29. Anya
ANYA
For a few seconds, I can’t move.
“Why do you have my father’s phone?” I ask. My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
“Is that any way to greet me?”
I grip the phone harder. “Answer me.”
“You always did become rude when frightened.”
“I’m not frightened.”
He laughs again. This time, there’s no charm in it. “Yes, you are.”
My heart begins to pound so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I walk to the bedroom door and open it quietly. The hall outside is empty except for the guard at the far end. He turns immediately when he sees me.
I lift one hand, not sure whether I’m telling him to stay away or come closer.
He frowns.
Dmitri speaks again. “Don’t call for anyone.”
I go still. He knows.
“How do you know I would?”
“Because I know you.”
“No,” I whisper. “You don’t.”
There’s a pause.
When he speaks again, the softness is gone. “I know enough. We were engaged for months, we’ve known each other our entire lives.”
“Yet, you didn’t think twice before cheating on me.”
My stomach twists. “Where is my father?”
“Alive.”
The word is not reassurance. It’s a threat.
I close my eyes for one second. “What did you do?” I ask.
“Nothing yet.”
“Dmitri.”
He exhales, almost annoyed. “You left me no choice.”
I almost laugh. The words are so familiar. Men like him always begin there. You made me. You forced this. You left me no choice.
“I left you at the altar because you were with Katya.”
“And then you married him.”
“Yes.” The word comes out before fear can stop it. “Yes, I did.”
Silence.
Then his voice lowers. “Do you think that makes you safe?”
My hand moves to my stomach without thinking.
The movement is small. Private.
Still, it terrifies me.
I drop my hand quickly, as if he can see through the phone.
“You need to listen carefully,” Dmitri says.
“No. You need to listen. If Yaromir finds out you have my father, he will kill you.”
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Not fear. Rage. Humiliation. The same thing I saw in his face at the auction when Yaromir put the emeralds around my neck.
“I’m tired of everyone speaking like he already owns this city,” Dmitri says. “Like he owns you. Like I’m the fool in every story.”
“You made yourself the fool.”
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
My pulse jumps.
Then he says, “Careful, Anya.” The coldness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“There she is,” Dmitri murmurs. “My reasonable girl.”
“I was never your girl.”
“Weren’t you?”
My throat tightens. “No.”
“Funny. You wore my ring like you were.”
I look toward the bathroom, where the other ring, the first one, still sits hidden in the safe Yaromir gave me. Now even the memory of it feels dirty.
“What do you want?” I repeat.
“You.” The word is simple.
It lands like a hand around my throat.
I don’t answer.
Dmitri continues, “You come to me, and your father walks away.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard the terms.”
“I said no.”
He laughs cruelly. “You’re still so dramatic.”
“And you’re still stupid if you think I will walk out of this house and come to you.”
“I think you will if you don’t want Sergei dead.”
My stomach turns.
I hate my father. I hate him for dragging me into this world, for selling me, for needing me again and again until even his love felt like debt.
But I don’t want him dead.
Dmitri knows that.
“You have one hour,” he says.
“No.”
“One hour, Anya.”
“I’m not coming.”
Another pause.
Then, softly, “Then I’ll send him back in pieces.”
My breath leaves me.
The guard sees my face and starts forward. I shake my head quickly, but my hand is trembling now.
Dmitri hears the silence and knows he has hit something.
“There,” he says. “Now you’re listening.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, not from sadness, but from helpless fury. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m desperate,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
“No. There isn’t.”
His laugh is low. “You sound like him.”
I straighten. “If you hurt my father,” I say, “Yaromir will not be the only one who comes for you.”
Dmitri is silent. I feel the shift, even through the phone.
“You?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You really think you’re dangerous now?”
My hand settles over my stomach again. This time, I don’t pull it away.
“I think you should be very careful what you force me to become.”
For a moment, there’s only breathing.
His. Mine.
Then Dmitri says, “One hour.”
The call ends.
My hand drops slowly from my ear. The room feels too quiet around me, too still, too safe in a way that suddenly becomes unbearable.
Yaromir is not here.
That’s the only thought that matters.
If he were here, he would never let me leave. If I told him, the gates would close, the guards would multiply, Viktor would start making calls, and by the time they found Dmitri, my father might already be dead.
My father, who sold me.
My father, who used me.
My father, who has never once chosen me without needing something in return.
And still, when I imagine him tied to a chair somewhere, afraid and waiting for death, my chest tightens until I can barely breathe.
I hate him. I don’t want him dead.
The two truths sit inside me together, ugly and inseparable.
Then my other hand moves to my stomach. The test is hidden in the bathroom cabinet, wrapped in tissue and shoved inside a cosmetics pouch like hiding it can make it less real.
Pregnant.
Yaromir’s baby.
A sound almost breaks out of me, half laugh, half sob, but I swallow it. I can’t afford to fall apart now. I can’t afford to think about what Yaromir will do when he finds out I left the estate alone.
He will be furious.
No, worse than furious.
Hurt.
That thought nearly stops me.
I see his face as clearly as if he’s standing in front of me. The stillness. The cold eyes. The silence before he says something controlled enough to cut deeper than shouting.
Why didn’t you trust me?
I press my hand harder to my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Then I move.
I change out of the pale dress quickly, pulling on dark trousers, a black sweater, and the plainest coat I own. I wrap a scarf around my hair and tuck the ends into my collar. In the mirror, I look dull, forgettable, almost invisible.
I take cash from the small drawer where I keep it. Not much. Enough for a taxi. Enough to make a driver stop asking questions.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from my father’s number.
An address near the south canal.
I read it twice, then a third time, forcing myself to remember every word. I don’t know whether Yaromir tracks my phone. I assume he does. A man like him would call it protection and believe himself completely reasonable.
So I leave it on the vanity.
The pregnancy test stays hidden.
The phone stays behind.
I take only the cash and an old pair of gloves.
At the bedroom door, I pause and listen. The guard who usually stands at the far end of the hall is there, but his back is half turned while he speaks into a radio. I wait until he looks toward the main staircase, then slip out and move in the opposite direction.
My heart is beating so hard I feel it in my throat.
I know this house better now than I did when I first arrived.
Not because anyone gave me a map. Because I have spent weeks being bored, watched, and quietly angry.
I know which corridors lead to staff rooms. I know where the floorboards creak.
I know the side staircase near the linen closet is used more by maids than guards.
I take that staircase. Halfway down, I hear men speaking below.
I freeze, one hand against the wall.
“East gate is covered,” one says.
“Viktor wants another man near the stables.”
Their voices move closer.
I duck into the small landing where folded sheets are stacked on shelves, pulling the door almost shut. Through the narrow gap, I watch two guards pass beneath me without looking up.
One of them laughs quietly at something.
Normal. Ordinary. Like I’m not standing ten feet away, sneaking out of my husband’s house to meet the man who betrayed me.
When their footsteps fade, I keep going.
The kitchen corridor is busier. That helps. A cook argues with someone about delivery invoices. A maid carries a tray of glasses toward the dining room. Two men unload crates near the service entrance, their coats damp from outside.
I lower my head and walk like I belong there. No one stops a woman who looks like staff and doesn’t hesitate.
At the last second, a young maid glances at my face. Her eyes widen.
I stare at her, silently begging.
Please.
She looks at the scarf, the coat, the cash clutched in my gloved hand.
Then she looks away.
I don’t wait to understand why. I slip through the service door into the yard.
Cold air hits me hard. The sky is low and gray, the estate walls dark against it. A delivery van idles near the east gate while a guard checks paperwork with the driver. The gate is open only halfway.
Not enough.
Then the guard steps back and waves the van through.
I move with it. Close to the side, hidden from the main angle, walking fast enough to keep pace but not fast enough to draw attention. The van’s engine growls beside me. Gravel crunches under my shoes. The open gate comes closer.
For one terrible second, I’m certain someone will shout my name.
No one does.
The van passes through.
So do I.
Outside the estate wall, the road curves toward a line of trees. I keep walking until the gate is out of sight. Only then do I let myself breathe properly.
I’m out.
The realization should feel like freedom.
It feels like stepping off a ledge.
The road is longer than I remember. I walk quickly, head down, scarf pulled close around my face. Every car that passes makes my shoulders tense. Every sound behind me makes me want to run. I resist every instinct that tells me to.
The flower market is fifteen minutes away, maybe less, but the distance feels endless.
By the time I reach it, my palms are damp inside my gloves and my pulse is wild.
People move around me carrying bunches of roses and lilies, wrapped in paper, tied with string.
The normalness of it makes me feel sick.