Chapter 11
Hazel
Ever since the night Viktor had that nightmare, things between us shifted.
For a month now, he'd been showing up at my room every night like clockwork, but the tension was gone.
Viktor no longer just barked orders at me. Sometimes he'd even make small talk—by the bed, or after.
Sure, it was mostly trivial stuff, nothing deep. But the change alone shocked me.
Of course, I knew better than to call this harmony. This was probably just him throwing me scraps to keep me calm enough to carry his child.
Still, compared to the constant fear I'd lived with before, this was progress.
Anya, though, still treated me like I didn't exist. Everywhere in the manor, I was invisible to her.
A few days ago, I worked up the courage to write her a long apology, trying to explain everything. When I handed it to her, she didn't even glance at it. Just tossed it in the hallway trash right in front of me.
Anya's rejection gutted me, but the thaw with Viktor gave me hope. Maybe I really could survive this year in the manor.
I was wrong.
My biggest problem now was that I might actually starve to death in this gilded cage.
To avoid the suffocating awkwardness of sharing meals with Anya, I'd asked Viktor if I could eat with the staff.
At first, it worked fine.
Nobody at the servants' table talked to me—except Margaret, who'd smile occasionally. Everyone else kept their distance.
But the food here was incredible.
Saren was never much of a mother. Her life revolved around bottles, not me.
Growing up, our table saw discount frozen pizza and expired canned goods. That was it.
So every meal here felt like a feast.
That changed five days ago when Viktor left for Russia.
This afternoon at three, I showed up at the side hall dining room right on time.
But Grace—the kitchen manager in her fifties with that permanent sneer—just looked me over coldly.
"Miss Brooks, Friday lunch is at two. You missed it."
Then she turned and walked away. No explanation.
This was the third time this week.
The first time, I really had overslept. Pregnancy exhaustion knocked me out cold most afternoons.
The second time, I arrived ten minutes early. Grace said the kitchen had an emergency, no lunch for me today, figure it out yourself.
Today was the third. I showed up exactly when she'd told me to yesterday. Apparently, I'd missed it again.
Someone was screwing with me.
Why did other staff or guards who missed meals get food saved for them, but not me? I'd seen leftovers on the prep counter. Grace would rather dump them than feed me.
Was this just because nobody liked me? Or was Anya pulling strings?
I didn't dare ask.
The image of Anya throwing my letter in the trash haunted me. My chest ached just thinking about it.
If my only friend treated me like this, who in this hostile manor would ever take my side?
So I went with plan B. Take care of myself and the baby.
Finally, midnight.
I pushed open the kitchen door and crept toward the fridge, using its dim light to search for anything edible.
Nothing.
The thick Angus steaks I'd seen earlier, the Boston lobster flown in fresh, the imported Parma ham, the expensive cheeses I couldn't even name—all gone.
I knew they replaced ingredients daily. Anything not perfectly fresh got tossed. Never kept overnight.
Rich people and their waste.
Fine. There had to be something.
I closed the fridge and desperately searched the other cabinets.
Slim pickings.
At the bottom of a container, I found half a rock-hard baguette and a small plate of leftover pasta. The sauce had congealed into dark red chunks. Looked awful.
But I was too hungry to care.
Pregnancy hunger was ten times worse than normal. It gnawed at my stomach lining.
I broke the bread into pieces and forced it down with tap water. Hard as stone. My gums and teeth ached.
Then I grabbed the pasta, twirling a small amount on my fork. The cold tomato sauce was sour and greasy, the noodles clumped together, barely edible.
Tasted like Saren's cooking.
Not good, but better than starving.
I shoved food in my mouth fast, hoping speed would mask the taste. Too fast. Food lodged in my throat.
I had to pound my chest several times.
Then every industrial light overhead blazed on.
My heart plummeted.
Grace? Who else would be here at midnight?
Fuck. How was I supposed to explain rummaging through trash?
My reputation here was already shot—the gold digger who climbed into the Pakhan's bed, the shameless woman carrying his bastard.
Now add thief to the list?
As the blinding white light faded and my vision adjusted, I finally saw who stood in the doorway.
Viktor.
"What are you doing?"
Viktor stood there, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Just back from Russia.
We locked eyes across the long distance. I could still see the surprise on his face when he spotted the pasta in front of me.
I still clutched the fork with its clump of cold, sticky noodles.
Probably had red sauce smeared on my mouth. Hair a mess on my shoulders.
I must have looked pathetic.
Panicking, I dropped the fork and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to stand and pull myself together.
But I'd been crouching too long. My legs were numb. My knees buckled. Nearly fell.
"I..." I opened my mouth to explain.
But I had no idea what to say.
I didn't want to tell him I was being starved.
That sounded too pitiful. And I wasn't even sure it was true. It'd sound like tattling, like using his baby to win sympathy.
I didn't want him thinking I was some whiny problem.
"I was just... hungry." That's all I managed, voice barely audible, like I was making excuses. "I know it's not mealtime, but I..."
"Do you know what you are?" Viktor cut me off.
I froze, then blurted out, "A mistress?"
Viktor's brow furrowed instantly.
"You're the mother of my child." His tone was icy as he corrected me, then strode toward me. "You're pregnant, and you're sneaking around eating cold leftovers?"
He stopped in front of me, radiating intimidation as he looked down, then grabbed the plate.
He glanced at the revolting cold pasta. His frown deepened.
"This is your dinner?" A dangerous edge to his voice.
For some reason, I sensed danger.
I bit my lip hard. Felt safer not answering.
When I didn't respond, Viktor suddenly turned and hurled the plate and pasta into the sink.
"Why didn't you eat in the dining room?" He turned back, staring coldly.
God, why was he so angry? I looked down, fingers twisting nervously.
"I... missed mealtime." A small lie.
"Missed it?" Viktor laughed coldly. "Or is Grace deliberately messing with you?"
I looked up in shock at his unexpected answer.
"So it's true." Viktor looked unsurprised.
He stepped closer, advancing while interrogating me.
"Why didn't you fight back? You're carrying my child. You have the right to demand proper meals. Why let some kitchen manager walk all over you?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Why not fight back?
Because I didn't dare. Because I knew how low I ranked in this manor. I didn't want to cause trouble.
And because I was scared.
Scared the person who hated me wasn't Grace at all.
"You're worried about Anya." Viktor's voice carried rare exasperation. "You think she's behind these petty games?"
I stayed silent, but my silence told him everything.
Viktor took a deep breath.
"I rarely defend Anya," he said, looking into my eyes seriously, "but she doesn't do sneaky shit. If she really wanted to hurt you, knowing her personality, she'd dump that cold pasta on your head herself. Not have the kitchen staff starve you."
Right. Anya was always direct. Never played dirty tricks. If she truly hated me, she'd say it to my face, not hide behind disgusting little schemes.
Relief washed over me.
"Yeah, Anya would never do that," I repeated, unable to help smiling at my ridiculous worry.
Viktor watched my relieved expression, took a deep breath, then turned toward the stove.
"Sit."
I stared blankly at his broad back, no idea what he was doing.
"I said sit." Viktor glanced back coldly.
I hurried to pull out a bar stool at the island and sat, hands folded anxiously in my lap like a criminal awaiting sentencing.
Viktor shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over a nearby chair. Then he rolled his sleeves higher and started searching the cabinets.
Finding nothing, he knocked impatiently on what looked like a seamless wall.
I realized with shock it wasn't a wall at all, but a hidden built-in storage room.
No wonder I'd found nothing earlier.
Viktor went inside. Soon he emerged with a fresh, perfectly marbled thick-cut steak.
Then, as I watched in disbelief, Viktor pulled out a pan, drizzled in olive oil, and fired up the stove like he'd done it a thousand times.
And I sat there, stunned.
Viktor Gromov—the most feared mafia Pakhan in Los Angeles—was standing at the stove cooking me steak.
The scene was so surreal I couldn't tell if extreme hunger was making me hallucinate or if I was dreaming.
But Viktor moved with practiced ease. Clearly not his first time.
Soon the kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of searing steak and butter.
Minutes later, a perfectly cooked steak sat steaming on the counter in front of me.
"Eat." Viktor pulled out the chair across from me and sat.
I didn't need telling twice. My stomach was already screaming.
I quickly cut a piece and put it in my mouth.
Cooked perfectly. The tender meat exploded on my taste buds, and my heart—worn down by prolonged hunger—nearly broke with relief.
It had been so long since I'd eaten real, hot food.
I kept my head down, eating quickly, unable to look at Viktor.
But I felt his gaze on me the entire time. Never wavering.
"You know what," Viktor suddenly said, "I really hate how you just swallow every insult without fighting back."
I stopped cutting and looked up at him, confused.
"You barely resist anything. You think suffering in silence makes everyone happy?"
I bit my lip, throat tight, no idea how to answer his cutting question.
I'd lived this way forever.
Around Saren and Jimmy, being obedient and doing what they wanted was the only way to avoid beatings, to get a little food.
It was my survival strategy. Nobody ever told me.
It was wrong.
Viktor kept going.
"You're wrong. The weaker you are, the more people will walk all over you."
Viktor suddenly stood and walked to my chair. He forced my chin up, making me meet his eyes.
"Listen carefully, Hazel." His tone bordered on threatening. "You're carrying my child. Here, you can do anything. Stand up to anyone."
I stared at his face so close to mine, heart pounding uncontrollably.
"Understand?" Viktor repeated, voice colder.
"Yes." Quiet but obedient.
Viktor studied me for several seconds, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. Then he released my chin and straightened.
"Keep eating." Viktor's fingers casually undid a button on my robe, fingertips grazing my skin deliberately, sending shivers through me. "When you're done, go back to your room. Complete your work."
We both knew what that work meant.
My face burned with embarrassment. But somewhere deep inside, against my will, anticipation stirred.
I couldn't help stealing a glance at Viktor's profile.
He'd turned away, washing the pan at the sink.
Moonlight streamed through the massive kitchen windows, falling across his broad shoulders, casting his hard features in soft silver.
His movements were natural, no hesitation—like a husband cleaning up after making his wife a late-night snack. Completely normal to him.
But this was what I'd longed for. A scene that only existed in dreams.
I didn't know how to stop my racing heart.
Nobody had ever said things like that to me. Nobody had ever shown this kind of interest in my body.
I was plain-looking. Always called the fat girl. Not the type normal boys noticed.
So even though it was pathetic, I genuinely felt a secret thrill that Viktor desired my body.
I bit my lip hard, desperately trying to suppress that dangerous feeling—bitter, yet somehow sweet.
No, Hazel. Stop it. I sternly warned myself.
You absolutely cannot fall for a man who could never be yours.