Chapter Seventeen - Janice
The silence in the car is suffocating.
I stare out the window, watching Westchester blur into highway, highway into city, the lights of Manhattan growing brighter as we get closer to the prison Dimitri calls home. My hands are clenched so tight in my lap that my nails dig crescents into my palms.
I’ve never been this angry in my life.
The humiliation burns through me in waves—the way every conversation died when Dimitri grabbed my old colleague. The shock on people’s faces. The whispers that followed as he dragged me out like I was a misbehaving child instead of a grown woman.
Most of all, the casual violence in his voice when he’d said mine. Like I’m a possession. A thing he owns.
I wait until we’re in the elevator, doors closed, before I finally speak. “You had no right.”
Dimitri doesn’t look at me. Just watches the floor numbers climb. “I had every right.”
“He was my friend!”
“You don’t have friends anymore.”
The words land like a slap. “Excuse me?”
“Friends are liabilities. People who can be used against you, against me, against the family. You don’t get to maintain those connections.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m completely serious.” He turns to face me finally, expression carved from stone. “You’re a Bratva wife now. That means certain sacrifices. Friendships outside the family are one of them.”
“That’s insane. You can’t just… you don’t get to dictate who I talk to, who I see.”
“Yes, I do. That’s exactly what I get to do.”
The elevator doors open. I storm out ahead of him, needing distance, needing space to process the rage coursing through me.
Dimitri follows at a measured pace, maddeningly calm while I’m practically vibrating with fury.
“You humiliated me,” I snap, whirling to face him once we’re inside the penthouse. “In front of everyone. Made me look like I can’t handle a simple conversation without you intervening like some jealous asshole.”
“I am an asshole.” He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over a chair with careful precision. “I thought you understood that by now.”
“Understanding it and accepting it are two different things!”
“Then don’t accept it. Be angry. Hate me for it.
” He loosens his tie, watching me with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing.
“You have to understand that it won’t change anything.
You’re mine, Janice. I don’t share. Not your time, not your attention, not your smiles or your touch or your friendship. Nothing.”
“That’s not love.”
“I never claimed to love you.”
The blunt honesty stings more than it should. I knew that—have known from the beginning that this marriage is strategy and revenge and possession, nothing softer.
Hearing it stated so plainly still hurts.
“Then what is this?” I demand. “If it’s not love, if it’s just ownership, then what am I to you?”
Dimitri crosses the space between us slowly, predatory grace in every movement. I hold my ground, even though everything in me screams to retreat.
“You’re the woman who tried to destroy me and I still couldn’t let go.
You’re the challenge I can’t resist, the weakness I refuse to eliminate, the one thing I want more than I want control.
” He stops inches away, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.
“You’re my wife. My problem. My obsession.
Yes, my possession. Whether you like it or not. ”
“Disgusting.”
I want to pull away. Want to slap his hand aside and storm off to the guest room I haven’t used in days.
Instead, I stand there, caught between fury and want and the terrible recognition that part of me likes being claimed this way. Likes the possessive violence, the certainty, the absolute focus of his attention.
I’m so broken.
“I need space,” I say finally. “Tonight. I need to be alone.”
Something flickers across his expression. Disappointment, maybe. Or understanding.
“Fine. The guest room is still yours if you want it.” He steps back, releasing me. “But, Janice? This conversation isn’t over. Tomorrow, we’re discussing boundaries. Real ones. Not the ones you think you deserve, but the ones you’ll actually get.”
The threat is clear. Tomorrow, he’ll outline exactly how constrained my life is about to become.
Tomorrow, I’ll understand the full scope of this cage.
I retreat to the guest suite without another word, closing the door and locking it even though I know it’s pointless. Dimitri has keys to everything. The lock is an illusion, just like my freedom, just like everything about this marriage.
***
I strip out of the beautiful dress that feels tainted now, remembering how his eyes had heated when he first saw me in it. How I’d felt powerful, desired, wanted.
Before he reminded me that want comes with a price I didn’t agree to pay.
I’m pulling on my pajamas—expensive silk, because everything in this penthouse is expensive—when I notice my purse on the dresser. I don’t remember bringing it in here, but the events of the evening are a blur of fury and humiliation.
When I open it up, I see the usual: my keys, a little makeup bag, and a mirror. Except there’s something else.
A cell phone.
The phone is small, basic, the kind you can buy at any convenience store with cash. It sits on top of my wallet, impossible to miss, clearly placed there deliberately.
My heart rate spikes.
I didn’t put this here.
Someone else did. Someone who had access to my purse tonight, at the event, while I was distracted by Elena’s barbs and Dimitri’s possessive violence.
There’s a folded note underneath.
I unfold it with shaking hands.
You’re in a position to help us. We can help you. If you want freedom from the man who caged you, text this number. We have information that could destroy him. All we need is someone inside. Someone he trusts.
Think about it, but don’t think too long.
I don’t know who put this here, but there’s the promise of alliance from someone who knows enough to be dangerous.
An enemy of Dimitri’s.
Someone who sees me as leverage, just like the Volkovs did.
The smart thing would be to take this directly to Dimitri. Show him the phone, the note, prove my loyalty, and let him handle the threat.
That’s what a good Bratva wife would do.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, weighing options, calculating risks.
Then I power it on.
There’s one unread message, from a number I don’t recognize.
We know what he did to you. How he forced this marriage. How he’s isolating you from everyone who cares about you. You don’t have to accept this. We can give you a way out, and we can make him pay for what he’s done.
My hands are shaking now, adrenaline and fear and something darker flooding through me.
This is a trap. Has to be a trap. Either from Dimitri, testing my loyalty, or from enemies who want to use me exactly the way the message suggests.
Either way, responding is dangerous.
I type out a response before I can talk myself out of it.
Who is this?
The reply comes within seconds.
Someone who knows what the Bratva really is. What Dimitri Rudenko really is. Someone who wants to see him answer for his crimes. Are you willing to help? Or are you content being his captive?
Captive.
The word echoes everything I’ve been feeling since that night he saved me from the Volkovs. Gratitude and resentment, desire and fury, all tangled together into something I can’t separate.
I’m married to a monster who thinks ownership is the same as protection.
Who just told me I don’t get friends, don’t get autonomy, don’t get anything except what he permits.
Who looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters while simultaneously treating me like property he’s acquired.
I should delete these messages. Destroy the phone. Forget this ever happened.
Instead, I type: What do you want from me?
The response is immediate.
Information and access. Proof of his illegal operations that can stand up in court. Things only someone inside could provide. In exchange, we give you protection. A way out. Freedom.
The word tastes like a lie even as I read it.
There’s no freedom from Dimitri Rudenko. The Volkovs proved that—I wasn’t even married to him yet, and their attempt to take me ended with bodies on the pavement and me more trapped than ever.
Still.
Information doesn’t require commitment. Gathering proof doesn’t mean I have to use it.
Having options—real options, beyond the ones Dimitri deigns to give me—that feels like power I desperately need.
I’ll think about it, I type.
Don’t think too long. The walls close in fast in that world. Once you’re completely isolated, we won’t be able to reach you again.
The message feels like a countdown. A ticking clock on whatever autonomy I have left.
I power the phone off, hide it in the back of the closet behind clothes I’ll probably never wear, and climb into bed with my pulse still racing.
This is dangerous. Potentially suicidal.
Dimitri would kill me if he found out. Or worse—would look at me with that particular disappointment that cuts deeper than anger.
He doesn’t get to make every decision. Doesn’t get to control every aspect of my life just because he forced me into marriage.
***
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
I lie in the dark, replaying the evening over and over. Elena’s barbs that I’d deflected with surprising success. The respect I’d seen in people’s eyes when I stood my ground. The way Dimitri had looked at me—pride mixing with possessiveness in ways that made my stomach flutter despite everything.
Dimitri’s violence wasn’t physical. He didn’t lash out, didn’t even threaten him beyond the implicit danger of his presence. Just made it abundantly clear that touching me came with consequences nobody could afford.
The whole room had watched. Had seen Dimitri Rudenko lose his carefully maintained control over something as simple as a hug.
Had seen exactly how possessive he is. How dangerous.
It should have terrified me.
Instead, some twisted part of me had felt… seen. Claimed. Important enough to provoke that kind of reaction.
Around 2:00 a.m., I hear footsteps in the hallway. They pause outside my door—I can see the shadow in the gap underneath, blocking the light.
Dimitri, checking on me.
Or maybe just reminding me he’s there. That locked doors don’t actually keep him out if he decides he wants in.
The shadow lingers for a long moment, then retreats.
I exhale slowly, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.
Part of me wanted him to come in. To push past the lock and the anger and the boundaries I’m trying to maintain. To remind me how easily he breaks down my defenses when he wants to.
Part of me is relieved he didn’t.
That he’s giving me the space I asked for, even though we both know it’s temporary.
Tomorrow, we’ll fight. Tomorrow, he’ll outline his rules and I’ll resist and we’ll clash the way we always do.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to decide if I’m actually going to work with whoever left that phone, or if it was a moment of fury-driven stupidity I need to walk back from immediately.