Chapter 11 Vera
VERA
If I thought my life was difficult before, I was catastrophically wrong.
Dimitri’s decision to claim me and the baby hasn’t made things better. If anything, it’s made everything infinitely worse. I’m not just his unwanted wife now, I’m his responsibility. His thing to control.
And control is exactly what he does.
It starts the morning after his declaration when I wake to find Mrs. Kozlov standing over my bed with a breakfast tray.
“Mr. Volkov’s orders,” she says, her tone making it clear she’s not thrilled about playing nursemaid. “You eat everything. I tell him if you don’t.”
I stare at the food—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, juice—and my stomach immediately rebels. Just the smell of the eggs makes nausea rise in my throat.
“I can’t,” I manage. “I’m not hungry. The smell is awful.”
“Mr. Volkov’s orders,” she repeats, setting the tray on my lap with more force than necessary. “Eat.”
She stands there, arms crossed, waiting and watching, like a fucking prison guard making sure I comply.
I manage three bites of toast before I have to run to the bathroom and throw it all up.
When I emerge, weak and shaky, Mrs. Kozlov is gone. But within minutes, my phone—the house phone I’m not supposed to have access to—rings. I pick it up in confusion.
“Hello?”
“You didn’t eat breakfast,” Dimitri says accusingly.
My mouth drops open. How did he know so fast? I wasn’t in the bathroom that long. “I tried. I couldn’t keep it down.”
“Try harder. The baby needs nutrition.”
“The baby needs me to not vomit everything I eat!” My voice rises, frustration bubbling over. “I can’t help the morning sickness. I’m trying—”
“Try harder,” he repeats and hangs up.
That’s how it goes. Every meal. Every day.
If I skip lunch because I’m too nauseous, Mrs. Kozlov reports it. Within minutes, Dimitri appears with fury in his gray eyes demanding to know why I’m not eating.
If I only manage half a meal, he knows. He always fucking knows.
If I spend too long in the bathroom being sick, someone tells him.
Everything I do is reported, monitored, and controlled.
I’m not allowed to leave the estate or use the phones. When I find a staff phone in the kitchen and try to call my mother, it disconnects mid-dial. Two minutes later, Dimitri is there, yanking the phone from my hand.
“Hey!” I lunge for the phone, but he holds it firmly out of reach, a murderous look in his eye.
“No contact with your family,” he snaps. “Not until I’m sure they’re not behind the attack and I know you’re safe.”
“Safe?” I laugh bitterly. “I’m a prisoner in this house. You monitor everything I do, eat, and where I go. How is that keeping me safe? This is about control, not protection!”
“Call it whatever you want.” He turns away, dismissing me. “The rules stand.”
The staff treats me differently now too. It’s not overt hostility anymore (which is a relief) but now, I’m treated like an unwanted responsibility. Something to be managed and reported on.
Anya is the only one who shows any warmth, and even she’s careful. She brings me ginger tea without being asked, leaves crackers by my bedside for when the nausea hits at night. Small kindnesses she has to hide because showing me any compassion might get her in trouble.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her one morning when she brings me plain toast instead of the heavy breakfast Mrs. Kozlov ordered.
She just nods, glances over her shoulder nervously, and hurries away.
Everyone is afraid of him. Everyone follows his orders without question.
And I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.
Dr. Petrov’s daily visits become their own special form of torture.
Every morning at nine am, he arrives with his medical bag and his kind smile and his endless questions. And every morning, Dimitri is there too.
He stands by the window, arms crossed, watching and listening to every word and my every answer. He knows every detail about my body and the baby growing inside it.
It’s invasive and humiliating. I’m being treated not as a person, but a vessel.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Volkov?” Dr. Petrov asks, taking my blood pressure.
“Peachy,” I lie, because Dimitri is right there and I can’t admit how miserable I am without it becoming another thing he tries to control.
“Any cramping? Spotting?” he asks, making a pleased noise at my reading. 120/80. Perfect.
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Some.” Understatement of the fucking century.
“Are you keeping food down?”
I hesitate, and that’s all the answer Dimitri needs.
“She threw up breakfast again,” he interjects, his voice clipped. “And barely touched dinner last night.”
Dr. Petrov gives me a sympathetic look. “Morning sickness can be quite severe in the first trimester. It’s normal, though unpleasant. Mrs. Volkov, have you tried eating smaller, more frequent meals? Bland foods? Ginger tea?”
“Yes,” I say quietly, thinking of the things Anya has snuck to me. I wish I could say they are doing something. “Nothing helps much.”
“Hmm.” He makes a note. “If it gets worse, we may need to consider medication. For now, just do your best to stay hydrated. The baby is getting what it needs even if you’re uncomfortable.”
The baby. It’s always the baby. Never me. Never how I’m feeling or what I need.
Just the baby.
Dimitri steps forward, his presence overwhelming. “What about weight? She’s lost more since last week.”
Dr. Petrov nods. “A few pounds, yes. It’s common with severe morning sickness, but as long as she’s staying hydrated and the baby is developing properly, it’s not cause for immediate concern.” Dr. Petrov pulls out the portable ultrasound. “Shall we check on the little one?”
I want to say no, even though I also desperately want to see the baby, but Dimitri is already nodding, and Dr. Petrov is already setting up the machine. It’s like I don’t even exist when it comes to my own healthcare.
But I guess when it comes to the baby, I technically don’t exist.
I dutifully lift my shirt and Dr. Petrov applies the cold gel. The wand presses against my skin, searching, and then the image appears on the screen.
The baby. It’s bigger than last time and more defined. I can see the shape of a head, tiny limbs, and the flickering of that impossibly fast heartbeat. I let out a soft gasp. Seeing the baby never gets old.
“There we are,” Dr. Petrov says warmly. “About nine weeks now. Everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat, good growth. See here.” He points to the screen. “You can just start to make out the features. In a few more weeks, we’ll be able to see even more detail.”
I stare at the screen, and despite everything—despite the fear and anger and resentment—something inside me softens. That’s my baby. Alexei’s baby. Growing and developing and completely oblivious to the chaos surrounding its existence.
I glance at Dimitri, expecting his usual stone-faced expression.
But he’s not stone-faced. He’s staring at the screen with something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Wonder, maybe. Or longing. His jaw is slack, his posture less rigid. For just a moment, he looks almost... vulnerable.
Like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing in the world.
Then he notices me watching, and his expression hardens. The walls slam up as he turns away.
“Everything else looks good,” Dr. Petrov says, wiping the gel off my stomach. "Keep trying to eat, stay hydrated, and rest when you can. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. And the day after. And the fucking day after that.
I’ll be subjected to this every fucking day until the baby gets here. And Dimitri will watch every second.
After Dr. Petrov leaves, Dimitri lingers. He stands there, not quite looking at me, and I can feel the weight of whatever he wants to say.
“What?” I finally ask, too irritated to be polite. He doesn’t deserve my politeness, anyway.
“You need to eat more.”
Is he serious right now? “I’m trying—”
“Try harder.” He starts to leave, then pauses at the door. “The baby needs you to be healthy.”
“The baby. Right. Always the baby.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “What about what I need? What about me?”
He turns back, and there’s something in his expression I can’t read. “You think I don’t care about—” He stops himself, pressing his lips so firmly together, they’re white. “Just eat. Please.”
The please surprises me. It’s the first time he’s asked instead of commanded.
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone again with the weight of his expectations pressing down on me. They’re stifling.
The days blur together in a monotonous routine that drive me crazy. Eat the food, Vera. Subject to daily examinations, Vera. Be okay with being under my thumb, Vera.
Sometimes when Dr Petrov is there, I fantasize about stuffing his stethoscope down Dimitri’s throat.
But there are moments that confuse me.
Like yesterday afternoon. I’d found myself in the library, too nauseous to move, shivering despite the warm summer air.
I must have dozed off because I woke up to find a dark green blanket draped over me.
I fingered the material in confusion. It’s not one of the decorative ones from the chair, but it’s from somewhere else.
It was soft. Warm. Smelling faintly of cedar and smoke.
Smelling like… Dimitri.
I sit up, looking around, but the room is empty. The door is closed. There’s no sign of anyone.
Did he... did he bring me a blanket?
I pull it closer, and despite the anger and fear and resentment, it makes me feel... something. Less angry and irritated.
Or last night. I woke up at 4 am to use the bathroom. When I finished, I noticed shadows by my door. When I peeked out, I could have sworn I saw a figure at the end of the hallway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Standing there in the darkness like a sentinel.
Watching over me? Or watching me?
I have no idea. But when I looked again, he was gone.
These moments unnerve me more than the control, in some ways. Because I don’t know how to process them or know what they mean.
Is he protecting me? Or just protecting what he really wants—the baby?