27. The Sacrifice
The Sacrifice
Gabriel
The suitcase is heavier than it should be.
I've been packing for hours—folding clothes, organizing textbooks, checking and rechecking the list of things I'll need for my second year of medical school. Stanford is waiting for me. The apartment I've rented is small but clean. The campus is beautiful. The future is bright.
And I don't want to leave.
I stand in the middle of my room, surrounded by boxes and bags and the accumulated debris of a life I never wanted, and I think about her.
About Monika. About the way she looked at me when I told her I was leaving.
The way her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed.
The way she said, "Go. Save yourself. That's how you save me. "
I don't know if she's right. I don't know if leaving is the answer. But I know I can't stay.
Not after everything that's happened. Not after Ashlynn. Not after watching my father and brother beat each other bloody in the hallway. Not after holding Monika while she cried, while she shook, while she told me things that made me want to kill Nathan with my bare hands.
I'm not like them. I'm not a monster. I'm a doctor—or I will be, soon. I'm going to save people. I'm going to heal them. I'm going to be something other than what I was born to be.
But first, I have to leave.
I find her in the dining room.
Breakfast is over. The table has been cleared, the dishes removed, the candles extinguished. The room is empty except for her—sitting at the long mahogany table, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on something I can't see.
She looks up when I enter. Her face is pale. Her hair is loose. She's wearing a dress I've seen before—the blue one, the one that's too small, the one that makes her look like a ghost of the girl she used to be.
"Gabriel," she says.
"Monika."
I walk toward her. I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't know how to say goodbye.
"I came to tell you I'm leaving," I say.
"I know."
"I'll be back. For holidays. For summers. I'll—"
"I know." She stands. She walks toward me. She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her—soap and coffee and something underneath that's just her. "You don't have to explain."
"I feel like I do."
"You don't." She touches my face. Her fingers are warm against my cheek. "You're doing the right thing. You're saving yourself."
"I'm abandoning you."
"You're not." She shakes her head. "You're giving me something to hold onto. Something to believe in. You're proving that it's possible to escape this place."
"Then come with me."
She smiles. It's a sad smile, tired at the edges.
"I can't," she says. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I have work to do here." She drops her hand. "I have to save him. I have to save both of them."
"Monika—"
"I know what you're going to say. I know you think I'm being foolish. I know you think I should just leave and let them destroy each other."
"That's not what I think."
"It's okay if it is." She reaches for my hand. "You're allowed to think I'm making a mistake. You're allowed to be angry. But I need you to trust me."
I stare at her. The woman I love. The woman I've been trying to save for a year. The woman who's stronger than any of us ever realized.
"I trust you," I say. "I've always trusted you."
"Then go." She squeezes my hand. "Go and become the doctor you were meant to be. Go and save lives. Go and be something other than what this family made you."
"I'll come back for you."
"I know."
"I'll save you."
"I know." She kisses me. Soft, tender, the kind of kiss that's meant to be remembered. "But first, save yourself."
Breakfast is a performance.
The dining room is filled with the usual players—Aleksander at the head of the table, Nathan on his right, Monika on his left. The food is exquisite. The silence is unbearable.
I sit across from Monika. I can't stop looking at her. The way she holds her fork. The way she sips her coffee. The way she avoids my eyes.
"Gabriel tells me he's leaving today," Aleksander says.
The room goes still.
"Yes," I say. "My flight is at noon."
"So soon?" Nathan's voice is light, almost cheerful. "I thought you'd stay a little longer. See how everything plays out."
"I have nothing to see."
"No?" He leans forward. "Not even the finale of our little drama?"
"The only drama here is the one you create."
Nathan laughs. It's a sharp, brittle sound.
"Always so righteous," he says. "Always so pure. You think you're better than us, don't you?"
"I think I'm different."
"You're not." Nathan leans back in his chair. "You're just better at pretending."
"Enough." Aleksander's voice is sharp. "This is Gabriel's last morning with us. Let's not ruin it."
"Of course." Nathan picks up his fork. "God forbid we ruin the good son's farewell."
The rest of the meal passes in silence. And then before long it's just Monika and I, prolonging the inevitable.
I don't know how it happens.
One moment I'm sitting at the table, watching Monika pick at her food—the way she pushes her eggs around her plate, the way her fingers curl around her coffee cup like she's holding onto something that might slip away.
The morning light catches the curve of her neck, that spot just below her ear that I've dreamed about for years.
The next moment she's looking at me—really looking—and something shifts between us. The air changes. Thickens. Becomes electric.
She sets down her fork. The clink of metal against porcelain sounds like a starting gun.
She stands.
She walks around the table toward me, and I can't breathe. I can't move. I can only watch her—the sway of her hips, the determination in her eyes, the way she's looking at me like I'm something she's finally decided to take.
"Monika?" I say. My voice cracks like I'm sixteen again.
She doesn't answer. She just takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. Her grip is firm. Commanding. Nothing like the gentle touches she's given me before.
"What are you doing?"
"Something I should have done a long time ago."
She leads me to the table. Before I can ask what she means, she pushes me onto the edge—the mahogany is cold through my clothes, a shock against my heated skin—and she climbs onto my lap, straddling me like she owns me.
Because she does.
She always has.
"Monika—"
"Shh." She presses a finger to my lips. Then she replaces it with her mouth.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's not the soft, tentative thing I've imagined.
It's the kiss of a woman who has been holding herself back for too long, who is tired of pretending, who is finally allowing herself to feel something.
Her lips are demanding, her tongue insistent, her teeth grazing my bottom lip hard enough to make me gasp.
I kiss her back. God help me, I kiss her back.
I forget about Aleksander. I forget about Nathan. I forget about the suitcase waiting upstairs and the plane I'm supposed to catch and the life I'm supposed to return to.
All I can think about is her. The way she feels in my arms—solid and warm and real. The way she tastes—coffee and mint and something underneath that's just her. The way she says my name like it's the only word that matters.
"Gabriel," she breathes against my mouth. "I'm going to miss you."
She rolls her hips against mine, and I groan.
"Monika—"
She grinds down harder, and I can feel the heat of her through her skirt, through my trousers, everywhere.
Her hands find my hair and she yanks my head back, exposing my throat. She bites down—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark.
I lay her back on the table.
The dishes rattle. A coffee cup tips over, dark liquid spreading across the white tablecloth like a stain. The candles wobble. I don't care. I push up her skirt—that prim, proper skirt she wore to breakfast, the one that made her look so innocent—and I find her underwear.
Lace. Black. Soaked through.
"You planned this," I say.
"I hoped." She looks up at me, and there's something vulnerable underneath the bravado. "I hoped you would want a farewell gift from me."
I pull her underwear down her legs. She lifts her hips to help me. The scrap of black lace ends up somewhere on the floor, and I don't care. I'm too busy looking at her—spread out on the table, skirt bunched around her waist, breakfast scattered around us like the aftermath of a storm.
She's beautiful. She's everything.
I'm inside her before I can think.
She gasps. Her back arches. Her nails dig into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood. And she's tight—so impossibly tight—hot and wet and gripping me like she never wants to let me go.
"Gabriel," she breathes. "Gabriel."
I move. Slow at first, letting her adjust, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. But her eyes are dark with pleasure, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed.
"Don't hold back," she says. "I don't want you to hold back. I want to feel you tomorrow. I want to feel you for weeks."
"I love you." The words come out before I can stop them. "I love you, Monika. I've always loved you."
"I know." She pulls me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist, changing the angle, making me go deeper.
"I'm going to come back for you."
"I know."
"I'm going to save you."
"I know."
I move inside her. The table creaks beneath us.
The leftover breakfast dishes slide and clatter to the floor.
I'm not gentle—I can't be gentle. This is the last time.
This might be the last time I ever touch her.
I need to memorize everything—the way she feels, the way she sounds, the way she looks at me like I'm something worth looking at.
"You feel so good," I groan. "You feel like—like you were made for me."
"Maybe I was." She reaches up and cups my face in her hands. "Maybe you were made for me too."
I kiss her. I can't help it. I need to be closer to her, need to consume her, need to crawl inside her skin and stay there forever.
She comes first. I feel it—the flutter, the tightening, the way she cries out my name like a prayer. Her whole body shudders beneath me, around me, and the sight of her falling apart is enough to push me over the edge.
I follow a moment later, burying my face in her neck, pouring everything I have into her. Everything I am. Everything I'll never be able to give anyone else.
When it's over, we lie there on the table. Her head on my chest. My arms around her. The breakfast dishes scattered around us—a broken plate, spilled coffee, a fork lying in a puddle of orange juice. The tablecloth is ruined. The candles have burned down to stubs.
"I love you," I say again.
"I know." She kisses my jaw. "Now go. Before you miss your flight."
She walks me to the door.
But before I can reach for the handle, she stops me. Her hand on my chest. Her eyes searching mine.
"One more thing," she says.
"What?"
She reaches up and unbuttons my shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers brush against my skin with each button, and by the time she's done, I'm hard again.
"Monika—"
"Shh." She pushes the shirt off my shoulders. It pools on the floor behind me. Then she reaches for my belt.
"I thought you wanted me to go."
"I want you to have something to remember me by." She drops to her knees. "I want you to think about me every second you're on that plane. I want you to look at these marks—" she traces the scratches on my shoulders, "—and remember who gave them to you."
She unbuckles my belt. Unzips my trousers. Pulls them down along with my boxers, and then she's looking at me—all of me—with that same determined expression she had when she first stood up from the table.
"I want to taste you," she says. "One last time."
"Monika—"
"Let me, Gabriel. Please."
I can't say no to her. I've never been able to say no to her.
She takes me in her mouth, and the world tilts.
Her mouth is hot. Wet. Perfect. She takes me deep, deeper than I thought possible, her eyes never leaving mine. She wants me to watch. She wants me to see her doing this.
"I'm going to come back for you," I say, my voice shaking.
She hums in response, and the vibration nearly makes my knees buckle.
"Monika—I'm—"
She pulls back just enough to speak. "Then come. Come for me, Gabriel. Let me taste you."
I do.
When it's over, she stands. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She smiles—a slow, satisfied smile that makes her look like a cat who got into the cream.
The foyer is empty. The servants have retreated. The portraits on the walls watch us pass—Elena, and the ones who came before her, the women who've been claimed by this family and never escaped.
"Be safe," she says.
"I will."
"Save lives."
"I will."
"Be happy."
I pause. Happy. I don't know if I remember how to be happy. But I'll try. For her, I'll try.
"I'll come back," I say. "I promise."
She smiles. It's the same sad smile she's always given me—the smile of a woman who has learned not to believe in promises.
"I know," she says.
I lean down and kiss her one last time. Soft. Tender. Goodbye.
Then I pick up my suitcase, and I walk out the door, and I don't look back.
The car is waiting.
Viktor is behind the wheel, his face as unreadable as ever. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't say goodbye. He just starts the engine and pulls away from the mansion, and I watch the house shrink in the rearview mirror until it disappears entirely.
I think about Monika.
I think about the way she looked at me when I said goodbye. The way she touched my face. The way she said, "I know."
I think about the life I'm leaving behind. The family I'm escaping. The woman I love.
I think about the future. About medical school. About the doctor I'm going to become.
I think about coming back for her. About saving her. About building a life together—somewhere far from this house, far from this family, far from the darkness that's consumed us all.
I believe it's possible. I have to believe it's possible.
Because if I don't believe it, then what's the point of leaving?