27. DARIA
Chapter twenty-seven
I ’d been in the Devil’s house for eleven days.
If it weren’t for Svetlana, I’d be going stark raving mad. She had been my saving grace, sneaking me information and supplies I would need to escape. Today, though, she’d tucked something special between the pages of the book resting on my nightstand—a small photo of me as a child with my mother.
When I had turned the page, my heart nearly leaped from my chest. It was a picture of my mother in a flowing pink dress, holding a younger version of me in her arms. She was laughing, and Around her neck was her favorite pearl necklace—the same one I’d found tucked away, miraculously spared from the Devil’s purge. It was the only thing I had left of her, and I was taking it with me when I left this place for good. An ache bloomed in my chest as I traced her face with my fingertip.
She had loved me unconditionally, and my father had taken her away, ended her life way too early.
She would want me to survive.
Later, Svetlana made a bold move by bringing me an item I desperately needed. Her expression was blank as she set down a stack of fresh towels. She then left without saying a word. Something shifted between the folds, catching my attention.
I waited for a while so that it appeared I wasn’t oddly eager to see the towels, then carried the bundle to the closet. Positioning my body to conceal its contents from prying eyes, I reached in and found a combat knife.
My throat tightened. Hope flickered to life inside me. I hid the knife immediately, slipping it into the clothes I would wear beneath my gown for the party.
For the first time in days, I felt the weight of something powerful in my hand, something that would slice through anyone who tried to stop me.
Svetlana startled me when she returned in the early evening. She shoved open the door, carrying a bundle of teal fabric draped over her arm. I had been lost in thought, staring out the window. She didn’t speak as she laid the dress on my bed, smoothing the material.
“It’s your dress for the engagement party,” she said with a mischievous smile.
I ran my fingers over the smooth, shimmering fabric. It was a bold color and expensive. The color would accentuate the icy blue of my eyes. A calculated choice.
It was stunning. And it would be my armor.
“Come now, try it on,” she said, motioning to the dress. “We need to do some final adjustments so that it will hug your curves just right.”
I hated that there were cameras everywhere. No doubt some pervert got off on it every time I changed clothes.
Stepping in front of the full-length mirror in the room’s corner, I quickly pulled off my oversized shirt and slipped into the dress. It was beautiful. Too bad it was meant for such nightmarish circumstances.
Svetlana moved behind me, reaching for the measuring tape around her neck. She worked in silence, pinning fabric where needed and adjusting the bodice to fit my torso with meticulous care. But her fingers, quick and deliberate, did more than just work to tailor the dress.
She shifted slightly, and I felt the weight of something as she adjusted its position inside the dress.
My pulse ticked up.
Hidden pockets.
“Your passport and IDs are sewn into the lining of the skirt,” she murmured, pretending to adjust the zipper at the top of my spine. “There’s money inside the waist seam and a small blade in the bodice’s ribbing.”
She stepped back and spun me around. “Your mother’s pearls will be the perfect embellishment…and”—she leaned in next to my ear—“convenient for you to take with you.”
I walked to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer where I had hidden the delicate strand of pearls. They gleamed under the dim light. This was a piece of my mother I would always cherish.
I handed them to Svetlana, and she clasped them around my neck.
“They’re safe,” I said, twisting the strand around my finger.
Svetlana nodded. “Here, I brought you a list of the dignitaries who will attend and a little something about each one. Make sure you think through how to greet them each properly.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She passed it to me and then unzipped the dress.
The dress pooled at my feet. I stepped out and grabbed my shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion.
Svetlana snatched up the dress and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back in a little while with your dinner,” she said as the door closed.
I curled up on the bed and opened the paper she’d given me.
A map.
My breath caught, and I nonchalantly stuck it in the book sitting on the nightstand. I’d have to wait until I could open it in a way that would ensure no one watching via the cameras could see.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the book on the nightstand. The map was inside, waiting. But with my father’s lackeys watching my every move, I had to be careful.
I ran a hand through my hair. If I looked at it too soon, too obviously, it would cost me everything.
I needed a reason to move, to shift positions, to take the book somewhere the cameras couldn’t see.
I glanced at the window.
Perfect.
Pushing off the bed, I grabbed the book and made my way over, making a show of fanning myself as if the room had suddenly become unbearably warm. With a huff, I unlatched the window and pushed it open, letting in the cool evening air.
Below, a guard stood near the edge of the garden, smoking lazily. I lifted a hand and waved, offering him a small, distracted smile. He barely reacted, only nodding in acknowledgment before turning to leave.
Good.
With the book in hand, I leaned out, resting my elbows on the wide stone sill as if enjoying the fresh air. I flipped through the pages, letting them flutter slightly as I pretended to read, my fingers skimming across the lines of text.
In reality, I studied the map.
Svetlana had sketched the layout of Malinov’s estate. It showed everything—the main ballroom, guest areas, staff quarters, and—most importantly—the perimeter, security stations, and exits.
My eyes locked onto the west wing—to a bathroom on the ground floor where she had noted there was a small window leading out. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I committed every line, every marking, every possible escape route to memory, keeping my fingers moving over the pages, occasionally flipping them to maintain the illusion of reading.
Just as I was tucking the map firmly back into the book, the door creaked open behind me.
I didn’t stiffen, didn’t jerk away. Instead, I kept my movements deliberate and slow, turning my head as if only now noticing Svetlana’s return.
She hesitated in the doorway, tray in hand. “What are you doing?”
I sighed, snapping the book shut. “The room was stuffy. I needed some fresh air.”
For a fraction of a second, her gaze flicked to the cameras.
Then she nodded. “Good idea. But you shouldn’t linger too long. The night air will chill you.”
Pushing off the windowsill, I crossed the room and set the book on the edge of the tray. Then I took the tray from her and placed it on the bed while she closed the window and drew the curtains shut.
She turned, smoothing the front of her apron. “Eat while it’s warm,” she murmured before slipping out of the room.
I placed the book, which now held my mother’s photo and the map of Malinov’s estate, back on the nightstand. It wasn’t just a book anymore; it carried my future.
I sat down on the bed and picked up the spoon to eat while a thousand different possibilities played in my mind.