Chapter 10
PENELOPE
Istood frozen for a moment, his words circling me like ghosts.
Then the weight of it—of everything—crushed me. My legs gave way, and I collapsed onto the chaise, pressing a shaking hand over my stomach.
The thrill from the race, the flicker of hope his talk of the restaurant had sparked—it all dissolved, leaving only the cold echo of his command.
He thinks he can end this—end my child—tomorrow? Not a chance.
Panic roared hotter than pain. In his world I’m tiny; my protest doesn’t even make a sound. Still, I pressed my palms to my belly, as if my hands alone could shield it.
Hot tears spilled over, falling onto my trembling hands.
And then, almost in a trance, I got up. My body moved on instinct, numb and hollow, until I reached the bathroom.
The marble floor was cold under my bare feet. I turned on the shower, the sound of rushing water filling the silence.
When I stepped under it, the warmth hit me—and I broke.
The sobs tore out of me, raw and unrestrained.
I pressed my forehead against the tiles, water mixing with tears until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
For the first time since marrying Dmitri, I let myself grieve—not just for the child I might lose, but for the woman I used to be before him.
The one who still believed in choice, in love, in life that belonged to her.
THAT NIGHT, SLEEP WAS a war I couldn’t win.
Every time I closed my eyes, the nightmare found me again—unrelenting, merciless.
Uncle Rocco’s laughter, Uncle Carlo’s breath hot against my skin, their hands dragging into the dark. And behind them, always, that third figure—taller, broader, faceless yet familiar. I never saw his face, but every time... I swore the shape of him felt like my father.
The betrayal in his presence gutted me anew every time, as if I were reliving the moment my childhood died.
I tried to chase the images away—to think of the race, the wind, the neon blur of freedom—but the nightmare was greedy. It clung to me, burrowed deep, until I woke gasping, tangled in silk sheets that felt like restraints.
The room was dark, quiet except for the steady thud of my pulse in my ears. I turned on my side, staring at the faint outline of the curtains billowing in the night breeze.
My mind was still trapped somewhere between sleep and memory—Rocco’s laughter fading into the whisper of wind against the glass.
And then—warmth.
A shift on the mattress. The faint scent of cedarwood and smoke—familiar, male, grounding. My body went rigid before my mind caught up.
“Dmitri?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there on the edge of the bed, his silhouette broad and immovable against the moonlight spilling in through the balcony doors.
My heart stuttered. “What are you doing here?”
His voice, when it came, was low—roughened by something I couldn’t name. “I heard you screaming again. Was it the nightmare?”
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath.
My voice came out smaller than I intended. “It was nothing,” I whispered, dragging the blanket higher. “Just a dream. It’s over.”
My voice wavered on the last word, betraying the lie.
The air between us thickened.
He didn’t move to touch me, but his presence was suffocating—too close, too real. My hands fisted in the sheets as I tried to gather myself, to build walls where none existed.
“I don’t need your pity,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said. “Because that’s not what this is.”
The mattress dipped as he moved closer.
His warmth pressed against my back, his breath a whisper against my neck. “You’re not built for silence, Penelope. Every time you say you’re fine, you sound like you’re breaking.”
“I’m not breaking.”
He didn’t answer—just let his hand rest on my waist. The weight of it was grounding and suffocating all at once.
“Don’t,” I breathed, the word barely making it out.
“Why?” His voice was steady, but there was something dangerous underneath it. “You don’t want me to touch you, but you don’t move away either.”
I swallowed hard. “You don’t want to touch me. You just want to remind me you can.”
That earned a quiet laugh, low and humorless. “You still think everything I do is about control?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” he said after a pause, his tone shifting—rougher. “Sometimes I touch you because it’s the only thing that reminds me you’re still here.”
The admission knocked the breath from my chest.
For a moment, I almost turned to look at him. Almost.
But then his fingers tightened slightly on my hip. “You used to reach for me,” he said, voice low. “Now you flinch.”
“Because you hurt me,” I whispered. “You made me afraid to want you.”
He exhaled slowly, his breath fanning across my neck—a warm caress that sent tendrils of heat curling through me, pooling low in my belly.
“Then hate me all you want,” he murmured, “but don’t pretend you don’t still feel this.”
The air between us thickened—part anger, part ache.
I wanted to push him away. But instead, I stayed still, every nerve pulled taut between memory and need.
“Dmitri...” I said finally, my voice barely there. “Let go.”
Instead, he moved closer.
The closeness was electric, his body a furnace against mine, awakening a longing I hated to acknowledge.
My thighs clenched instinctively as I felt him harden, his arousal pressing insistently against me, a slow, deliberate poke that set my nerves alight.
Images flooded my mind—unbidden, vivid—of our first and only sex, his hands tearing my clothes away, his mouth devouring me with a ferocity that left me trembling, his hips thrusting with a rhythm that claimed every inch of me.
My body betrayed me, a rush of wetness between my legs as the nightmare’s grip loosened, replaced by a pulsing desire I couldn’t ignore.
“Tell me to stop,” His voice pulled me from the haze, grounding me in the present. “Say the word, Penelope.”
I didn’t answer, afraid my body’s reaction would give me away.
He drew in a slow breath, his chest rising against my back. “You can’t, can you?”
My throat tightened.
I needed to break it—the pull, the heat, the invisible chain that always seemed to draw me back to him.
“Is Giovanni out?” I asked, my voice cutting through the tension.
His hand on my waist stilled. The warmth of his body retreated an inch, then another, as if I’d just thrown cold water over the moment.
He exhaled once, slow and heavy, before sitting up. The mattress dipped, then creaked as his weight shifted away from me.
“Good night, Penelope,” he said—quiet, but edged with ice.
A door clicked softly behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
My chest caved, a hollow ache blooming where his warmth had been.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted him to stay—not to touch me, not even to speak—just to be there. His presence had quieted the noise in my head, if only for a moment.
But the second I mentioned Giovanni, something in him shifted, and now the room felt colder, emptier, like I’d just driven him away for good.
I hated that his absence hurt. Hated that I’d grown used to measuring my peace by his nearness. To him, I was a possession—kept, watched, sometimes wanted. Never loved.
The tiny flicker of hope I’d been guarding—the childish dream that maybe, beneath all the anger, the boy who once loved me still existed—snuffed out completely.
All that was left was the silence, and the truth I kept refusing to face: his hatred wasn’t a phase. It was forever.
I sat up, the darkness pressing in, my thoughts circling like vultures.
The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, alive, breathing down my neck. Minutes bled into hours, the ache in my chest spreading until it felt like my whole body was made of pain.
My back throbbed from sitting too long, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t dare.
Eventually, I lay down, praying exhaustion would take mercy on me. But the moment my eyes closed, the nightmare found me again —only this time, it was different.
The room reeked of antiseptic and despair.
White walls. White sheets. White light so bright it burned my eyes.
Somewhere, metal clattered—cold instruments being arranged on a tray. A woman in a surgical mask leaned over me, her eyes flat, indifferent. “We’ll begin now,” she said, her voice muffled and hollow, as if she were speaking underwater.
I tried to move, but my wrists were strapped down. Panic clawed up my throat. “No—wait—please don’t—”
No one listened.
Through the haze, I saw him standing in the corner. Dmitri. His face was unreadable, shadowed. But when I called his name, he didn’t move. He just watched.
The doctor’s hand pressed against my stomach, cold and clinical. A machine hummed to life. My scream broke from me before the pain even started—a raw, animal sound that tore the air apart.
Blood. There was blood everywhere—hot, red, endless.
And through it all, I heard a heartbeat fade... and then vanish.
“No,” I sobbed, thrashing against the straps. “Please, not my baby—please—”
The doctor’s face shifted suddenly. It wasn’t her anymore—it was my father. His smirk, cruel and knowing. “It’s over.”
Then Dmitri turned his back.
He walked away.
And as the room filled with silence, the heart monitor flatlined—a single, endless tone that shattered something inside me.
My body jolted upright, drenched in sweat, a strangled sound clawing its way out of my throat. I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, trying to calm my heart, but it only beat faster, as if it too wanted to escape.
It felt too real. Too vivid. Was that a dream—or a warning? Is that what tomorrow will be?
I couldn’t stay here. Not in this bed. Not in this room that still smelled faintly of him.
Throwing off the covers, I slipped out of bed.
The marble floor was ice beneath my feet, the kind of cold that burned.
The mansion slept around me, vast and silent, its beauty suffocating. Each step I took down the corridor echoed too loudly, a reminder that I was a prisoner in silk sheets and diamond chains.
I wandered without direction—past the grand foyer where the chandelier glimmered like a cage of light, past the library where unread books gathered dust like gravestones. The air grew thinner as I climbed the stairs to the terrace, until the night opened around me, vast and cruelly indifferent.
Stars hung above like distant gods, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe. The cold wind bit my skin, but it was real—untainted, unlike the air in that house.
I gripped the iron railing, my fingers trembling.
Dmitri’s hatred wasn’t loud anymore—it was quiet, methodical, patient. A blade wrapped in silk. I’d seen it in his eyes when he said he would “terminate my pregnancy.”
He could make it happen without ever lifting a hand.
He wouldn’t even need to raise his voice.
The image from my nightmare flashed again—restraints, the mechanical hum, the helplessness. And I realized it wasn’t just fear. It was a warning.
My hand drifted to my stomach, protectively, instinctively.
There was barely anything there yet, but the thought of losing it—losing them—felt like losing the only pure thing left in me. The only piece of myself untouched by his control.
I couldn’t let him take that. Not this.
Beneath the stars, I made myself a promise: if it came down to him or this child, I would choose the child. Always.
A gust of wind tore through the terrace, whipping my hair into my face, and with it came another thought—dangerous, impossible to ignore.
Alexei.
Dmitri’s brother. The one man who might hate him enough to help me.
I still had his card—hidden in the lining of my purse, untouched, waiting. Alexei could help me disappear, even make the divorce happen quietly. But nothing came free from a man like him.
I know this isn’t just about dethroning Dmitri—there’s something deeper at play.
As I stood there under that indifferent sky, my hand on my stomach, I realized it didn’t matter. Whatever his price was—it couldn’t be worse than what staying would cost me.