Chapter 5 #4
But the panic doesn’t recede. If anything, it grows stronger with each passing minute, building in my chest like a storm gathering strength.
I can’t hide this. Not long-term. Maybe I can blame morning sickness on stress or bad coffee for a few days, but eventually, someone will notice. The nausea. The way my body will start changing. My clothes won’t fit. I’ll start to show and I’ll need to see a doctor.
And then what? When Dimitri finds out? When he realizes what this means?
I press my hand to my stomach again, a gesture that’s becoming habitual.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper to the empty room.
No answer comes. Just the tick of an ornate clock on the mantle and the distant sound of a lawn mower outside. The lonely sounds of a house that’s full of people but devoid of warmth.
I’m trapped in this beautiful prison with a secret that could get me killed, married to a man who hates me, mourning the love I lost.
And I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life.
I spend the rest of the morning exploring the grounds.
Or trying to. Because it quickly becomes clear that I’m not allowed to explore freely.
There are guards everywhere that are discreet but impossible to miss.
Men in dark suits with earpieces, positioned at strategic points around the property.
They don’t approach me or acknowledge me, but they’re always there. Watching. Monitoring.
And when I walk toward the front gate, two of them materialize beside me like magic.
“Mrs. Volkov,” one says politely but firmly. He’s tall, maybe in his thirties, with a military bearing and eyes that scan constantly, assessing for threats. “Perhaps you would prefer the gardens in the back? They’re quite lovely this time of year.”
It sounds like a suggestion, but I’m not stupid. It’s an order dressed up as friendly advice.
“I was just going to—” I start, but the look on his face stops me. It’s polite, professional, and unmovable. His hand rests casually near his hip, where I can see the bulge of a concealed weapon.
“The back gardens,” he repeats, and this time, there’s steel under the politeness.
So I go to the back gardens, with the two guards trailing ten feet behind me the entire time, their footsteps crunching on the gravel paths.
The grounds are extensive. There’s the formal garden with its geometric flower beds and pristine pathways, everything arranged in perfect symmetry.
A rose garden that must have hundreds of varieties, all perfectly maintained, not a single dead bloom or fallen petal marring the display.
The hedge maze I saw from the window, which I start to enter before one of the guards clears his throat meaningfully and I back away.
The message is clear. Some areas are off-limits.
An orchard with apple and pear trees. Even a small lake with a decorative bridge looks like something out of a Monet painting, with weeping willows trailing in the water and lily pads floating on the surface.
I feel like I’m walking through a postcard or a painting or a movie set. Everything is perfect, but nothing feels real. It's all just... arranged. Displayed. Maintained by staff who probably never stop to actually enjoy what they're caring for.
Much like my new life.
The guards never leave. Even when I sit on a bench by the lake, trying to enjoy the late summer sunshine and the sound of birds in the trees, they maintain their distance but never disappear. Watching. Monitoring. Making sure the hostage doesn’t try to escape.
Not that I have anywhere to go. Not that I’d make it past those walls even if I tried.
After an hour of walking aimlessly and looking at things that should be beautiful but just feel empty, I can’t stand the suffocating presence of the guards, the oppressive perfection of everything, and the crushing loneliness. I head back inside, my shadow-guards following dutifully.
I need to call my mother. I need to hear a familiar voice, to connect with someone who loves me, who isn’t looking at me with suspicion or hostility. I need to know that someone still cares, that I’m not completely alone in the world.
My phone is in my room, tucked in my purse. The purse is hanging on a hook in the enormous closet, looking small and out of place among all the expensive clothes someone has already arranged there. Clothes I’ve never seen before, designer labels, everything in my size.
I dig out my phone with shaking hands and try to dial my mother’s number.
No service.
I stare at the screen in disbelief. There are signal bars—four out of five—but when I try to make the call, it just... doesn’t connect. The call button lights up, but nothing happens. No ringing. No connection. Just silence.
I try again. Same result. I try calling my father. My sisters. Even just trying to call my own voicemail. Nothing works.
They’ve blocked it somehow. Disconnected it. I don’t know how, I’m not tech-savvy enough to understand the specifics, but I know it’s deliberate. Someone has specifically disabled my ability to make calls while making it look like everything is fine.
Panic rises in my throat again, sharp and choking. It wraps around my windpipe like hands, squeezing, cutting off my air.
I’m completely cut off. From my family. From everyone I know. From the outside world. Trapped in this house with people who hate me.
I need to talk to someone. Anyone. I need—
Mrs. Kozlov. She might let me use a house phone. Or at least explain why my cell phone doesn’t work.
I find her in what appears to be her office—a small room off the kitchen with a desk and filing cabinets and a wall of schedules and lists. Everything is organized, not a paper out of place.
“Excuse me,” I say from the doorway, trying to keep my voice steady. “My phone. It isn’t working. Could I use a house phone to call my mother? Just to let her know I’m—”
“No.”
The word is flat and final, like a door slamming in my face.
“I just want to call my mother,” I try again, keeping my voice calm with effort. “Just for a few minutes to tell her I’m okay. That’s all. Five minutes.”
“Mr. Volkov decides who you may and may not contact,” Mrs. Kozlov says without looking up from whatever paperwork she’s reviewing. Her pen scratches across paper. “He has not authorized phone calls.”
My mouth drops open. “B-But I’m his wife.”
Now she does look up, and the expression on her face makes me take an involuntary step back. The look in her eyes is beyond active dislike. There’s hatred there.
“You are what Mr. Volkov says you are,” she says coldly. “Nothing more. Nothing less. If you have request, you may make it to him when he returns. Until then, my orders are clear.”
I want to argue and scream that this is illegal, that they can’t just cut me off from my family. I have rights, dammit. Basic human rights. The right to communicate and contact my family.
But the look in her eyes stops me, because I can see the truth there. I have no rights here. I’m a prisoner in all but name, and everyone in this house knows it. The expensive clothes and the beautiful room don’t change the fundamental reality of what I am.
A hostage. A possession. A means to an end.
“I understand,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. Then I retreat, fleeing back to my room like a wounded animal seeking shelter.
Lunch is brought to me in the morning room.
Anya carries in a tray around one o'clock—a salad with grilled chicken and balsamic dressing, a fresh roll that’s still warm from the oven, and a glass of sparkling water with lemon. It’s perfectly prepared and beautifully plated. It’s the kind of meal you’d pay good money for at a nice restaurant.
And it’s utterly tasteless.
Or maybe everything is tasteless now. Maybe my ability to enjoy anything died with Alexei. Maybe grief has stolen my sense of taste along with everything else—my freedom, my future, my hope.
I pick at it, managing to eat about half before the nausea threatens to return. The smell of the balsamic is too strong, making my stomach turn. I push the plate away and curl up in the chair again, staring out at the too-perfect grounds.
The afternoon drags on with the weight of centuries.
I try reading one of the books from the library, a leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice that’s probably a first edition worth thousands of dollars.
But I can’t focus. The words blur together, meaningless.
I read the same paragraph three times and still have no idea what it says.
My mind won’t settle or stop spinning through scenarios and possibilities and fears.
What if Dimitri finds out about the baby? What if someone notices the morning sickness? What if I start showing before I can figure out a plan? What if, what if, what if...
I attempt to nap on the plush couch in my room, but sleep won’t come.
I’m too wired, too anxious, too aware of the life growing inside me and the danger I’m in.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Dimitri’s face—those cold gray eyes, that harsh expression.
I hear his voice. “Welcome to hell, Mrs. Volkov.”
Hell. That’s what this is. A beautiful, expensive hell.
The shadows grow longer as afternoon turns to evening.
I watch the sun move across the sky, golden light turning orange then pink then purple.
It’s beautiful, in an abstract way. The kind of sunset people take photographs of, that they watch from beaches or mountaintops while feeling grateful to be alive.
I feel nothing. Just numb. Empty. Alone.
Around five o’clock, Anya appears in the doorway of the morning room where I’ve spent most of the day.
“Mrs. Volkov? Dinner will be served at seven in the formal dining room.”
Seven o’clock. Still two hours away. Two more hours to wait, to sit with my thoughts, to spiral further into anxiety and fear.
“Will Mr. Volkov be joining me?” I ask, even though I already know the answer and I’m not sure if I want him to be there or not.