Chapter 4
Four
Ilona, eight heartaching weeks later
Eight weeks since I walked out of that glass room wearing nothing but a stranger's shirt and a stupid amount of hope. Eight weeks since I crawled back into my gilded cage and pretended that one perfect night never happened. Eight weeks of reaching for a body that isn't there.
Eight weeks, and somehow everything has fallen apart.
I stand at my kitchen sink, staring out the window at the gray Chicago morning, my hand pressed flat against my stomach.
Rain streaks down the glass in silver rivulets, blurring the city skyline into an impressionist painting of steel and stone.
The test sits on the counter behind me, that damning little plus sign burning a hole in my consciousness.
Three tests, actually. I bought them in three different pharmacies across the city, paying cash each time, paranoid that somehow my father would find out.
All three positive.
The pill is ninety-nine percent effective, or so the commercials claim. Apparently, I'm the one percent. Lucky fucking me.
A knock at my door makes me jump so hard I nearly knock over my coffee cup.
The ceramic rattles against the granite, cold coffee sloshing over the rim.
My pulse kicks into a sprint as I cross the apartment, every worst-case scenario playing out in my head.
Did someone see me buying the tests? Did my father's bodyguard slash spies report something suspicious? Does he somehow already know?
I ease up to the door and peer through the peephole and my blood turns to ice.
My father stands in the hallway, flanked by Gino and another guard I don't recognize.
His silver hair is perfectly coiffed, his charcoal suit immaculate, and his expression carries that particular brand of cold displeasure that has haunted my nightmares since childhood.
Even through the distorted lens of the peephole, his pale eyes seem to bore straight through the door and into my guilty soul.
My hand trembles as I unlock the door. There's no point in pretending I'm not home. He knows. He always knows.
"Father." I step aside to let him in, careful to keep my voice neutral, my face blank. "I wasn't expecting you."
He strides past me without so much as a greeting, bringing with him the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke that has always meant danger in my world.
His sharp eyes catalog every detail of my apartment, sweeping over the dishes in the sink, the throw blanket rumpled on the couch, the half-empty coffee cup I abandoned.
Looking for signs of disobedience. Looking for cracks in the perfect daughter facade.
"You look well, Ilona." He turns to face me, and for a moment his expression softens into something almost paternal. His head tilts slightly, those pale eyes roaming over my face with an attention that makes my skin prickle with unease. "There's a glow about you."
My stomach drops. My fingers go numb. Does he know? Can he somehow see through my skin to the secret growing inside me?
"I've been doing a cleanse." The lie slides out smoothly, born of years of practice. I force a small smile, the kind of demure, pleasant expression he's always approved of. "Lots of green juice and early mornings. It's really agreeing with me."
He considers me for a long moment, those calculating eyes searching my face for any hint of deception.
One finger taps slowly against his thigh, a habit I've learned to associate with his mind working through possibilities.
I hold my breath, willing my expression to remain serene, my body language relaxed, even as my pulse thunders in my ears.
Finally, he nods and the knots in my chest stop trying to kill me. "I expect you at the house this evening. There's to be a dinner party. Governor Harrison will be attending with his wife and son." His tone makes it clear this is not a request. "Come dressed appropriately."
"Yes, Father."
The words taste like bile rising in my throat, and my stomach churns in violent protest. Acid bubbles beneath my ribs, hot and insistent, and I press my hand discreetly against my abdomen to quell the sudden wave of nausea.
Whether it's morning sickness or the familiar dread of bending to his will, I can't tell anymore. Maybe both. Two things can be true.
What else does an obedient daughter say? What else can she do but kiss the king's ring and wait for the axe to fall?
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, his signet ring catching the gray morning light.
His fingers drum once against the wood, a slow, deliberate tap that echoes like a warning.
When he turns to look at me over his shoulder, his pale eyes narrow slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening into something that isn't quite a smile.
"Don't be late, Ilona. This evening is... important."
The pause before that final word stretches between us, heavy with unspoken meaning.
He holds my gaze a beat too long, searching for cracks, for weakness, for any sign that I might crumble under the weight of whatever he's planning. At least, that is what it feels like. I never really know what he’s thinking at any given time.
I keep my spine straight and my expression neutral, even as my nails dig crescents into my palms behind my back.
The way he says ‘important’ makes my skin crawl. In my father's vocabulary, that means profitable. Advantageous. A move on the chessboard of his endless games.
And I’m not a fool. I'm the pawn. I just don’t know what game we’re playing yet.
A few hours later, the dining room of my childhood home glitters with crystal and candlelight, a stage set for whatever performance my father has planned.
The scent of roasted lamb and rosemary hangs heavy in the air, mingling with my mother's cloying perfume and the woody notes of the fire crackling in the massive hearth.
I sit at the long mahogany table in a burgundy dress that my mother selected, my hair pinned up in an elegant twist that hides my blue tips, my smile fixed in place like a mask.
Eight people occupy the table. My father at the head, his posture rigid with authority, his fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of scotch that catches the candlelight like liquid amber.
My mother at the foot, her vacant expression suggesting she's already three glasses of wine into forgetting she exists, her fork pushing food around her plate without ever lifting it to her lips.
Governor Harrison and his wife sit to my father's right, politicians' smiles plastered on their faces, their laughter too loud and too practiced.
Their son, Bradley, occupies the seat beside me, his cologne too strong and his hand drifting too close to my thigh under the table.
And Gino. Ever present, asshole extraordinaire Gino. He stands against the wall with two other guards. Their beefy arms hang at their sides and I swear I’ve seen more life in a stagnant puddle of water than what lives in their eyes.
But they are watching. Always fucking watching.
"Do you follow racing, Ilona?" Bradley asks for the third time tonight, apparently having forgotten he already asked.
Or perhaps not caring about the answer. His breath carries the sour tang of red wine, and when he smiles, it doesn't reach his watery blue eyes.
"My father bought me a stake in a Formula One team last year. We came in fourth at Monaco."
Kill me now.
"How exciting." I take a sip of water, wishing it were something stronger. Wishing I could drink at all. "I'm afraid I don't know much about cars."
"What about horses? We have a stable in Kentucky. Finest thoroughbreds money can buy."
I want to tell him I don't care about his cars or his horses or his family's money.
I want to tell him that his hand is creeping toward my knee and if he touches me, I'll stab him with my dessert fork.
I want to scream that I'm pregnant with another man's baby and I'd rather die than sit in this chair another minute pretending we are hitting it off.
Instead, I smile and nod and pray for this dinner to end.
Dessert arrives, some sort of chocolate mousse that turns my already churning stomach.
The rich, bittersweet scent makes bile rise in my throat, and I press my napkin to my lips until the nausea passes.
I push the mousse around my plate, hyper-aware of the glances passing between my father and the governor.
There's a second conversation happening, one conducted in raised eyebrows and subtle nods and the quiet clink of whiskey glasses, and I'm clearly the subject.
My father sets down his spoon and clears his throat. The table falls silent, even the fire seeming to quiet its crackling.
"Ilona." His voice carries the weight of command, the tone that has ruled my entire life. "I've been thinking about your future. Your education, while admirable, seems to be leading nowhere productive."
My spine stiffens. Here it comes.
"I've found a use for you in the family business."
I arrange my features into pleasant interest, playing the dutiful daughter one last time. "Oh? What did you have in mind, Father?"
"You will quit your studies and marry Bradley.
" He gestures toward the governor's son with a casual wave, as if he's offering me a business opportunity rather than selling me like livestock.
"It's only right that you bring an heir into this household and unite our two families.
The wedding will take place within the month. "
The words hit me like a physical blow. Chills erupt over my skin, racing down my spine and spreading across my arms like frost creeping over glass.
An heir. Right. Because that's all I've ever been to him.
A womb with legs and a convenient last name.
How silly of me to think I might have any other value.
Around the table, everyone watches for my reaction.