homesick.”
It’s partially true. I do miss the familiarity of my childhood home, even if the people inside it never truly felt like family.
Mostly, I need an excuse to leave this house. To stop at a pharmacy on the way. To get answers to the question burning through every waking moment.
Aleksandr studies me for a long moment. “I’ll arrange it.”
“I can go alone.”
“No.” The word is absolute. “You were just kidnapped three days ago. You don’t go anywhere alone until the threat assessment is complete.”
“The Petrovs are gone.”
“Artyom is gone. His faction is scattered. That doesn’t mean there aren’t others looking to exploit perceived weakness.” He closes his laptop. “I’ll accompany you. We’ll go tomorrow.”
My stomach sinks. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s not negotiable.” His tone softens slightly. “Your family wants to see you. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled by my presence as well.”
The sarcasm is obvious. My family hates him. Hates what he represents. The fact that I’m married to the man who destroyed our empire is a humiliation they’re forced to accept but will never forgive.
I should argue. Should insist on privacy, on autonomy, on the basic right to visit my own family without my captor-husband hovering.
Arguing will make him suspicious. Will make him question why I need to be alone so badly.
“Fine,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
He nods, already turning back to his work. “We’ll leave at ten.”
I retreat before he can see the panic on my face.
Tomorrow. With him beside me the entire time. No chance to stop at a pharmacy, no opportunity to get the test I desperately need.
I’ll have to find another way.
***
The drive to my family’s home takes forty minutes through heavy traffic.
Aleksandr sits beside me in the back of the car, working on his phone, hand occasionally settling on my thigh in a gesture that’s become automatic. Possessive. Territorial.
Every time he touches me, my body reacts. Heat pooling low in my belly, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness I don’t want.
I hate it. Hate that after everything—the force, the captivity, the reduction to breeding potential—my body still responds to him like this.
Hate that when I woke screaming from nightmares last night, the only thing that calmed me was his arms around me, his voice murmuring reassurances in the dark.
Hate that I’m starting to confuse possession for protection.
The car pulls up to my family’s expensive townhouse. The same house I grew up in, the same windows I used to stare out of wondering why I never quite belonged.
Aleksandr opens my door himself, helps me out with a hand at my elbow. To anyone watching, we look like a normal couple. Devoted husband, cherished wife.
The lie of it makes my chest tight.
My mother answers the door. She’s dressed impeccably as always, hair perfect, expression carefully neutral.
“Elena.” She kisses my cheek, the gesture perfunctory. “Mr. Sharov.”
“Mrs. Lawrence.” Aleksandr’s tone is polite. Cold.
She leads us inside. The house smells the same—furniture polish and the lavender sachets my mother insists on despite them making my allergies flare. Everything is exactly as I remember, which somehow makes it feel more foreign.
My siblings are in the sitting room. James, my half brother, barely glances up from his phone. Sarah, my half sister, manages a tight smile before returning to her tea.
The unwanted daughter, returned with her dangerous husband. A reminder of everything the Lawrence family has lost.
“Tea?” my mother offers. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’d like to speak with Father. Alone.”
Aleksandr’s hand tightens slightly on my waist. A warning or a question, I’m not sure which.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him quietly. “Just family business.”
He doesn’t look convinced but releases me. “I’ll be right here.”
The promise feels like both comfort and threat.
My father’s study looks smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’ve just grown since the last time I stood here, waiting for acknowledgment that never quite came.
He’s behind his desk, reviewing papers that probably detail the remnants of his empire. What little Aleksandr left intact.
“Elena.” He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t smile. “You look well. Marriage agrees with you.”
The words are so absurd I almost laugh. “Do you actually believe that?”
“I believe you’re alive. Fed. Protected.” He sets down his pen. “More than you would be if you’d continued your reckless behavior.”
“Reckless,” I breathe through the surge of anger. “I tried to gather evidence. Tried to help save our family.”
“You broke into a Bratva facility. Stole classified information. Put yourself and all of us at risk.” His expression hardens. “That’s not help. That’s childish rebellion.”
“I was trying to prove myself! Trying to show I could be useful!”
“By getting yourself captured? Forced into marriage? Becoming leverage against your own family?” He shakes his head. “You’ve brought shame, Elena. Nothing more.”
The words hit like physical blows. I knew he thought this. Knew he blamed me. Hearing it stated so plainly cracks something inside.
“When the Bratva turned on us,” I say quietly, “when Aleksandr started dismantling everything we built—you let me go without a fight. You signed me over to save your business interests.”
“I made a strategic decision—”
“You chose safety over me!” My voice rises despite my effort to stay calm. “You’ve always chosen everything over me. The legitimate children. The business. Your reputation. I’ve spent my entire life trying to earn a place in this family and you sold me the moment it was convenient.”
“You made foolish choices and now you’re living with the consequences.” His tone is ice. “That’s no one’s fault but your own.”
No apology. No regret. No acknowledgment that maybe—just maybe—a father should protect his daughter regardless of how she was conceived.
“You’re right,” I say, voice shaking. “I am living with the consequences. Of your choices as much as mine.”
I turn and walk out before he can respond. Before the tears threatening to spill can give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The hallway is empty. My mother and siblings have retreated to other rooms, probably relieved to avoid the drama. Aleksandr is in the garden, visible through the windows, giving me space I didn’t ask for but apparently needed.
The pressure in my chest builds. Grief and rage and the horrible realization that I was never going to be enough for these people. Never going to be chosen. Never going to matter beyond my utility.
I make it to the garden before the tears start. Push through the door into cold air that bites at my skin, trying to breathe through the tightness in my throat.
Aleksandr is beside me before I take three steps.
“Elena?”
“Don’t.” I try to walk past him. “Just. I need a minute—”
He catches my wrist, gentle but firm. Pulls me to a stop.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.” My voice cracks on the last word.
He turns me to face him. One hand still holding my wrist, the other coming up to cup my jaw. Forcing me to meet those pale blue eyes that see too much.
“You’re not fine.”
“My father…” The words choke out. “He said I brought shame. That I’m reckless. That this is my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
“Everything. The marriage. The situation. Being a burden instead of—” I can’t finish.
Aleksandr’s jaw tightens. “He said that to you?”
“He’s not wrong, is he?”
“He’s completely wrong.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone, wiping away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “You’re not a burden.”
“What?” I ask, desperate for an answer. “What am I to anyone? My family doesn’t want me. You only married me for heirs and strategy. I’m useful or I’m nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” More tears now, hot and unstoppable. “My father let me go without a fight. My family barely acknowledges I exist.” My voice breaks completely. “You needed a womb with acceptable genetics. That’s all I am. All I’ve ever been.”
His other hand comes up to frame my face, both palms warm against my skin. “Listen to me. Your family is wrong. Your father is wrong. You matter beyond what you provide. Beyond your utility.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do.” The certainty in his voice makes me pause. “You think I’d shut down an entire city for breeding stock? Kill a man with my bare hands for strategy? Your family never protected you. Never chose you. I will. Always.”
The promise hits like a physical thing. Not because it’s romantic; it’s not. It’s possessive and intense and probably unhealthy.
It’s real. I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he’s holding me like I might shatter.
“No one will ever abandon you again,” he says quietly. “That’s my promise. Whether you believe it or not.”
I do believe it. That’s the terrifying part.
I believe that Aleksandr Sharov—the man who kidnapped me, forced me into marriage, reduced me to strategic asset—will protect me more fiercely than my own blood ever did.
The realization makes something crack wider in my chest.
The fight goes out of me halfway through. Exhaustion and grief and too many emotions I can’t name crash over me all at once.
I collapse against his chest, tears soaking into his expensive shirt, my hands fisting in the fabric like he’s the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting.
His arms come around me immediately. One hand in my hair, the other pressed firm against my back. Anchoring me while I fall apart.
“They never chose me,” I choke out. “Never. Not once. I tried so hard, and it was never enough.”
“I know.”
“My father sold me like I was property.”
“I know.” His hand strokes my hair. “And he was wrong. They were all wrong.”
“You did the same thing. Married me for heirs. For bloodlines.”
“No.” He pulls back just enough to tilt my face up. His thumb brushes away tears, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. “I married you because letting you go was impossible. The heir conversation was real, but it wasn’t why.”
“Then why?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there for a heartbeat too long. I can feel the want radiating off him, the barely restrained need to close the distance.
He doesn’t kiss me. Just holds my face between his palms, close enough that I feel his breath against my lips.
“You’re you,” he says finally. “That’s reason enough.”
The words settle into my chest, warm and dangerous and absolutely terrifying.
I’m starting to believe him. Starting to believe that maybe I matter to him beyond strategic value.
If that’s true—if he actually wants me for reasons that have nothing to do with heirs or alliances—then everything I’ve been telling myself about this marriage is wrong.
“I need to tell you something,” I hear myself say.
His hands are still on my face, thumbs still stroking my cheeks. “What?”
My heart hammers. This is it. The moment everything changes.
“I’m pregnant. Actually pregnant, not just hypothetically,”
His entire body goes still. Eyes widening, breath catching, every muscle tensing.
“You think?”
“I know. I’m late, very late, and I’ve been nauseous. Exhausted. All the signs.” I swallow hard. “I don’t know for sure. I was trying to get a test today. That’s why I wanted to come alone.”
He stares at me. Processing. Calculating. A dozen emotions flashing across his face too fast to read.
“We’ll find out,” he says finally. “Now. Today.”
“What about my family?”
“Can wait.” He releases my face and grabs my hand, already pulling me toward the car. “Viktor, we’re leaving.”
“Aleksandr, wait.”
He’s not waiting. Not slowing down. Not giving me time to panic or overthink or change my mind.