But my body feels different. Heavy. Sensitive. Unfamiliar. And every morning it betrays me a little more.
I wipe my mouth carefully, then splash cool water on my face and straighten, practicing calm in the mirror. I wait until my breathing evens out, until I look like myself again. Or at least like the version of me he expects.
Every day, I’m waiting for him to realize.
Waiting for his gaze to sharpen. For that slight pause before he speaks. For the moment he decides this is something he gets to own too.
I rest my hand briefly on my stomach, fingers splayed, heart pounding.
If there’s something growing inside me, I don’t know how to protect it.
I don’t even know how to protect myself.
I flush one last time, just for noise, then open the bathroom door and step back into the hotel room like nothing happened.
Like my body didn’t just tell a secret I’m terrified he’s about to hear.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and take a slow drink of water, forcing myself to swallow past the lingering sour taste in my mouth. I keep my face neutral, my movements controlled, even when another wave of nausea rolls through me hard enough that my fingers curl into the sheets.
I breathe through it.
In.
Out.
Slow. Quiet.
I will not let it show.
Alexei hasn’t been cruel to me. That’s the worst part. Every day he’s gentler, more attentive, like he’s slowly turning down the volume on the monster he knows I expect him to be. He notices when I’m tired. When I don’t eat enough. When my arm aches. He adjusts, accommodates, anticipates.
It makes my skin crawl.
I don’t encourage it. I’m careful not to lean into his touch, not to soften my voice, not to give him anything he could mistake for interest. At the same time, I don’t pull away too sharply either, because I don’t know what happens if he thinks I’m rejecting him outright.
So I exist in this careful middle space. Polite. Quiet. Contained.
The room around me looks like something out of a magazine. Designer clothes hanging neatly in the closet. Shoes lined up in perfect pairs. Purses displayed like art. Even the luggage is expensive, sleek Louis Vuitton pieces sitting against the wall like I’m someone who chose this life instead of being dragged into it.
Everything is the very best.
Maybe I should feel lucky.
That thought slips in uninvited, and I hate myself for it immediately.
Maybe this is my life now. Maybe this is what survival looks like. Maybe I’m supposed to accept it, let the sharp edges dull, let myself be reshaped into something that fits beside him without resistance.
No.
I can’t do that.
I don’t love him. I never will. And whatever he feels for me isn’t love either, no matter how softly he says my name or how carefully he makes sure I’m comfortable. I can’t be myself with him. I can’t speak freely. I can’t laugh without calculating what it will mean. I can’t exist without being watched.
And then there’s the question I’m too afraid to say out loud.
What happens when he finds out?
If I’m pregnant.
