Charlotte
The smile on my face is definitely satiated contentment. It’s new to me, and I like it.
I know he doesn’t mean what he says, about me being his. I know this is all just a contract and the het of the moment stuff. I keep reminding myself so I can try and keep some kind of grasp on my heart.
This isn’t love. I remind myself. It’s sex with the purpose of getting me pregnant and fulfilling the needs of the contract. The rest is irrelevant to me.
So if my heart could stop beating out of time whenever I think of Vitali, that would be great.
He pulls out of me and I tilt my hips up to try and keep as much of his cum inside me as possible. I place my hand over my aching entrance and sit for a moment, watching him as he redresses. The darkness in his eyes when he looks at me hasn’t subsided.
“I’ll have the housekeeper get you some more clothes and things, whatever you need, make a list.”
He is dismissing me. I can tell in the flat tone he is using. I try not to let it bother me.
“Vitamins,” I say and he nods before looking around the room.
Silence falls over us, and I expect it to turn awkward, but it doesn’t. Never the less, I can’t stay perched on his desk all day so I lower one foot to the ground tentatively.
“Are you in pain?” he asks, watching me carefully.
“No so much, just seems silly to let it leak out of me.”
His eyes flash with something dangerous that I can’t quite place.
“Rest today, Charlotte. We will work on your Russian later…” he helps me to standing and pauses, holding me there but not looking at me. “When you’re dressed.”
“And the other thing,” I say as I begin to walk from the office on shaky legs.
He looks at me, raising an eyebrow quizzically.
“We have four days left in my ovulation window. So you need to be read to go again by tonight.”
He clenches his jaw at my words. I’m not sure if my demand is pissing him off, or if he is trying to hold himself in check. But a deal is a deal. Besides, if I’d have known how amazing sex is, I wouldn’t have waited so long to have it.
I’m lying on the bed practicing my Russian when I hear the familiar click of of her shoes.
Janine French. Head Housekeeper. Judge, jury, and executioner of staff morale.
It’s like a warning and I’m just about to spring up off the bed when I remember that I don’t work for her anymore.
She doesn’t knock when she comes in carrying a stack of folded clothing and a small basket with vitamin bottles and fancy soaps and several pregnancy tests. Supplies for the Pakhan’s new niece-in-law… though the look on her face suggests she’s delivering poison.
“Thank you,” I say with a polite smile, holding out my hands to receive the basket from her.
She stops in front of me, eyes sweeping over my bare legs, then up again with slow disdain.
“Mrs. Dubovich,” she says, the title hitting my skin like frostbite. “I see you’ve settled into your new position quickly.”
My cheeks burn. I lift my chin anyway.
She doesn’t hand them over.
Instead, she leans in, voice low and cutting. “I’ve seen plenty like you. Whores who think flashing their cunts will buy them a better life.”
The word hits like a slap. Whores are disposable. Forgettable. Replaceable.
I am trying not to be any of those. But I suppose she is right. Once I’ve had his baby and it’s weaned, I’ll be gone.
“I didn’t flash anything,” I say, voice shaking. “I married him.”
Her nostrils flare. She steps closer, so close I can smell stale coffee on her breath.
“Do not presume you belong here,” she hisses. “Women like you get used. And then they disappear.”
My stomach twists. Fear, shame, rage, everything at once.
But I remember last night. His hands. His voice.
The way he held me afterward like he didn’t want to let me go.
Then this morning in his office. He said I was his, whether he meant it or it was just the sex talking… it must mean something on some level.
I straighten my shoulders. “I belong here for the next fifteen months,” I whisper. “Whatever you think of me.”
Her lips curl. “Then you’ll be out on your hind and all spent up.”
I snatch the basket from her hands, and it knocks her off balance just enough that something ugly flashes in her eyes.
She opens her mouth to spit more venom—
“Don’t speak.” Vitali’s voice snaps through the room like a bullet.
Mrs. French stiffens. We both turn. He stands at the door, suit immaculate, eyes ice-cold and lethal. He heard everything.
He takes one step forward.
“Apologize,” he says.
The housekeeper swallows. “Mr. Dubovich, she—”
“Apologize,” he repeats, voice quieter. More dangerous.
Her gaze flicks to me, her hatred boiling. “I’m sorry,” she lies.
“For?” he asks.
Her throat bobs. “For… speaking out of turn.”
“That wasn’t an apology,” he says. “That was cowardice.”
His silence afterward is worse than yelling. It’s judgement. Sentencing.
“You’re done here,” Vitali says. “Collect your things and leave the estate within the hour.”
Her face drains of all color. “But… Mr Dubovich, Yury Dubovich, hired me. You can’t—”
“This is my wing,” he says. “My wife. My rules.”
Wife. That word wraps around me tight and warm and terrifying.
“If you need to dispute this decision,” he adds, “feel free to take it up with my uncle.”
Mrs. French looks at me one last time. Her scowl is a promise that she’ll remember this. Then marches away, spine rigid with fury.
The moment she’s gone, I let out a long, slow breath. My knees wobble briefly before I shake the feeling off.
Vitali is at my side instantly, fingers curling around my elbow, steadying me.
“You should have called me,” he says, voice still loaded with steel.
“I was handling it,” I whisper.
He looks down at me, eyes flicking over the oversized shirt, bare legs, the flush still high in my cheeks, and the predator in him softens.
“You were,” he agrees. “But no one speaks like that to my wife. To the mother of my heir. However it came about, however it ends, you deserve absolute respect.”
Heat surges up my throat. Mother of my heir.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, thumb brushing my cheek. “Don’t believe a single word she said.”
I nod. Because if I speak, I’ll shake.
He takes the basket from my hands and nudges me gently toward the bed.
“Rest,” he murmurs. “I’ll handle the rest.”
I start to obey. But I turn back and catch his sleeve.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
His gaze darkens, not with violence this time. With something worse. Something that makes my pulse leap.
“You don’t need to thank me for protecting what’s mine.” He turns away, jaw locked, fist clenched. A storm headed straight for someone else.