Chapter 41 Sophia
SOPHIA
I wake to sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows, my hand instinctively reaching across the sheets.
Empty.
Cold.
Mikhail’s side of the bed hasn’t been slept in.
My heart sinks as I sit up, the silk nightgown I wore last night twisted around my thighs.
The emerald green fabric mocks me with its sensuality, a reminder of the evening I’d so carefully planned.
The candles I’d arranged throughout the room have burned down to nothing but puddles of wax on the dresser and nightstand.
I pad barefoot to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is smudged, my hair a tangled mess. I look exactly like a woman who fell asleep waiting for her husband to notice her.
The romantic dinner.
God, I’d spent hours coordinating with Elena, choosing the perfect menu, setting the table with our best China.
Setting up the bedroom…and myself. I’d wanted to remind Mikhail that I’m more than just the pregnant wife who needs protecting.
That I’m still the woman he married, the one who makes his blood run hot.
But he never came.
Or did he?
I pause, my hand on the bathroom counter, as fragments of memory surface.
Strong hands on my skin.
Mikhail’s voice, rough with desire, whispering my name.
The weight of his body covering mine, the exquisite pressure as he moved inside me.
The way he held me afterward, his heart beating against my back.
Was that real?
Or just another dream born from loneliness and longing?
I press my fingers to my lips, trying to remember.
The sensations felt so vivid, so tangible.
But I’ve been having such intense dreams lately, the pregnancy hormones making everything feel heightened and surreal.
I can’t trust my own memories anymore.
The bathroom door opens and Elena enters with fresh towels, her blue eyes immediately finding mine in the mirror. “Mrs. Artyomov. You’re awake.”
“Did Mikhail come home last night?” The question comes out more desperate than I intend.
Something flickers across Elena’s face. Sympathy, maybe. Or pity. “He did, very late.”
So maybe it was real. Maybe he did make love to me. But he also missed the dinner I’d prepared, the effort I’d made to reconnect with him.
And now he’s locked himself away in his office, probably dealing with whatever crisis demands his attention today.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at my own reflection anymore. “Thank you, Elena.”
She sets down the towels and moves closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He saw the dinner, Mrs. Artyomov. I know he did. I saw him standing in the dining room doorway this morning, just staring at the table.”
The information should comfort me, but it doesn’t. He saw what I’d done for him and said nothing. Didn’t wake me to apologize or explain.
Just retreated to his office like he always does when emotions get too complicated.
After Elena leaves, I shower and dress in comfortable clothes, a loose sweater and leggings that accommodate my growing belly. The baby bump is small but undeniable. I rest my hand over it, feeling the slight swell beneath my palm.
“Your father is an idiot,” I whisper to the baby. “But I love him anyway.”
The morning drags by with excruciating slowness.
By noon, I’m climbing the walls.
The compound feels smaller every day, the beautiful rooms transforming into a gilded cage.
I need to get out.
Need to see something other than these walls and the guards who shadow my every move.
I need to see my husband.
An idea forms slowly, dangerously. Mikhail’s office. His legitimate business front downtown.
I could surprise him there, remind him that I exist outside of his carefully controlled environment.
Maybe if I show up in his world, he’ll remember why he married me in the first place.
It’s a terrible idea.
Mikhail has strict rules about me leaving the compound without proper security.
But those rules are suffocating me, and I’m tired of being treated like a fragile piece of glass.
I find Elena in the kitchen, preparing lunch. She takes one look at my face and shakes her head. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“You want to leave the compound.” She sets down the knife she’s been using to chop vegetables. “Mrs. Artyomov, please. Mr. Artyomov will be furious if you go without security.”
“Then come with me.” I lean against the counter, trying to look more confident than I feel. “We’ll take one of the cars. I just want to surprise him at his office. Thirty minutes, that’s all.”
Elena’s expression softens with understanding. She knows how isolated I’ve been, how much I’ve been struggling. “He’s trying to protect you.”
“I know. But I’m going crazy in here, Elena. I need to see him. Need to talk to him somewhere that isn’t this house where every conversation is interrupted by phone calls and emergencies.” I place my hand over my stomach. “Please. Help me do this.”
She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “The guards change shifts at two o’clock. There’s a five-minute window when the south gate is less monitored. If we’re going to do this, that’s when.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. If Mr. Artyomov finds out I helped you, he’ll have my head.”
We spend the next hour planning. Elena will drive, using one of the less conspicuous vehicles in the garage. We’ll take the back roads to avoid the main security checkpoints.
At exactly two o’clock, we slip out through the south gate.
My heart pounds as we pass through, half expecting alarms to sound or guards to chase us down.
But the gate closes behind us without incident, and suddenly we’re free.
The city feels overwhelming after weeks of isolation.
So many people, so much noise and movement.
I press my hand to the window, drinking in the sight of normal life happening all around us.
People walking dogs, couples holding hands, children playing in a park.
The world has continued spinning while I’ve been locked away.
Mikhail’s office is in a sleek high-rise downtown, the kind of building that screams legitimate business success.
His construction company occupies the entire fifteenth floor, a front that’s actually quite profitable.
He’s been working hard to build something clean, something our child can be proud of.
If only he’d let me be part of that process instead of keeping me locked away like a secret.
Elena parks in the underground garage, and she waits in the car while I take the elevator up to his floor.
My stomach flutters with nerves that have nothing to do with the baby.
But I’m tired of his rules.
Tired of being managed and protected and kept at arm’s length.
The elevator doors open onto a reception area decorated in modern minimalist style.
The receptionist looks up with a professional smile that falters slightly when she sees me.
She knows who I am.
Everyone in Mikhail’s organization knows who I am.
“Mrs. Artyomov. We weren’t expecting you.”
“I’m surprising my husband.” I keep my voice light, confident. “Is he in his office?”
“Yes, but he’s on an important call. Perhaps if you wait—”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait in his office.” I’m already moving past her desk.
The hallway to Mikhail’s private office is lined with photos of completed construction projects.
Buildings and bridges and developments that bear his company’s name.
Evidence of the legitimate empire he’s trying to build.
His office door is slightly ajar, and I hear his voice before I see him.
Deep and commanding, with an edge of frustration that makes me pause.
“I don’t care what it takes,” he’s saying. “The problem needs to be eliminated. Permanently.”
My hand freezes on the door handle.
Eliminated.
Permanently.
I step back from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is what I was afraid of.
He’s still the same man.
Still solving problems with brutality and death.
I should leave, go back to the compound and pretend I never came here.
But I can’t move, can’t tear myself away from the door and the man on the other side of it who’s planning someone’s murder while I stand here carrying his child.
My hand moves to my stomach, protective and instinctive.
What kind of father will he be if this is who he really is?
What kind of life am I bringing my baby into?
The office door swings open suddenly, and Mikhail stands there, his green eyes widening with shock when he sees me.
His phone is still pressed to his ear, and I watch as understanding dawns on his face.
He knows I heard everything.
“I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone, his gaze never leaving mine.
He ends the call and steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
We stand there, frozen, the truth hanging between us like a blade.
“Sophia.” My name is a question and a warning all at once. “What are you doing here?”