Chapter 25
PENELOPE
Sleep came like a thief, pulling me under before I could resist. The world dissolved into black, and for the first time in weeks, the nightmares didn’t find me.
When I woke up, the first thing I felt was him.
Warmth.
The slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat pressed against my back.
Dmitri’s arms were still around me, possessive even in slumber. His body was a fortress built around mine.
I inhaled softly.
His scent—clean soap, cedar, and the faintest trace of smoke—wrapped around me. For one foolish moment, I didn’t want to move. Then reality clawed its way back in, and my skin prickled.
I shifted carefully, trying to slip away. But even half-asleep, his body reacted, tightening its hold—a reflex, protective or possessive, I couldn’t tell.
Turning within his embrace, I faced him. My breath caught.
Dmitri in sleep was a contradiction—peace carved into a man made of war.
His face, so near I could feel his breath ghost against my cheek, was a blend of everything I loved and everything I feared.
The boy I’d once known still lingered beneath the hardened lines: the soft mouth that used to smile only for me, the faint scar above his brow, a remnant of a fight he’d picked defending my honor. But the rest of him... the rest was unrecognizable.
Rugged. Sharpened by loss.
Even in repose, he looked like someone who’d survived too many winters. His lashes fanned against his cheekbones, dark against his skin, and the faint furrow between his brows never relaxed completely.
A soldier’s rest—even in sleep, he was never truly at peace.
And yet, this was the man who had humiliated me, who had tried to end my pregnancy, who had locked me away, and ultimately cast me aside for his ex-fiancée.
So why did my chest ache looking at him now?
A sharp knock shattered the stillness.
“Ma’am,” Giovanni’s deep voice rumbled through the door, gruff but respectful. “Your flight leaves in an hour. I believe you’re already dressing?”
I froze. Then carefully, I eased out of Dmitri’s arms.
His muscles tensed instinctively, but he didn’t wake. His breathing stayed even.
It startled me—he never slept this soundly.
Since our wedding, I could count on one hand the times I’d seen him rest. He’d slip into bed after I’d fallen asleep and be gone before dawn, as if the mattress burned him. But now, he lay sprawled across the sheets like a man who’d finally surrendered.
A monster shouldn’t look so human in sleep.
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Giovanni,” I called softly.
I crossed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. Cold water stung my skin as I splashed it over my face, washing away the remnants of last night—the tears, the sweat, the confusion.
My reflection stared back. Pale. Shadowed. Alive.
For weeks, I’d been existing, not living. But something in me stirred now—a sliver of steel buried beneath the exhaustion. Dmitri might have dictated my departure, but I’d decide what came next.
I slipped into a simple navy-blue gown. The fabric hugged me softly, its modest elegance deliberate—a quiet armor. Jeans and shirts belonged to the girl who’d thought love could fix broken men. This dress was for the woman walking away from him.
Forty minutes later, I was ready. My hair was tied loosely at my nape, my face bare except for the hint of defiance in my eyes.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, Dmitri hadn’t moved much. One arm lay across the space I’d vacated, his fingers curled into the sheets, as if his body remembered even in dreams that I was supposed to be there.
Something twisted inside me. Guilt? Pity? Love? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I turned away before I could find out.
The hallway was hushed, the air heavy with the scent of polished oak and expensive silence.
My heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing through the villa’s vastness.
Giovanni stood waiting near the entrance, immaculate as ever in his black suit. He straightened when he saw me, broad shoulders squared, his scar catching the morning light.
“Bags are already in the car,” he said. “Dmitri asked that I ensure you arrive safely.”
Of course he did. Even when he sent me away, he needed to control how it happened.
“Did he give any other instructions?” I asked, my voice steady, betraying none of the ache clawing inside me.
Giovanni hesitated.
His gray eyes flickered with something like sympathy before he shook his head. “Just that you’re to rest. He said you’ve had enough storms for now.”
Storms.
If only he knew how many of them had his name.
I nodded. “Let’s go.”
As Giovanni opened the door, the crisp morning air of Lake Como swept in, cool and bittersweet. Behind me, the house loomed quiet and still, every corner holding memories I wanted to forget.
I didn’t look back—but I felt his presence anyway. Even asleep, Dmitri’s hold on me lingered.
And as the car pulled away from the villa, I couldn’t help wondering—was I really leaving him?
Or was this just another way he’d found to keep me tethered?
The drive was silent.
The SUV’s engine thrummed low and steady. Lake Como’s glittering edge glided by on my right.
I didn’t speak. Giovanni didn’t either.
Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft whir of the air conditioner.
My eyes stayed fixed on the passing landscape, but my anger simmered quietly beneath the surface, coiling through my chest like smoke.
Giovanni might have been helpful, but he’d also helped lock me in that dark room.
He’d obeyed Dmitri’s every order, stood guard while I screamed behind soundproof walls, told himself it was duty. His loyalty wasn’t protection—it was a chain. One that bound all of us to Dmitri’s will.
When the SUV suddenly veered off the main road, my stomach lurched.
The lake disappeared behind a curtain of trees as Giovanni steered into a narrow gravel path, the tires crunching beneath us.
Wait—what are you doing?” I asked sharply, my voice slicing through the still air. “This route... it’s not taking us to the airport.”
He said nothing at first, his expression unreadable as the car rolled to a stop before a nondescript concrete building.
No sign, no windows on the lower floor—just steel doors and faded paint. It looked more like a safehouse than a clinic.
He turned to me finally, his scarred face set, eyes steady. “Remember those Russian doctors I mentioned?”
I blinked. “What about them?”
“I got them here,” he said, lowering his voice as if the trees could eavesdrop. “It cost me favors I can’t replace—and Dmitri can’t know. But you need to be checked. You’ve been through hell, Penelope. I had to make sure you’re strong enough to carry the baby.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked at him for a long moment, torn between gratitude and fury.
Then I nodded once, my throat tight. “I still hate you, Giovanni,” I said quietly.
The admission came out softer than I intended, but the ache behind it was real. “You helped him break me. Don’t think this fixes it.”
He didn’t flinch. Just gave a small nod, resigned. “I don’t need forgiveness,” he said simply, stepping out of the car. “Just make it out of this alive.”
Cold morning air bit at my skin as I followed him inside.
The interior was sterile and minimalist—high white ceilings, steel fixtures, and a faint antiseptic tang in the air.
A low hum filled the room from unseen machines. It felt less like a clinic and more like a secret laboratory.
Two figures waited by a table.
A woman in her late thirties with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair pulled into a strict bun, and an older man with graying temples and the calm posture of someone used to bad news.
“Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” the woman greeted warmly, her accent thick, Russian vowels softening her English. The title made my stomach twist. Mrs. Volkov. Soon it would be a name I no longer had to wear.
“Good morning,” I said, my tone polite but distant.
The older man inclined his head slightly. “I am Dr. Mikhail. This is Dr. Irina. Please, sit. We’ll start quickly—your time is limited, yes?”
I nodded and sank into a wide armchair, its plush fabric too soft for the setting.
Giovanni stayed near the door, arms folded, his broad shoulders filling the space like a silent sentry.
Dr. Irina began setting up a portable ultrasound on a metal tray, its faint beeping echoing through the room. “We’ll do a transabdominal scan to assess fetal viability,” she said, her tone efficient but gentle.
She rolled my dress slightly upward and spread cool gel over my abdomen.
The wand pressed against my skin.
The screen flickered.
And then—there it was.
A small, flickering pulse. Steady. Defiant.
“The fetus is stable,” Irina murmured, her eyes on the monitor. “Heartbeat strong—one hundred forty beats per minute.” She tilted the wand slightly, zooming in. “Subchorionic hematoma still visible, but smaller. No new bleeding.”
My breath hitched. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.
Dr. Mikhail adjusted the blood pressure cuff on my arm. It tightened with a hiss, the machine humming. “Vitals slightly elevated,” he observed. “But expected, given recent trauma and medication history.” He clipped an oximeter to my finger. “Oxygen saturation—ninety-eight percent. Good.”
Giovanni’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, his jaw tense.
“Your lungs,” Mikhail continued, picking up a small device, “still show minor constriction. Possible asthma flare-ups. Let’s test capacity.” He handed me the spirometer. “Deep breath. Blow until it stops beeping.”
I followed his instructions, exhaling hard. The device chirped twice before flashing a green light.
“Better than we hoped,” Mikhail said, jotting notes into a tablet. “Your body is resilient, Mrs. Volkov. You’ve endured much.”
Endured.
That word sat heavy in my chest.
Giovanni stepped closer, his voice rough. “What does that mean—for the baby?”
Irina met his eyes. “It means she can carry, if she rests, avoids stress, and receives proper care. Any shock—emotional or physical—could change that.”