Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leah
The parent-child day arrived fast.
Outside the window, Long Island's deep autumn trees blurred past—gold and crimson leaves retreating in the wind. Inside the car, silence. Just the white noise from the AC vents and the soft rustle of Mira turning pages in her picture book.
I glanced down at my belly. Almost six months now. Even through the loose sweater, the curve showed clearly.
Earlier, standing in front of the mirror at the estate's entrance before getting in the car, I'd looked at myself for two extra seconds.
These past few days, Roman had been obsessed with my eating, watching me like a hawk at every meal.
I hadn't fought him, ate everything, focused on protein and vitamins.
All of it—preparation for today.
I wasn't going back.
The decision came easier than I expected. Quick, even.
I'd always dreamed of a complete family. Finding someone to love. Having our child.
Once, my greatest wish.
Now, I was about to destroy that dream myself.
Did I love Roman?
I'd asked myself that question a thousand times during those two days locked up.
The answer? Yes. I'd fallen for that control freak.
I could recall countless moments when I'd fallen for him. Even now, remembering them made my heart ache. Made me feel something beautiful.
But love didn't mean I could accept being caged, losing myself. And I damn sure wouldn't let my child suffer the way I had.
No.
I'd rather work odd jobs on New York streets with a six-month belly than be a pretty ornament under twenty-four-hour surveillance in that Long Island cage.
Roman Volkov, you're the worst thing that ever happened to me. And the best. But I won't let you destroy me just because you're the best.
The car stopped.
I looked up. Mira's preschool. A two-story white building with colored balloons and handmade welcome banners hanging at the entrance: "Welcome to Parent-Child Day."
Families already crowded the lawn. Laughter and children's shrieks filtered through the window.
"We're here, Mira." I looked down at the little girl in my lap.
Mira's face pressed against my side, her small hand clutching my sweater hem. Tight.
She knew.
Last night, I couldn't help it, held her, and told her everything.
Mira cried for a long time, her small body shaking in my arms. She asked why I couldn't take her with me. I said no, Daddy would come for her. She had to stay with Daddy. She asked if I'd come back. I didn't answer.
But finally, she wiped her face with her sleeve and nodded.
A four-year-old shouldn't carry this. But Volkov children stopped being normal the day they were born.
I bent down, pressed my forehead to the top of her head, and kissed her twice softly. I knew—in the days ahead, I'd miss this moment more than anything.
Wherever I ended up, Mira would always mean something different to me.
We held each other until the driver opened the door.
The two bodyguards had already gotten out, flanking the door on either side. Just two.
Before, trips meant at least four guards. Sometimes six. This time, thanks to my hunger strike bargaining, Roman only sent two.
This was my only shot.
The parent-child activities spread across the first-floor hall and outdoor lawn.
The hall had several craft stations and game areas—clay molding, face painting, and a massive inflatable castle. Kids screamed and bounced inside while parents stood nearby with paper cups of juice, snapping photos and chatting.
I led Mira through the crowd, eyes constantly scanning the layout. The main entrance where we'd entered—guards stationed there.
Left side, a door to the kitchen. But the kitchen windows looked too small. I'd never squeeze through.
Right side, end of the hallway—a green emergency exit sign. Push-bar safety door. Led to the back parking lot.
That was my way out.
I crouched at a craft table, pretending to help Mira pick colored clay.
"Mira, stick to the plan, okay?" My voice barely a whisper. Just for her.
Mira looked up at me. Her lips pressed into a line. Then she nodded quickly.
"Good girl." I touched her head.
My fingers sliding through her soft hair made my throat tighten.
Last time.
I stood and led Mira toward the craft area. Walking past the inflatable castle, Mira suddenly stopped, bent over, hand on her stomach.
"Teacher, my stomach hurts."
The young female teacher immediately crouched down. Her face changed, hands fluttering to check Mira's forehead, asking frantically, "Where does it hurt? Did you eat something bad today?"
The teacher knew exactly who Mira Volkov was. Every staff member at this preschool had been warned to give this child extra attention.
If anything happened, nobody could handle the consequences.
Mira's acting surprised me. She scrunched her face, pouted, tears pooling in her eyes. Though she cried for different reasons, right now she looked genuinely miserable.
The commotion drew attention fast. Both bodyguards turned simultaneously, striding through the crowd toward us.
The one in front half-crouched, reaching for Mira's shoulder. The other spoke into his sleeve—probably contacting the estate.
Four adults surrounding one little girl clutching her stomach.
Nobody watching me.
I let go of Mira's hand.
No goodbye. I didn't even look back, because I knew if I did, I might never leave.
While everyone focused on Mira, I turned toward the hallway. Empty. Classroom doors lined both sides. Closed. Nobody inside.
The green exit sign grew closer. My heart hammered. Blood pounded at my temples. My palms dripped sweat.
Freedom so close.
My fingers touched the cold push bar.
Then a gunshot cracked from the hall.
More shots followed—rapid, urgent. Bullets shattering glass. Metal striking walls.
Screaming erupted.
People started running.
Parents and children flooding from the hall toward me—crying, shoving, trampling. A woman holding her child fell. People stepped right over her.
I looked up, peered around the corner toward the hall.
Two men in black uniforms cutting through the space. Guns raised, movements professional, firing as they advanced.
Bodies already on the floor. Including my two bodyguards.
One face-down near the inflatable castle, two bullet holes in his back, blood soaking into the colored mats. The other on his side behind an overturned table, gun still in his hand, eyes closed.
They'd come prepared.
These men targeted us from the start. They knew Mira would be here today. Knew the bodyguard count and positions. Knew the schedule.
Not a random attack. A precision hunt.
Someone leaked today's plans.
My blood turned cold. Roman had too many enemies. I couldn't guess who sent them. But none of that mattered now.
Where was Mira?
My eyes frantically searched the hall—overturned tables and chairs, scattered paper cups and clay, blood and broken glass on the floor. That young teacher lay motionless in a corner. Unconscious or dead, couldn't tell.
Then I saw her.
Where the hallway met the hall. Mira crouched behind an overturned table, hands over her ears, curled into a ball. That bright yellow jacket screamed in the dim hall.
The two killers still searching. But their steps moved closer to Mira. Closer.
My foot already rested on the emergency door threshold. Push bar in my hand. One shove and the door would open. Outside was the parking lot. Beyond that, the street.
That road led to freedom. To a world without Roman Volkov.
My only chance. My only chance to escape this nightmare.
My new life waited on the other side of that push bar. And Mira was behind me.
Fuck freedom.
I spun around. My brain hadn't even formed a rational explanation before my legs started running. Belly out, against the fleeing crowd, charging back toward the hall.
Someone slammed my shoulder. Someone stepped on my foot. Didn't care. I only saw that small figure in bright yellow.
I lunged to Mira's side, pulled her into my arms. She weighed nothing, clinging to my neck, trembling violently.
"Don't be scared. It'll be okay." I pressed Mira's head to my chest, shielding her from everything around us.
I knew this overturned table wouldn't protect us long.
Ten more steps and those men would see us.
Shit... what now?
Panic flooded me. I scanned desperately for blind spots.
Left of the table—a wall displaying children's artwork. Following the sight line down the hall, I spotted a row of storage lockers at the end. The dimensions looked just big enough for a small child to squeeze inside.
Worth a shot.
I locked eyes on those two black figures in the hall. When they turned to search the inflatable castle area, I grabbed Mira's hand and crouched low, quickly moving toward the lockers.
I yanked a locker open. Teachers' personal storage—with ventilation holes in the back.
No time to think. I shoved Mira inside.
"Leah?" Mira huddled in the small space, fear written all over her little face.
I crouched down, cupped her face in both hands, and whispered, "Hide under the coats. Close the door. Don't come out. No matter what you hear, no matter who calls your name—unless it's Daddy or Uncle Nick's voice, absolutely do not open this door. Understand?"
Mira's lips trembled, but she nodded hard.
"Good girl."
I released her face, grabbed the teachers' coats and piled them over Mira, checking for any sign of her. Satisfied, I gently closed the locker door.
Mira was temporarily safe. But only temporarily.
Most important—we needed help. I pressed my back against the wall and quickly texted Roman.
"Mira's preschool. Gunfire. Two shooters. All bodyguards dead. Mira in first-floor storage area. Get here now."
I stuffed my phone in my sweater pocket, started crawling back. Looked up. Blood froze.
The two killers had finished searching the inflatable castle area. Moving toward the storage lockers. One's gaze swept along the wall, clearly planning to search this side.
If they opened that door, Mira was done.
I took a deep breath, grabbed the red fire box on the wall beside me, lifted the fire hammer, and smashed it down hard.
Piercing alarms instantly filled the building. Overhead sprinklers activated, cold water spraying from every direction. Within seconds, the entire hall became a blur of water.
Under cover of spray and sirens, I bolted toward my planned second route.
Before attempting escape, I'd already studied every inch of this preschool's layout.
The second route wound more than the emergency exit, took longer to reach freedom, but had multiple turns. If I ran fast enough, if luck was with me... I might lose them.
I ran with everything I had. Fastest I'd ever moved. Footsteps pounded behind me. They'd taken the bait.
Just as I'd guessed, they didn't shoot. Orders probably said take us alive. One small piece of good news.
I sprinted flat-out. Water and alarms everywhere. Hallway walls flying past in my peripheral vision.
But my body failed faster than planned.
Exhaustion hit sooner than expected. A six-month pregnant body couldn't handle this intensity. My lungs burned. Knees shook. Sharp pains shot through my lower abdomen from the violent jostling.
But I couldn't stop.
Every second I ran gave Mira another second of safety. Another second farther from those guns.
I gasped for air, but each breath brought dry, searing pain. A metallic taste rose in my throat. Blood filled my mouth—couldn't tell if I'd bitten my lip from running too hard or if my lungs were giving out.
Footsteps still chasing behind. My slowing pace meant I couldn't shake them. They'd tracked my entire escape route.
One last card to play.
I spun around, ran for the basement.
This preschool's basement had a complete security system. If I reached it, locked the door first, no amount of pounding would get through.
Soon, the door appeared ahead. I used my last bit of strength and ran frantically forward to open it. But fate didn't smile on me. The door was locked.
Someone had already taken shelter inside!
I was trapped in a dead end. Solid walls on both sides of the hallway. No windows. No turns. Nowhere to hide.
Footsteps closing in behind me.
"Had enough running?" A man's voice emerged from the water spray. Unhurried. The certainty of a hunter watching prey walk into a dead end.
"Don't bother, little lady. Game's over." Another voice chimed in.
I turned around.
Two black figures approaching fast down the hallway. One held a gun. The other carried black zip ties.
My back pressed against the cold metal door. Gasping. Shaking all over. The last of my adrenaline draining away.
They lunged. A hand grabbed my hair, yanked me off the door. I struggled, but the six-month belly left me powerless. The hand pulled harder. Hair ripped from the roots. Sharp pain shot across my scalp.
My knees hit the tile floor. Pain shot from my kneecap up through my thigh. Another hand pressed my shoulder, forced me flat. Face against the wet floor. Mouth full of the metallic taste of fire-suppression water.
Someone bent over me from behind. Cloth covered my mouth and nose. Sweet, bitter smell invaded my nostrils.
Vision blurred.
The fluorescent lights became spreading white halos. Sounds retreated. Alarms grew distant and muffled. Footsteps, voices, water droplets hitting the floor—all separated by thick cotton.
Consciousness sinking.
In my final moment of clarity, one last thought surfaced.
If I survive this.
God, I want to see him one more time.