Chapter 23
PENELOPE
Iswung my legs over the edge of the hospital bed, the cold linoleum biting into my bare feet.
A faint wheeze escaped me as I drew in a shaky breath.
Fear and shadows had nearly stolen my life.
I’d passed out, come back, slipped away again—each cycle a descent into a pit where my body betrayed me and my lungs clawed for air.
Yet, despite the ordeal, I was here. Weak, trembling slightly, but alive.
How I had survived those two days in Dmitri’s dark prison, with my body flaring and my mind fracturing, felt like a miracle I wasn’t ready to understand.
I was just about to force my body upright when the door creaked open—slow, cautious, as if the person behind it feared startling me. The doctor stepped in, his voice cutting cleanly through the haze, calm and precise.
“I came to remind you, Mrs. Volkov—be careful. The pregnancy is high-risk, and any emotional or physical stress could trigger complications. You need rest, not strain.”
Panic clenched my chest, and my fingers dug into the edge of the bed until my knuckles ached.
Had Dmitri found out? The lie Giovanni and I had spun—that I’d aborted the baby with misoprostol—had been my shield, my secret to protect the child growing inside me.
My gaze snapped to the doctor, searching for betrayal.
He met my eyes, steady and professional, and offered a small, reassuring nod. “Ma’am, Giovanni gave me strict instructions not to tell Mr. Volkov about the pregnancy. Your secret is safe.”
Relief crashed through me, my hands pressing against my chest as I exhaled sharply, the tension clawing its way out of my shoulders.
The doctor tapped a few notes into his iPad, then gave me a brief, final nod before leaving, shutting the sterile room door behind him.
I was alone again.
My eyes swept the empty space—no purse, no phone, no belongings. I’d have to navigate back to Dmitri’s mansion, that gilded cage I’d come to call home, a word that tasted like ash on my tongue.
I rose slowly, my legs wobbling beneath me, every step a reminder of the weakness still coursing through my body.
The hospital corridors stretched ahead.
As I approached the exit, Giovanni appeared, limping but steady, his scarred face drawn with exhaustion.
Rage coiled in my chest—I despised him—nearly as much as I despised Dmitri—for following orders without question, for turning the key that sealed me inside that suffocating darkness.
I walked faster, forcing my posture rigid, pretending he was nothing but a shadow.
He fell into step beside me, quiet, until we reached the hospital’s glass doors. “I’ll drive you home,” he said, voice cautious.
I froze, fists tightening at my sides.
My instinct screamed at me to refuse, to vanish, to never allow him—or Dmitri—to see me like this again. But the black SUV waiting outside—sleek, familiar, and unmistakably his—made the choice for me.
“I’m... glad you’re awake,” Giovanni said softly, almost like an apology, though the words sounded hollow. “Didn’t think I’d get the chance to say that to you again.”
I didn’t respond. I only let my eyes scan the street, the cold night pressing in, and felt the weight of the cage I hadn’t asked to return to settle around me once more.
I slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my skin.
Giovanni climbed in behind the wheel, starting the engine with quiet efficiency.
The silence between us was heavy.
Lake Como’s streets blurred past.
My mind churned, tangled in disbelief and suspicion.
Dmitri had let me go—willingly. Tomorrow, I’d be on a flight to New York, to my family. Freedom, at last.
The very thing I’d been clawing toward for months. And yet... it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like a move. A calculated concession.
But I knew better. Dmitri never lost control; he only pretended to. I was the pawn he’d advanced to bait the enemy, a disposable piece in a game I never agreed to play.
Back at the mansion, my steps felt mechanical, almost foreign, as I ascended the grand staircase to my room.
Giovanni followed silently, but I ignored him, brushing past the shadow of his presence.
I collapsed onto the bed, silk sheets cool against my fevered skin.
My body ached in every joint, muscles trembling from the strain of the last five days.
A faint buzz drew my attention—my burner phone, hidden in the nightstand, a lifeline from Alexei.
My hands shook as I picked it up, relief and exhaustion warring across my features. “Hey...” I murmured, voice hoarse.
“Hi,” Alexei’s voice came warm, a lifeline in the chaos of my world.
“So,” he said, tone sharpening, “did you do it? Did you serve the bastard?”
I laughed bitterly. “Oh, I did. He didn’t even blink—just ripped the papers apart and told me no court on earth could undo what he owns.”
“Typical Dmitri,” Alexei muttered.
I exhaled, sinking back against the pillows. “A man like Dmitri doesn’t accept anything quietly.”
“You did your part by serving him,” Alexei said, his voice shifting to a calm, precise authority.
“That’s all the court requires for now. I’ll have my team draft a new petition for dissolution and deliver it to his counsel.
He’ll be compelled to appear in court, but you only need to sign the final documents.
The rest—jurisdiction, affidavits, filings—my team handles it. He can’t dodge this forever.”
I pressed the phone to my ear, heart still racing, half in hope, half in dread.
“Okay,” I whispered, my voice fragile, barely threading through the darkness of my room. “I’m traveling tomorrow. Maybe—if I come back—I’ll sign the papers.”
“Hold on.” Alexei’s tone sharpened, cutting through my haze. “You’re traveling?” Surprise and alarm tangled in his words.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “He said I need a break. Time with my family.”
“Dmitri Volkov doesn’t give breaks, Penelope. He sets traps.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I’ll still go. Even pawns can move off the board.”
A pause. Heavy. Calculated. “I think I know why he’s letting you go,” Alexei said finally, and my heart stuttered against my ribs.
“Why?” My voice was small, hesitant, yet curiosity pried me upright, the bed suddenly too soft.
“His ex-fiancée—Seraphina—is back,” he said, flat, as if stating a fact that should have already been obvious. “He’s letting you go so he can marry her. If he doesn’t, he risks losing everything—his empire, Lake Como’s support, his power.”
My throat closed.
“He can’t keep both of you, not when the board and the families are watching. You’re the sin he has to erase to save his crown.”
The words landed in my chest like a hammer, each blow sharp and undeniable.
I clutched the phone, knuckles whitening, breath caught.
“Seraphina... his ex-fiancée?” I whispered, the syllables tasting like ash.
“Yeah,” Alexei confirmed, calm, unflinching.
I felt something snap inside me—a fissure of disbelief and fury.
Every promise Dmitri had made, every vow of obsession, every declaration that his heart belonged solely to me... all lies. Twisted, meticulous lies.
And Giovanni—oh God, Giovanni—had shielded me from the truth, lied for him, preserved the illusion. His loyalty had been a lie, a tool to control me, to manipulate me like a chess piece.
“Why exile me before ending it?” I asked, my voice trembling, the room spinning with the weight of betrayal. “If he wants freedom, he could have it with a signature. So why this spectacle? Why pretend mercy when it’s just another punishment?”
Alexei’s voice sharpened. “Because divorcing you while you’re under his roof would make him look heartless. But sending you away first? That’s strategy. He gets to play the grieving husband—‘she left me, she needed space.’ He stays clean. You become the ghost.”
The call ended before I realized I’d moved.
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the mattress with a dull thud.
The room tilted, blurred at the edges, my breath catching somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
My chest felt hollow—split open, raw—like his words had carved something vital out of me. He was replacing me. Rewriting me out of his story. And I was the ghost left behind.
I clenched my fist so tightly the skin of my palm burned, fingernails biting through.
Pain radiated outward—not from my asthma, though my lungs still screamed with every breath—but from the raw, relentless heartbreak: knowing that the man who had imprisoned me, tormented me, who had been my obsession and my ruin, had done this all along.
The cruelty was surgical.
The man I had loved, feared, and endured had mapped every move, manipulated every lie, and sent his loyal shadow, Giovanni, to enforce it.
Men who killed without conscience, men who lied as easily as they breathed—and I had been so foolish, so painfully naive, to trust either of them.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, feeling the dull, spreading ache beneath my ribs.
I hated him—God, I should’ve hated him—but love doesn’t die cleanly. It rots, clings, refuses to let go even when it poisons you.
Despite everything—his cruelty, his betrayal, that pitch-black room where I’d gasped for breath and begged for air—I still loved him. And worse than that, I carried his child.
A secret. A heartbeat he didn’t know existed.
Would he have locked me away if he’d known?
Would he have spared me if he realized he’d almost killed his own child? I doubted it. Dmitri’s hatred ran too deep, carved from wounds my family had created. I was his punishment and his obsession—his revenge wrapped in love.
A dark spark flared inside me.
I could hurt him before I left.
Twist the knife the way he’d twisted me.
He was obsessed with control—with the idea of owning me, body and soul. The thought of me with another man, especially one of his brothers, would drive him to madness. I could end him from the inside out with a single act.
The phone gleamed under the low lamplight, Alexei’s name burning on the screen. My thumb lingered above it, suspended between impulse and restraint.
The temptation was intoxicating—one call, one reckless night, and Dmitri Volkov would burn.
But I froze. The rational part of me clawed through the fury. If I acted now, I’d lose everything. He’d find out. He always did. And then freedom—so close I could almost taste it—would vanish.
Not yet. Not until I was gone.
A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by Giovanni’s calm voice. “Dinner’s ready, ma’am.”
I didn’t answer.
My body stayed rigid against the mattress, every muscle locked.
Hunger gnawed at me—I hadn’t eaten properly in days—but anger was stronger. It filled me, sustained me, burned hotter than any hunger or pain.
Giovanni lingered for a moment, maybe expecting a word, maybe waiting for me to break. I didn’t. I kept still, until his footsteps retreated down the hall.
I stared at the ceiling, the shadows shifting above me like ghosts, each tick of the clock dragging me closer to dawn. Closer to the flight. Closer to freedom.
Still, a part of me prayed Dmitri wouldn’t change his mind.
Because if he did—
I wasn’t sure if I’d have the strength to leave.
Another creak echoed through the room, heavier this time, and Dmitri stepped in.
A dark stain marred the bandage on his arm—the wound I’d inflicted—and still, he moved with a predator’s confidence, every step precise.
I turned my head, refusing to meet his gaze.
I would not acknowledge the power he still held over me.
He had taken his revenge, buried me in that darkness, and now stood before me—unrepentant, unbroken—a living echo of every nightmare he’d forced me to survive.
“Penelope,” he said, voice low, almost smooth. Gentle, like honey laced with steel. “You’re still healing, and you think you can outrun exhaustion? You’ll eat something. You’ll rest. I won’t let you set foot on that plane starving.”
I stayed rigid, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the wall.
My silence was a weapon, a fragile shield against the pull of him.
I could feel him studying me, every inch of me, calculating, weighing.