Chapter 11 Vera #2
Tonight’s dinner is the breaking point.
I manage half the meal of grilled chicken and vegetables that smell fine but taste like ass. My stomach churns with every bite, but I force it down because I’m tired of the arguments.
I’m really tired of all of it.
But half isn’t enough. It’s never enough.
“You’re not eating,” Dimitri observes from his end of the table, looking at me with a scowl.
I roll my eyes. Here we go again. “I ate half.”
His scowl deepens. “Half isn’t sufficient.”
“Half is what I can manage without vomiting.” I snap, putting my fork down and shoving my plate away. “I’m sorry if that’s not good enough for you, but I’m doing the best I can.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “The baby—”
“The baby is fine!” I shout standing up and throwing my napkin onto the chair, two weeks of frustration finally exploding.
“Dr. Petrov said so. The baby is growing perfectly. It’s getting everything it needs even if I’m sicker than a dog.
So stop acting like I’m deliberately starving your precious Volkov heir! ”
Dimitri’s nostrils flare and he sets his fork down. “That’s not what I—”
“Oh yes it is!” I can feel hot and angry tears sliding down my cheeks and I swipe them away. “That’s exactly what this is about. You don’t care about me. You never have. I’m just the incubator for Alexei’s baby. A means to an end. Something to be fucking controlled!”
“You’re my wife—”
“I’m your PRISONER!” The word echoes in the dining room and Dimitri stills.
I breathe heavily. “You watch everything I do. Monitor what I eat. Control who I talk to. I can’t even fucking call my mother without you appearing like some kind of—of controlling dictator!
I’m not a child, Dimitri! I’m not a prisoner!
I’m your wife, and you’re suffocating me! ”
The silence that follows is deafening. Dimitri stares at me, his expression unreadable, his jaw so tight I swear I can see him grinding his teeth.
“Sit down,” he says quietly.
Is he serious right now? “No,” I snap.
“Vera—”
“No! I’m going to my room. I’m going to lie down. And I’m not eating another fucking bite tonight. So you can report that to yourself!” I storm toward the door, half-expecting him to stop me.
But he doesn't. He just sits there, watching me leave, and I can feel his eyes boring into my back the whole way.
I make it to my room before the tears really start and the anger gives way to exhaustion and fear and this overwhelming sense of helplessness.
I hate this. I hate all of this.
I hate being controlled. I hate being watched. I hate feeling like I’m not a person but a problem to be solved.
I cry into my pillow until I’m too exhausted to cry anymore and I’m empty and wrung out and so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes, there’s dried drool on the side of my mouth.
How long was I asleep for? I slowly sit up, wiping at my lips and look around the room.
That’s when I notice it.
There’s a plate on my bedside table covered with a metal top. Beside it, there’s a note. Curiously, I pick the note and unfold it. There, written in sharp, masculine handwriting,
Eat. - D
I lift the cover, and my breath catches.
It’s pasta. Bucatini with butter and parmesan. It’s nothing fancy, and most people would turn their nose up at it.
But it’s my favorite comfort food. I mentioned it weeks ago during one of those early hostile dinners. It was said in passing, not even thinking he was listening.
But he remembered.
I pick up the fork with shaking hands and take a bite. It’s perfect, exactly how I like it. Not too much sauce. Just butter and cheese and pasta.
I eat every last bite and for the first time in days, nothing comes back up.
When I’m done, I put the plate down and lie back on my bed, staring at that note.
Eat. - D
It’s not kind. Not exactly. There’s no apology or acknowledgment of the fight we just had. But it’s... well, it’s something. Some acknowledgment that he’s paying attention and that he’s trying, in his fucked-up, controlling way, to take care of me.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to reconcile the man who monitors my every move with the man who remembers my favorite food and makes sure I have it when I can’t eat anything else.
That night, I can’t sleep.
It’s past midnight, and I’ve been lying here for hours, my mind spinning with contradictions and confusion and anger that won’t settle. Finally, I give up. Maybe some reading will help settle me.
I slip out of bed, pull on a robe, grab the dark green blanket, and head to the library. The house is dark and silent. The staff long since gone to their quarters. Just me and the shadows and—
Light spilling from the library doorway.
I hesitate, freezing. There’s only one person who would be in here at that time and I’m not sure I want to see him. I should go back to my room, but something draws me forward anyway.
I peek around the doorframe and my heart seizes.
Dimitri sits in one of the leather chairs, a bottle of vodka on the table beside him. He doesn’t appear drunk but he’s definitely drinking. And he’s staring at something in his hands.
A photograph.
Even from here, I can make out the image. Two boys. One older, dark-haired, serious. One younger, golden-blond, laughing.
Dimitri and Alexei.
My heart clenches. He looks so lost. So... broken. Like he’s staring at that photo trying to find answers that don’t exist.
I should let him have this private moment of grief and leave.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Can’t sleep either?”
He doesn’t startle or even look surprised. I bet he knew I was there the entire time. He just keeps staring at that photograph. “What are you doing down here?”
I shrug, even though he still can’t see me. “I could ask you the same thing,” I say.
“This is my house. I can be wherever I want.” But there’s no anger in the words. There’s just exhaustion.
I understand that more than I think he knows.
I move into the room, settling into the chair across from him, keeping distance but not leaving. “You’re thinking about him.”
He nods. “He talked about you.” His voice is quiet. Rough. “All the time. I just didn’t realize it.”
My breath catches and I feel like I’ve just been hit in the stomach. “What did you say?”
“He’d come home from his ‘meetings’ and he’d be…
” Dimitri looks up, clearly searching for the right words.
“Different. Lighter. Happier. He’d make these comments about fate, how love could overcome anything, how the world wasn’t as black and white as I thought.
” Dimitri laughs, but it’s bitter. “I thought he was being idealistic and naive. I didn’t realize he was talking about you. ”
Tears prick my eyes and my heart swells with emotion. I miss Alexei so much it hurts. “He loved you,” I whisper. “So much. He talked about you all the time too.”
Finally, Dimitri looks at me. The dim lamplight casts shadows across his face, softening the harsh angles I’ve come to associate with intimidation and control.
His dark hair is disheveled falling slightly across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer and less like the controlling jackass I know.
The strong line of his jaw is shadowed with stubble, and there’s a vulnerability in the set of his mouth that I've never seen before.
His eyes are what stop me though. Those gray eyes that are usually cold as winter steel are red-rimmed now, whether from lack of sleep or unshed tears, I can’t tell.
But they’re also... beautiful. I’ve never let myself notice before or allowed myself to see past the intimidation to recognize that Dimitri Volkov is a devastatingly handsome man.
Even with grief etched into every line of his face, there’s something arresting about him.
The way the lamplight catches the sharp planes of his cheekbones.
The fullness of his lips, usually pressed into a hard line but now slightly parted.
The broad shoulders that fill out his white dress shirt even as he slumps slightly in the chair, exhausted.
He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Even more than Alexei, a traitorous voice whispers slyly in my head and I shove it away.
“Did he?” he asks, and his voice cracks slightly on the words.
I nod. “All the time.” The words tumble out, needing to be said.
I need him to understand. “He’d tell me stories about growing up with you.
How you took him under your wing after your mother died.
How you protected him. H-he wanted to make you proud.
” My voice breaks and I struggle to get the words out past the lump in my throat.
“He worshipped you, Dimitri. Everything he did was to prove himself worthy of being your brother.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me?” The question is raw. Anguished. “Why keep you a secret? Why lie for eight months?”
I don’t have a good answer for him, but I have to try.
“Because he was going to tell you,” I lie smoothly.
I don’t know why I’m lying to him. Alexei kept making excuses for why we couldn’t go public with our relationship.
But I can’t tell Dimitri that. I want to tell him anything to ease that pain in his eyes.
“He was waiting for the right time. He wanted to figure out how to make you understand that we were serious. That it wasn’t just some fling. ”
Dimitri stiffens. “When?” He asks roughly.
“Soon.” Another lie. “He said after the next family meeting he was going to talk to you and explain everything. He was going to ask for your blessing.” I’m making this up as I go, but I need him to believe it so he can have something other than betrayal to remember Alexei by.
I trace the pattern in the arm chair, trying to keep my thoughts together.
“He loved me, but he loved you more. He would never have—he wouldn’t have kept it secret forever. ”
I watch his face process what I said, desperately wanting to believe this fiction I’m spinning.
“He was waiting for the right time,” Dimitri repeats, like he’s trying to wrap his mind around it.
“Yes.” I lean forward, needing him to accept this. “He didn’t want to hurt you. He just wanted to find the right way to make you understand.”
For a long moment, he just stares at that photograph. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, “That baby is the only piece of him I have left.”
Suddenly, all the pieces click together. All the control, the suffocating attention—it’s not about me at all.
It’s about Alexei and not losing another person he’s responsible for protecting.
“I won’t lose it too,” he continues, his voice rough. “I can’t. Do you understand? I can’t lose another—” He stops, jaw clenching and he takes a shuddering breath. “I won’t.”
It all makes horrible sense.
The constant monitoring. The doctor visits. The demands that I eat, rest, stay healthy. His rage when I don’t follow orders.
He’s not trying to control me. He’s trying to protect what’s left of his brother.
He’s terrified.
Terrified of losing the baby. Of failing to protect this last piece of Alexei the way he thinks he failed to protect Alexei himself.
“You won’t lose it,” I whisper. “I promise. I’m taking care of it. I’m doing everything I can.”
“Are you?” His gaze locks with mine and there’s so much pain in those gray eyes it steals my breath. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re getting thinner. You barely eat. You’re exhausted all the time. And I don’t know—” His voice cracks slightly. “I don’t know how to help you.”
The admission feels raw and vulnerable, a stark contrast to the authoritative Dimitri I thought I knew.
“You can’t help me,” I say gently. “Not with the morning sickness. That’s just... that’s just how pregnancy works. It gets better eventually. But right now, it’s hard.”
“Then what can I do?” He asks desperately. “Tell me what to do to make this better. To keep you both safe.”
Give me space, I want to scream. Stop monitoring me all time. Trust that I’m doing my best to stay alive while this baby tries to kill me.
But I see it now. The fear beneath the control. The terror beneath the demands.
He’s not being cruel he’s being desperate.
It doesn’t excuse the suffocation or make the constant surveillance okay. But it explains it. Kind of.
And that realization makes everything infinitely more complicated.
“You could…” I start, then stop, plucking the blanket that’s covering my knees.
Dimitri’s eyes lock onto my movements and a funny look crosses his face when he notices the blanket.
What can I ask for that won’t trigger that fear?
“You could trust me. Just a little. I’m not trying to hurt the baby.
I want it to be healthy as much as you do. ”
He searches my face, looking for... what? Deception? Truth? I have no idea.
“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll try.”
It's not much. He’s not really promising anything, but it’s still something. An acknowledgment that maybe he’s been too controlling and maybe I deserve some small measure of trust.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We sit in silence for a while. It’s comfortable, but it’s not hostile either. It’s just two people sitting in a library at midnight, both mourning the same man in different ways.
“You should sleep,” Dimitri finally says. “Dr. Petrov comes at nine.”
“I know.” But I don’t move. “Dimitri?”
“Yeah?”
“The pasta. Tonight. That was…” I struggle for words because what exactly do I say to him? “Thank you.”
He nods once, not looking at me. “Get some rest.”
One step forward, two steps back. But I pause at the threshold, looking back at him. He’s staring at that photograph again, his expression unguarded in a way I’ve never seen.
He looks young. And lost. And so heartbreakingly alone. My heart goes out to him. It must be so hard to be all alone in this world.
“He would have been a good father,” I say softly. “If he’d lived. He would have loved that baby so much.”
Dimitri’s hand tightens on the photograph, but he doesn’t respond.
I leave him there with his grief and his memories, and head back to my room.
I place the blanket he brought me on my bed. The plate from the pasta sits on my nightstand.
Small gestures that contradict the suffocating control.
He’s not just trying to control me. He’s trying to protect what's left of the brother he loved.
It doesn’t make the surveillance okay. It definitely doesn’t make me any less trapped.
But it makes it understandable.
And that understanding makes everything so much more complicated than simple hate or fear ever could.