Chapter 22 Naomi
NAOMI
The train rattles beneath me, its steady rhythm echoing the beat of my pulse as I stare at my reflection in the scratched window.
Naomi Carter no longer exists. Not here.
Not now. With Charlotte's help, I've become someone else who can vanish into the folds of Chicago's underground, invisible to Daniil's men and the Bratva.
The fake ID tucked into my wallet bears a name I don’t recognize, but I repeat it in my head until it feels real.
Sarah Mitchell. Sarah Mitchell. Sarah Mitchell.
The syllables are foreign on my tongue, like speaking a language I learned in childhood but forgot.
The plan is simple: disappear and hide until I figure out what to do.
But the simplicity of it feels like a lie.
I am not just running from Daniil, I am running from myself.
The train car smells of stale coffee and sweat.
A businessman across the aisle taps furiously on his phone while a woman with grocery bags dozes against the window.
Normal people living normal lives. I forgot what it feels like to exist without constantly checking over your shoulder and memorizing every exit in every room.
The conductor's voice crackles over the intercom, announcing the next stop.
The one that will take me deeper into a life I never chose.
I gather my bag. Everything I needed fit into the canvas messenger bag Charlotte gave me.
Inside there are three changes of clothes, a toothbrush, the fake ID, Charlotte’s old laptop, and enough cash to last a few weeks if I'm careful.
The wedding ring Daniil placed on my finger gleams in the fluorescent light.
I should throw it away, sell it, or do anything but wear it.
Instead, I twist it around my finger, a nervous habit I've developed over the past few days.
The city hums with noise above me, neon lights bleeding through grates as I slip down another alley.
Steam rises from manholes, creating ghostly shapes in the evening air.
The smell of grease from a nearby diner mingles with exhaust fumes, making my stomach turn.
I press my hand to my mouth, swallowing hard.
These waves of nausea come without warning, proof of the secret growing inside me.
I feel like a ghost sliding through the shadows, careful not to leave a trace.
Event planners know everyone, and Charlotte is no exception.
Hotel managers, venue owners, and even drivers who always know the quickest ways through the city.
She handed me names and numbers, introductions that buy me safety for now. And I cling to them like lifelines.
“Leave your phone behind,” she told me, pressing a new one into my palm. “I’ll set up a forwarding line. Anyone who calls your number will still reach you. To them, nothing has changed. But Daniil’s people will be chasing a ghost. The phone they trace won’t move. It’ll sit here like a decoy.”
Then she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a scuffed but functional laptop.
The silver casing was dented at one corner, and the stickers were half-peeled from the lid.
“Take this too,” she said, sliding it toward me.
“It’s old, but it works. Fresh user account, no history, no ties back to you.
If you need to answer work emails, search, or anything, use this instead of your own.
Daniil’s people will be watching for movement on your accounts. ”
“You thought of everything,” I murmured, blinking at her.
Charlotte shrugged lightly, but her eyes gleamed. “If you think working with high-profile clients doesn’t teach you how to stay one step ahead, then you don’t know me at all.”
Daniil’s men will try to follow me. They’ll dig and chase, but all they’ll find is silence until I choose to surface again.
The first contact was Marcus, who runs a small motel on the south side.
No questions asked, cash only, weekly rates.
The second was Elena, a waitress at a 24-hour diner who lets me sit in the corner booth for hours nursing a single cup of coffee.
The third was Joey, a cab driver who knows which routes avoid the main streets, and who doesn’t look too closely at his passengers’ faces.
But even as I blend into this makeshift sanctuary, I cannot silence what gnaws at me.
The memory of Daniil’s touch lingers, cruel and intoxicating.
The way his fingers traced my jawline before he kissed me.
The heat of his body against mine in those moments when his mask slipped away.
The sound of his voice, the way he says my name, it all threads itself through my mind when I least expect it.
I hate that I miss it. I hate that in the quiet moments between running and hiding, I find myself wondering what he's doing.
Whether he's looking for me, angry, worried, or relieved that I'm gone.
And beneath it all, there is a fluttering inside me with quiet insistence. The tiny heartbeat that is not mine.
A homeless man shuffles past, pushing a shopping cart loaded with plastic bags and blankets.
He doesn't look at me, lost in his own survival.
A pharmacy sign flickers ahead, its green glow cutting through the drizzle.
The rain started again, the third time today.
My jacket isn't waterproof, and dampness seeps through to my skin.
My legs feel heavy as I push the door open, the warmth inside wrapping around me with sterile familiarity.
The pharmacy is brighter than the street, all white tiles and fluorescent lighting.
Shelves of vitamins and pain relievers stretch toward the back, where a small consultation window sits behind the main counter.
A few customers browse the aisles. An elderly woman is comparing prices on arthritis cream, a young mother with a fussy toddler in her cart, and two teenagers browsing the candy aisle. Normal people with normal lives.
I pull the small plastic packet of pills from my pocket, my fingers trembling. The pharmacist, a middle-aged man with glasses perched low on his nose, takes them from me with a polite smile that fades as he examines the blister pack.
His brow furrows as he holds the package up to the light, examining the individual pills. He opens a reference book, flipping through pages of small print and pharmaceutical codes. The minutes feel like hours while I stand there, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“These aren't active,” he states at last, his tone firm. “These are blanks. No hormones, nothing. They wouldn't prevent pregnancy or anything else.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The pharmacy tilts around me, shelves blurring at the edges. His words crash over me, leaving me numb and burning all at once. “Are you certain?” in a thin, fragile voice.
He nods, setting the pack on the counter.
“Absolutely certain. See this coding here?” He points to tiny numbers I never noticed.
“These are placebo pills. Sugar pills, essentially. Sometimes they're included in birth control packs for the week of menstruation, but an entire pack like this? That’s something I haven’t seen before. ”
I close my hand around the pills, my nails digging into the plastic until it cracks.
My mind reels, memories flooding back with new clarity.
The image that arises is Irina Volkov with her signature red lipstick, and her smooth voice offering me lavender oil and a silk mask.
She walked into my room with false kindness, and I let her.
More than that, I was grateful for what I thought was genuine concern from another woman in that testosterone-filled mansion.
The betrayal is a knife twisting inside me. But why? Why would she do this? What game is she playing?
“Ma'am? Are you alright?” The pharmacist's voice seems to come from very far away.
I blink, focusing on his concerned face. “Yes. Thank you for checking.”
I step back into the cold night, the street swaying under my feet. Rain hits my face, mixing with tears I didn't realize I was shedding. My pregnancy was no accident. It was arranged, orchestrated by someone who wanted me to be bound to Daniil Zorin more completely than any document could achieve.
My body trembles, my palm pressed to my abdomen. The life inside me is real and innocent. But everything surrounding it feels like a trap sprung by a woman who smiled while she destroyed my choices.
I walk for hours, letting the rain soak through my clothes until I'm shivering.
The city whirls past me, streetlights becoming stars, car headlights trailing like comets.
I end up in Grant Park, sitting on a bench near the lake.
The water stretches out into darkness, and with it, my choices in this harsh reality.
Days pass in a blur. I change motels, keep my head down, and avoid the glances of strangers.
In between the hiding and restless nights, I answer work emails, mundane threads of normal life colliding with the chaos I’m trapped in.
The museum writes to tell me the exhibit drew record numbers, and there’s even talk of a promotion, as if success in that world could balance the ruin in this one.
I wake at night, drenched in sweat, reaching for a man I swore I had to leave.
In my dreams, he finds me. Sometimes he's angry, his voice cold like a winter storm.
Sometimes he's desperate, pulling me against him like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
And sometimes he's gentle, his hand curved protectively over my belly, whispering promises I know he can't keep.
These are the dreams that hurt the most.
My heart aches with the impossibility of it all. How do you love someone who holds you prisoner? How do you hate someone who makes you feel more alive than you've ever felt? How do you protect a child from a world built on violence and lies?
On the fourth morning of my disappearance, my phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number.
The sound cuts through the quiet of my latest motel room that smells of industrial carpet cleaner and other people's secrets.
Fear prickles down my spine. I almost let it ring out, but some instinct makes me answer.
“Mrs. Zorin?” a cheerful voice asks. “This is the Cook County Clerk's Office. We're calling to confirm your recent marriage has been filed and recorded. Congratulations.”
The words melt together, wrong and impossible. The phone feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hand. “W-what?” I stutter.
“Your certificate was processed this week. If you'd like to update your last name legally, we can provide the forms. You are, of course, free to continue using Carter if you prefer.”
My hand shakes so violently that I nearly drop the phone. The motel room spins around me. “You must be mistaken. That document…it wasn't...” My throat closes. It was supposed to be a lie, a prop. A paper marriage to fool others, nothing more. But now it is real, legal, and binding.
The voice on the line continues, oblivious to the earthquake ripping through me. “We'll send a copy of your marriage certificate to your mailing address for your records. Congratulations again, Mrs. Zorin.”
The call ends, leaving me frozen in the silence of the motel room.
My reflection in the mirror across the room stares back at me, pale skin and wild eyes.
I touch my abdomen again, a reflex I cannot control.
Bound by law. Bound by blood. Bound by the growing life inside me.
The lie has become reality, and I don’t know if I have the strength to face it.