Chapter Eleven
Mirabel
The hospital smells like industrial cleaner trying to mask something worse underneath.
I begged Arkady all day yesterday. Texted.
Called. Left voicemails that ranged from professional to desperate.
He finally agreed this morning with a list of conditions that made my teeth ache: a guard stays with me at all times, a tracking app gets installed on my phone (another one), and I’m obliged to answer his calls at all times.
Worth it, I told myself. I’d agree to almost anything to see Dad.
The guard shadows me now, six-foot-something of muscle whose name I haven’t bothered learning.
He keeps three paces behind, close enough that his presence presses against my back.
When I pause at the nurses’ station to check in, he looms at my shoulder.
The nurse’s smile tightens when she looks past me.
“Room 312,” she says, her voice dropping. “Your father’s awake.”
My throat constricts. Awake doesn’t mean better. Awake just means conscious.
I push open the door, and there he is—Peter McLeod, the man who taught me to ride a bike and balance chemical equations, now folded into a hospital bed that seems too big for his frame.
The cancer’s been eating him from the inside out, stealing pounds and color until he’s more shadow than substance.
But his eyes light up when he sees me. That hasn’t changed.
“Mirabel.” His voice rasps. “My girl.”
“Hi, Dad.” I cross to him, bending to press my lips against his forehead. His skin feels paper-thin, radiating a fever that shouldn’t be there. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now.”
We’ve been trading these lies for months—him pretending the treatments are working, me pretending I believe him. I sink into the chair beside his bed and take his hand. His fingers feel like bird bones wrapped in tissue.
His gaze shifts past me, fixing on the doorway. The guard has positioned himself there, arms crossed, face blank as concrete.
“Who’s that?” Dad whispers.
My pulse kicks up. “Just security. My boss is… protective.”
Dad’s brow furrows… that look I remember from when I’d come home past curfew at sixteen, when he’d known I was lying before I opened my mouth. “Protective or controlling?”
I arrange my expression into something approximating casual, but my jaw stays too tight. “A bit of both, probably.”
“Mirabel.” His grip tightens on my hand with surprising strength. “This job you’re doing for me… are you sure it’s okay? You seem…”
He trails off. I hear the rest anyway. Tired. Scared. Trapped.
“I’m fine.” My tongue feels thick. “Really.”
His eyes search mine. I can see him wanting to push, to demand the truth. But he’s too weak for that conversation, and we both know it.
The guard shifts in the doorway—just a subtle redistribution of weight—but it draws Dad’s attention again. Suspicion hardens his features.
“You could go back to the registrar’s office,” he says, quieter now. As if volume might keep the guard from hearing. “Wouldn’t you be happier there? The pay wasn’t as good, but at least you were safe. You had your own place. Your independence.”
Independence. I barely remember what that word means anymore.
“Absolutely not. Everything’s fine, Dad. The money’s good. The work is steady.” I squeeze his hand, willing him to believe it. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
But I can’t meet his eyes when I say it.
Not with the guard listening.
Not with Arkady’s child growing inside me.
Not with my entire life balanced on the edge of a blade I feel but cannot see.
Dad settles back into his pillows, too exhausted to argue.
I reach for the mystery novel on his bedside table—the one he’s been working through for weeks—and open it to the dog-eared page.
My voice fills the space between monitor beeps and the shuffle of nurses in the hallway.
Dad’s eyes drift closed, but his fingers stay wrapped around mine.
When he wakes an hour later, we talk about small things. Safe things. The hospital gardens and how the roses are starting to bloom. A documentary he watched about deep-sea fish. We don’t talk about his prognosis or my situation or the truth that neither of us wants to face.
But the guard never moves from his post. When I help Dad to the bathroom, the guard waits outside the door. When a nurse comes to check vitals, he watches from the corner. When I lean in close to whisper something meant only for Dad’s ears, I feel those eyes tracking my every movement.
My phone buzzes. Then again. And again.
Arkady.
I pull it out. Three messages, each one shorter and sharper than the last.
Everything okay?
Answer me.
Mirabel.
I shove the phone back into my pocket without responding. This is supposed to be my time with Dad. Arkady can wait.
The guard’s eyes narrow a fraction. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
Dad reaches for the water cup on his bedside table. I help guide the straw to his lips, but his hands shake so badly that water dribbles down his chin. I grab a tissue and dab it away, trying not to see how much smaller he’s gotten since last week.
“Tell me about work,” he says. “What’s your boss like?”
Dangerous. Possessive. The kind of man who makes you forget where you end and he begins.
“He’s… demanding.” I fold the tissue into smaller and smaller squares. “But fair.”
Dad studies my face. Whatever he sees there makes him sigh—a sound I feel in my chest. “Just be careful, sweetheart. Men who need guards… they usually have reasons.”
“I know, Dad.”
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a call.
My hand hovers over the answer button, then I send it to voicemail without blinking. Control freak. He can also call his thug if he wants to.
The afternoon bleeds into evening. I read more.
We watch whatever’s playing on the mounted TV—some cooking competition neither of us cares about.
I sneak him contraband chocolate from the vending machine, breaking off pieces small enough that he won’t choke.
Every time I glance at the doorway, the guard is there.
Silent. Watching. A reminder that even on my day off, I belong to Arkady Laurov.
My phone continues its assault. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I ignore them all.
Damn Arkady Laurov, fucking control freak!
I’ve done everything he’s asked since we made this arrangement. The least he can do is let me have this short time with my father.
By the time the nurse announces visiting hours are over, my face aches from holding the smile in place. I kiss Dad’s forehead one last time. His skin still burns under my lips.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“I love you, Mira.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
What if this is the last time? What if he doesn’t make it to my next visit? What if the baby inside me never gets to meet its grandfather?
I swallow the questions down and leave before they can show on my face. The guard follows me through the hospital corridors, down the elevator, out into the parking lot. My car—or rather, Arkady’s car—waits under harsh fluorescent lights that make everything look sickly.
“I need to stop somewhere,” I say. The first words I’ve spoken directly to him all day.
His expression doesn’t change. “Where?”
“Shopping center a few blocks from here. I need to pick up some things.”
“What things?”
My jaw clenches. “Clothes. My current ones are getting tight.”
Everything I own feels like it’s strangling me. My jeans won’t button anymore. My shirts pull across my breasts in ways that draw attention I can’t afford. I need bigger sizes before someone notices what’s happening to my body.
Before Arkady notices.
The guard pulls out his phone, scrolling. Probably checking the list of acceptable destinations Arkady provided—his approved locations for his property. Because that’s what I am now. Property to be tracked and managed.
“The boss only gave permission for the hospital visit,” he says.
I stare at him. “I just need to stop at one store. Twenty minutes.”
“No.”
The refusal sets my teeth on edge. All the frustration I’ve been swallowing all day—the lies to Dad, the constant surveillance, the endless buzzing phone—rises up my throat.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“The boss’s orders were clear.”
“I need clothes that fit.”
“Take it up with Mr. Laurov.”
My fingernails dig into my palms. “This is ridiculous. I’m not asking to run away. I just want to buy a few things.”
His face remains impassive. “My orders are to bring you directly back to the estate after the hospital visit. Nothing else.”
“So I’m a prisoner, then.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I have no freedom left. Every movement tracked. Every destination approved or denied. Every moment of my life subject to Arkady’s control.
The guard opens the passenger door, waiting.
I slide into the seat. The door closes with a decisive click—a sound like a cell locking. As we pull out of the parking lot, I watch the shopping center fade in the side mirror. Such a simple thing. Clothes that fit. And I can’t even have that without permission.
My phone buzzes in my lap. Another message from Arkady.
I don’t look at it.
Instead, I press my hand against my stomach, where his child grows whether he knows it yet or not. This baby will be born into Arkady’s world—a world of guards and tracking devices and rules that shift without warning. A world where even my own body isn’t fully mine anymore.
But what scares me more than that realization is this: I’m not sure I remember how to leave.