10. Alina
ALINA
When my cycle doesn’t come, I refuse to panic.
I count days on my fingers while brushing my teeth, count again while dressing, and do the math a third time, slower, checking for mistakes. Stress can delay things. Shock can throw a body off. I’ve lived inside fear long enough to know it changes chemistry. I tell myself this is nothing.
The house keeps moving around me as if nothing has changed.
Guards rotate. Meals arrive on time. Doors open and close with the same quiet precision.
I walk the garden every morning at the same hour, escorted by men who know my pace now.
They don’t rush me or let me linger. Their attention feels heavier than it did before, but no one explains why.
Or it could be my mind playing tricks on me.
Mikhail stays distant.
I see him once at the end of a corridor, jacket already on, phone at his ear. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. I don’t call his name. If I’m wrong about this, I don’t want to be the one who turns a delay into a problem.
The nausea returns two days later.
It hits without warning while I’m standing at the sink, rinsing a cup. My stomach tightens hard enough that I have to brace my hands against the counter. The room tilts. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, waiting for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m sick. There’s nothing there to come up, just the dry heave and the sharp sting afterward. When it’s over, I sit on the floor with my back against the tub, head tipped forward, breaths uneven.
This feels different, and by now, I’m sure I’m not ill or nervous.
I wash my face and stare at my reflection.
My skin looks the same. My eyes look the same.
Nothing obvious explains the way my body just betrayed me.
I go through the day carefully. I eat plain food, drink water, and mention nothing to anyone.
When Lira brings tea in the afternoon, she studies my face for a second longer than usual.
“You’re pale,” she observes.
“I didn’t sleep well.” Inwardly, I clamp down on the panic because I’m not ready to reveal this, not even to her. She nods, accepts it, sets the tray down. When she turns to leave, I stop her.
“Lira.”
She pauses. In this moment, I realize I need someone to know what’s going on with me in this house, because if I don’t, there’s no way I’ll be able to secure a way to verify what my body is telling me.
“Do you know how to get things,” I ask, choosing each word carefully, “that don’t show up on records? ”
Her eyes flick to the door. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On why.”
I meet her gaze but don’t explain it. All I do is hold her there with my eyes, long enough for her to see that this is very important to me.
“What is it?” she finally asks.
She exhales quietly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It takes the rest of the day.
Dinner passes untouched. I push food around my plate and pretend I’m not counting hours. When night comes, I lie awake listening to the house settle, every sound sharper than it used to be.
Lira knocks softly, three times at the door, just after eight. She slips inside and closes the door behind her, turning the lock quietly. “I brought fresh towels for your bathroom, since you’re out of them.”
She takes the towels inside, comes out, and smooths the front of her apron.
“Lira,” I say, striving to keep my voice even.
“Could you choose an outfit for me to wear to lunch with Mikhail’s mom tomorrow?
” I don’t need her to do that. I just need her to be in the room with me, and the excuse makes things simpler for all the cameras I’m sure are pointed on me.
She nods, and I stumble over to the bathroom and find a small pregnancy test kit hidden in the folds of the second towel.
She waits outside while I sit on the edge of the tub with the instructions spread in my lap. My hands don’t shake. That surprises me. I follow each step exactly as written. I set the test on the counter and stare at the wall, counting breaths.
When I look back, there’s no ambiguity.
Positive.
The word doesn’t land all at once. It moves through me in stages. First disbelief. Then a cold, hollow feeling that spreads from my chest outward. Then fear, sharp and focused enough to make my ears ring.
I’m pregnant.
I sink down onto the closed toilet lid and press my palm flat against my stomach as if pressure could undo what I’m seeing. My mind starts moving fast—dates, timing, that night, the way my body reacted afterward. The nausea. The dizziness.
There’s no room left for denial.
Lira opens the door a crack and peers in. She sees my face and stops breathing for a second.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
I nod once.
She steps inside and closes the door again, then crouches in front of me. “Are you sure?”
I hold up the test.
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “All right,” she says after a moment. “We think.”
“We don’t,” I correct. “I know.”
She doesn’t argue. She takes the test and wraps it into a paper bag, then tucks it into the pocket of her apron. “No one else,” I say.
She nods immediately. “No one.”
When she leaves, I stay there for a long time. Long enough that the cold tile seeps through the fabric of my clothes.
A child binds me to Mikhail in a way escape never could.
Marriage can be undone. Contracts can be broken. People can disappear.
This can’t.
I don’t tell him.
I don’t tell anyone.
Fear sharpens everything.
I notice how often I’m escorted now, not just in the garden but between rooms. I notice how guards position themselves closer than they used to, one ahead, one behind. I notice questions that follow my movements, framed as concern but delivered as confirmation.
“Where are you headed?”
“How long will you be?”
“Do you need assistance?”
The next afternoon, I’m walking in the garden when I notice a new rosebush.
Fascinated by the warm brown color of the flowers, I walk toward it.
The next second, the sound of the gunshot cracks the air without warning.
It’s loud enough that my ears ring. The bullet strikes the wall inches from my head, stone exploding outward.
I scream and drop instinctively, hands flying up to shield my face.
Shouting erupts immediately. Men move fast. Someone tackles me from the side, driving me to the floor.
Arms cover my body. Another shot rings out farther away, then stops.
I’m dragged backward, heels scraping, breath knocked out of me.
My heart is slamming so hard, it hurts. Voices overlap, sharp and urgent.
“Clear the hall.”
“Get her down.”
“Check the west wing.”
I can’t see anything. My face is pressed against the ground. Dust and mud coat my mouth. I taste blood and realize I bit my tongue. Then silence.
Boots approach. The weight lifts. Hands grip my arms and pull me upright.
I’m shaking so hard, my knees barely hold.
Mikhail is there. His face is pale with fury, eyes burning, jaw set in a way that leaves no room for anything else.
He grabs my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. “Are you hurt?” he demands.
I shake my head, then hesitate. My voice comes out thin. “I don’t think so.”
He scans me fast, hands moving over my arms, my back, my sides, checking for blood, for damage. His breathing is uneven. I’ve never seen him wildly furious like this. “Who fired?” he snaps at someone behind me.
“We don’t know yet,” a voice answers, tight with strain. “They were outside the interior range.”
Mikhail swears under his breath and pulls me closer, shielding me with his body without seeming to realize he’s doing it. His hand presses against the back of my head, firm and protective. “Inside,” he orders. “Now.”
They move us quickly, a wall of men closing in around us. The hallway blurs as we pass through it. My heart is still racing. My hands won’t stop shaking. As the doors close behind us and the house locks down, one thought keeps repeating, steady and terrifying.
This world will kill me before it ever lets me leave.