Chapter Thirty-Two
Stell a
I need to get out of here.
I can’t let these people intimidate me into sitting in this room all day. The morning sun beckons me outside, the promise of warmth drawing me from my gilded cage.
Taking the book I found when I arrived here, I slip through the French doors and pad across the flagstone path to the pool area. The water sparkles invitingly, and I settle onto one of the cushioned loungers, letting the sunshine soak into my skin.
If nothing else, I’ll work on my tan.
A crash from the Right Wing shatters my peaceful moment. The elegant woman I spotted earlier storms out looking like she’s ready to spit bullets. My stomach drops as she spots me and changes course, her perfectly made-up face twisting with rage.
“You.” She stalks toward me, finger pointed. “You’re the little whore who ruined everything.”
I scramble to sit up, but she’s already looming over me. “I-I don’t…”
“Don’t play innocent. Aleksei left me at the altar because of you.” Her voice drips with venom. “Did you think you’d won something? That he’d actually keep you?”
My mouth goes dry. “The altar?”
She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel. “Oh, you didn’t know? We were supposed to be married yesterday. But instead, he humiliated me in front of everyone.” She leans closer, her expensive perfume surrounding me. “And I will make both of you pay for that.”
“I never meant—”
“Save it.” She straightens, adjusting her Hermès scarf. “You’re just his latest toy. And when he breaks you, I’ll be there to watch you shatter.” Her lips curve into a cold smile. “Consider this your only warning.”
I watch her stride away, her threats settling like ice in my veins. The sun no longer feels warm enough to chase away the chill of her words.
I’m still reeling from her threats when heavy footsteps approach behind me. My spine stiffens as Aleksei’s presence fills the space she just vacated.
“Ignore Sofia. She’s irrelevant now.”
I jolt in alarm, my cheeks flaming as a thousand images flood my mind of him in my bed. As foggy as my head might feel, I’m pretty certain that I didn’t just dream that. But if he’s given it a moment of thought, it doesn’t reflect in his expression.
“She said you left her at the altar.” I say, instead of raising the tricky topic of what happened last night.
“That’s not your concern.” He runs a hand over his stubbled jawline. “We need to discuss your situation.”
“My… situation?” The words catch in my throat.
“Your pregnancy requires specific protocols.” He begins pacing beside the lounger. “You’ll have regular medical checks. A nutritionist will plan your meals. No caffeine, no alcohol, no processed sugar.”
I wrap my arms around my middle. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“You’ll follow my rules.” His tone is inflexible. “Exercise will be monitored. You’ll have a personal trainer to ensure your fitness is optimal. Walking is permitted in the gardens, with security present.”
“What about my job? My apartment?”
“Both unnecessary now. Your only focus is delivering a healthy heir.”
The clinical way he discusses my child makes my stomach turn. “I’m not just an incubator.”
“For the next seven months, that’s exactly what you are.” He checks his watch. “Your first medical appointment is in an hour. Imelda will bring you appropriate clothing.”
“Wait, don’t I get any say in this?”
His dark eyes lock onto mine. “You gave up that right when you texted me about the pregnancy. My child, my rules.”
“Excuse me?” My eyes are wide. “This is my child too!”
“Then you’ll want nothing but the best for him,” he says, then pauses, his eyes narrowing on me. “Don’t you?”
I bristle at how easily he decides that my child will be a boy. But then again, I’m bristling at everything he says right now.
“Of course I want the best for her ,” I snap back. “Are you implying that I wouldn’t be a good mother?”
“Of course not. But consider what I will provide.” He eyes me coolly.
“Exactly what do you plan to provide that you think I can’t do for myself?” I jut my jaw out.
He tilts his head. “The best obstetricians in the country will monitor your progress. A chef trained in prenatal nutrition will plan your meals.” He moves closer, his presence dwarfing me.
“Your apartment’s air quality is questionable, the building security inadequate. Here, you’ll have everything you need.”
I grip the lounger’s edge. “And everything I want?”
“Want?” His lips curve slightly. “You’ll have a private yoga instructor, massage therapist, access to the pool, an expense account, shopping trips — supervised, of course… What single mother could afford such luxuries?”
The truth in his words stings. On my salary, I’d be lucky to afford basic prenatal vitamins.
“Your schedule will be structured for optimal health.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling through what looks like a detailed calendar.
“What about my phone? My laptop?”
“Both will be monitored. Your internet access will be filtered to prevent unnecessary stress.” His tone suggests this is a gift; I know otherwise. “The house system will track your movements, ensuring quick response if you need assistance. There will always be someone available for you.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, even as the idea begins to make sense. The only person I have to turn to is Hannah, and she’s off on assignment most of the time these days.
“You’ll understand soon enough that this is best for both you and the child.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing my stomach in a possessive gesture. “No mother should worry about providing for her baby.”
The worst part is, he’s right. I could never give our child this level of care on my own.
I’ve never struggled financially; I have a decent job. But it’s demanding. Long hours. High stress. And is my income real enough for two?
“Hardly.” Boyana’s voice is mocking.
I wouldn’t be able to afford all the things I’d want to give my baby.
Perhaps taking my silence for agreement, he brushes my arm. “There’s something I need to give you,” he says, not waiting for a reply before moving away in the direction of my rooms.
I follow mutely, trying to take this all in. The sudden upheaval has left my head spinning. And then the woman who claimed he’d left her at the altar. I feel like there’s too much to process.
“I think they call this ‘baby brain,’” says Boyana.
I give my head a shake, trying to focus on where Aleksei just strolled through the French doors to my room. As I walk in after him, I see that the place has been tidied, and there are parcels set about the place.
“These are for you,” he says, nodding at them.
The stack of boxes on my bed looks deceptively innocent. Each pristine Apple product nestled in white packaging, like Christmas came early. But as I lift out each device, the reality of my situation settles deeper.
“The laptop has been configured for your safety,” Aleksei explains. “Only approved websites — pregnancy resources, streaming services, limited social media.”
I open the browser, immediately noting how clinically everything has been set up. Even my email has been filtered to a new monitored account.
The iPhone comes next, already loaded with tracking apps. A calendar filled with my scheduled activities, meal plans, exercise routines. The home screen displays real-time monitoring of my heart rate, sleep patterns, and daily steps.
I give a small start as Aleksei steps up close to me, heat radiating from his powerful frame. I swallow hard and force myself not to squeeze my eyes shut.
“This biomarker tracker must be worn at all times.” He fastens a sleek band around my wrist. It looks like a fancy fitness tracker, but the blinking sensors betray its true purpose. “It monitors your vitals, stress levels, location. If anything seems wrong, security will respond immediately.”
I rotate my wrist, watching the numbers scroll across the tiny screen — pulse, blood pressure, cortisol levels. My entire biological existence reduced to data points for him to analyze.
“The emergency button connects directly to the security team,” he continues, showing me how to activate it. “And the phone has a panic feature if you feel unwell.”
“Holy shit,” I half-whisper.
“I want you to be comfortable,” he adds, mistaking my words for gratitude. “These are top-of-line models.”
I nod mechanically, already feeling the weight of invisible eyes watching through each screen, each sensor. My movements, communications, even my body’s responses — all monitored, analyzed, controlled.
My prison feels more claustrophobic with each new gadget, its bars made of circuits and algorithms rather than steel.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to sound casual. “So… after the baby comes, will I be able to return to work?”
Aleksei doesn’t look up from adjusting my biomarker tracker. “Of course. I’ve already interviewed several qualified nannies.”
“Nannies?” The word sticks in my throat. “You expect someone else to raise my child?”
“The staff will handle day-to-day care. You’ll have supervised visitation, of course.” His tone suggests he’s conferring a great privilege. “The nanny will manage feeding schedules, educational development, proper socialization—”
“Feeding schedules?” My voice rises. “You mean breastfeeding? You expect me to just pump milk and hand it over?”
He finally meets my eyes, brow furrowed. “Formula is more efficient. Allows for precise measurement of intake.”
“No.” I yank my wrist away from him. “Absolutely not. I won’t be treated like some kind of… breeding cow.”
“You’re being emotional—”
“Damn right I’m emotional!” I stand up, anger burning through my fear. “This is my baby. Mine! I’ll be the one carrying her, birthing her, loving her. Not some hired help.”
“Him,” Aleksei corrects automatically. “And this isn’t up for discussion.”
“The hell it isn’t.” I rip off the tracker, tossing it onto the bed. “I won’t let you reduce motherhood to a clinical transaction. I won’t let you take my child away the moment she’s born.”