Chapter 5 #3
He married me for revenge. To punish the Ashfords.
To have leverage over my father. What would he do if he found out I was carrying his dead brother’s child?
That I’d been seeing Alexei in secret for eight months?
That the man he loved and lost had been in love with me?
That we were planning a future together?
Would he kill me? Would he kill the baby? Force me to get rid of it? Use it as another weapon against my family? I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this man except that he’s capable of incredible violence and he hates me with every fiber of his being.
My hand spreads across my stomach, protective and desperate. This tiny life is dependent on me to keep it safe.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I promise. I’ll figure something out. I’ll—”
A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I press my hand harder against my mouth, fighting back a whimper of fear.
“Mrs. Volkov?” It’s one of the younger women from the kitchen, her voice tentative and uncertain. “Are you... are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady even though I’m anything but fine. I’m the opposite of fine. I’m drowning. “Just—just a moment!”
I flush the toilet and force myself to stand on shaking legs. My reflection in the mirror is awful. I’m pale as a ghost and sweaty with red-rimmed and haunted eyes. I look like I’ve been through a war. Or like I’m about to start one.
I splash cold water on my face, rinse my mouth out several times, and try to make myself presentable. But there’s no hiding the pallor of my skin or the way my hands tremble as I grip the edge of the sink. There’s no hiding the fear in my eyes or the guilty flush on my cheeks.
I can’t let them see me like this. God forbid, if they start to suspect. Mrs. Kozlov already looked at me strangely when I ran from the kitchen. If she starts putting pieces together, if she mentions it to Dimitri, if anyone realizes...
I take a deep breath, smooth down my sweater with shaking hands, and open the door.
The girl is still there, hovering uncertainly in the hallway.
She’s maybe nineteen or twenty, with those same frightened brown eyes.
Up close, I can see she’s pretty with high cheekbones, a small pointed chin, and full lips.
She wears the same uniform as Mrs. Kozlov, but hers looks newer, less worn. Maybe she hasn’t been here as long.
“Mrs. Kozlov wanted me to check on you,” she says in lightly accented English that’s better than Mrs. Kozlov’s. It’s clear she’s also from Russia but has learned English through schooling. “She says... she says you don’t look well.”
No shit, I want to say, but I don’t. Instead, I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. “I’m fine. Really. I think—I think the coffee was just too strong on an empty stomach. That’s all. I’ll be okay.”
She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes sweep over me, taking in my pallor, the slight tremble in my hands, and the way I’m leaning against the doorframe for support. But she nods anyway.
“I can bring you something else?” she offers, and there’s genuine kindness in her voice. The first kindness I’ve heard in this house. “Maybe tea? And plain crackers? Sometimes that helps when—” She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks like she’s said too much.
The kindness in her offer makes my throat tight with unshed tears. “That would be lovely,” I manage, giving her a weak smile. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Anya,” she says softly. Then, as if remembering that she’s not supposed to be kind to the enemy, she adds quickly, “I should get back to work.”
She hurries away before I can say anything else, her footsteps quick and light on the tile floor, fleeing before Mrs. Kozlov can catch her being nice to me.
I’m left standing alone in the hallway, still shaky, nauseous, and terrified.
I make my way back to the kitchen slowly. My legs feel like jelly, weak and unreliable. Mrs. Kozlov is waiting, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. Assessing. Calculating.
“You are ill,” she states. Not a question. It’s more of an observation. Or even an accusation.
“Just a little queasy,” I say carefully, measuring each word. “The coffee was—”
“The coffee is the same coffee Mr. Volkov drinks every morning,” she interrupts, her tone sharp. Defensive. “It is fine coffee. The best.”
Right. Of course. How dare I imply anything in this house is less than perfect. Everything here is the best, the finest, the most expensive. Questioning that is questioning Dimitri himself.
“I’m sure it is,” I say quickly, placatingly. “I just—I’m not used to such strong coffee. My stomach is a little sensitive. That’s all. I didn’t mean to imply—”
She studies me for a long moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she’s seeing right through me.
Those sharp eyes taking in every detail—my pallor, the way I’m barely holding myself together.
She’s probably been with the family since they first came here from Russia.
She’s seen everything. Does she know? Can she tell?
But then she just makes a dismissive sound in the back of her throat and turns away. “Anya will bring you tea and crackers in the morning room. You should rest.”
It’s another dismissal, but I’m grateful for it. I need to get away from those sharp, assessing eyes. I need to be somewhere I can breathe without feeling like I’m being examined under a microscope.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and flee for the second time this morning.
The morning room turns out to be a sun-drenched space on the east side of the house. Large windows overlook the grounds, and good lord, what grounds they are.
I stand at the window, my forehead pressed against the cool glass, and stare out at Dimitri’s estate.
Manicured lawns stretch as far as I can see, dotted with mature trees that must be decades old.
Oak and maple, their leaves just starting to turn with the approaching fall.
Carefully maintained flower beds full of late-summer blooms—roses and dahlias and some purple flowers I don’t recognize.
Everything is perfectly arranged, perfectly maintained, and not a blade of grass out of place.
There’s a fountain in the distance, marble and ornate, with water cascading in tiers. Beyond that, what looks like a hedge maze, the kind you see in European estates or fancy hotels. An orchard to the west with neat rows of apple trees heavy with fruit.
It’s all stunning. Meticulously cared for. And completely soulless.
There's no sign of life, of personality, of anyone actually enjoying this space. It’s not a garden where children play or families have picnics. It’s a showcase. A display. A statement of wealth and power that has nothing to do with joy or happiness or actually living.
Much like everything else in this godforsaken place.
And surrounding it all, the walls. High stone walls topped with security cameras and what might be barbed wire, though it’s too far to tell for sure. Guards patrol at regular intervals, dark figures against the green lawns. I count at least six from this window alone.
Anya brings me the tea and crackers, setting them on the small table beside the overstuffed armchair I claimed as my own. She still won’t quite meet my eyes, but her movements are gentle and careful. Dare I say, almost sympathetic.
“Thank you, Anya,” I say softly, and I mean it.
She nods and starts to leave, but I can’t help myself. I’m so starved for human connection, for kindness, for anything that isn’t hostility or cold indifference.
“How long have you worked here?”
She pauses, turning back. For a moment, I think she won’t answer and she’ll follow Mrs. Kozlov’s example and treat me with cold silence. Then, “Three years. Since I was sixteen.”
So young. Just a girl, really, when she started here. “Do you... do you like it here?”
Her eyes widen slightly, like the question surprises her. Or maybe it’s dangerous to answer honestly. She glances over her shoulder, checking to make sure Mrs. Kozlov isn’t within earshot.
“Mr. Volkov is a good employer,” she says carefully, like she’s reciting something she’s been told to say. “Fair. He takes care of his people. He pays well. Better than most.”
His people. Not me. I’ll never be one of his people. I’ll always be the outsider. The enemy. The Ashford girl who doesn’t belong.
“I see,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, and I see something flicker across her face (pity?
Sympathy?). Then she adds in a rush, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
“Mrs. Kozlov is very loyal to Mr. Volkov. She has been with the family for thirty years. She was here when his father was alive. When his mother was still…” She trails off, color rising in her cheeks. “When Mr. Alexei—”
She stops abruptly, her face going pale, her eyes wide with horror at what she’s just said. At the name she’s just spoken. The clearly forbidden name.
“I should not have said that. I’m sorry. I have to—”
She practically runs from the room, her footsteps quick and panicked, leaving me alone with my tea and crackers and the echo of Alexei’s name hanging in the air like a ghost.
Even here, in this house, his presence haunts me. His name is forbidden, but his memory is everywhere. I can feel it in the way the staff moves, the way they look at me with such hatred. They loved him. All of them. And they blame me—blame my family—for taking him away.
If only they knew the truth. If only they knew that I loved him too. That I’m carrying his child. That I would give anything to have him back.
But they’ll never know. No one will ever know.
I sip the tea slowly, letting the warmth soothe my roiling stomach. It’s peppermint, gentle and settling. The crackers help too. They’re bland and dry and exactly what I need. After a while, the nausea recedes to a dull queasiness I can almost ignore. Almost.