I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday. Shoes off, but everything else intact. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand and a note.
You’re safe. I’m in my office. - L
Safe. Right. Because being kidnapped and dragged to a penthouse against my will is so safe.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand. The dizziness hits again, and I have to grip the nightstand until it passes. What the hell happened?
The bedroom door opens, and Ledger walks in. He’s in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair damp like he just showered, looking infuriatingly calm.
“You’re awake,” he says. “How do you feel?”
“How do I feel?” My voice comes out sharp. “I feel like I was drugged and kidnapped. What the hell did you do to me?”
“You were becoming hysterical. Screaming. Crying. You tried to run, and I couldn’t let you leave. Not with Dmitri Kozlov out there.” He moves closer. “My doctor gave you something to calm down. Something safe for the baby.”
“You sedated me.”
“Yes.”
“Without my consent.”
“You weren’t in a state to give consent. You were a danger to yourself and our child.”
I stare at him, fury rising in my chest. “You can’t just drug people because they’re upset. That’s illegal. That’s—that’s kidnapping.”
“Call it what you want. You’re here, you’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
“Ledger, I’m serious. Let me leave right now, or I’m calling the police.”
“Go ahead.” He gestures to my phone on the dresser. “Call them. Tell them your husband brought you to his home to protect you from a Russian crime family. See how that goes.”
I grab my phone, but my hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold it.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say. “You don’t get to control me like I’m some possession.”
“I’m not controlling you. I’m protecting you.” He hands me a glass of water. “Drink. You need to stay hydrated.”
I feel the urge to throw the glass at him, to scream and hit him, and make him understand how not okay this is. But I’m so tired. So dizzy. And despite everything, I’m thirsty.
I drink the water, and he watches me with those goddamn blue eyes.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Volkov,” he says quietly.
I look past him at the windows, at New York stretching below us. My apartment is somewhere out there. My life. My independence.
“This isn’t my home,” I say.
“It is now.”
My first escape attempt happens two hours later.
Marie comes in with breakfast, all smiles and kindness, and I wait until she’s setting down the tray to bolt for the door.
I make it three steps into the hallway before Pedro appears. He doesn’t have to touch me. He just stands there, blocking my path. “Mrs. Volkov,” he says politely. “Mr. Volkov would like you to stay inside.”
