He leans down and kisses Mila on the head before walking away.
I think I’m a little jealous he didn’t drop a kiss on my head.
The smell of the pancakes is amazing. I want to be petulant. I want to throw a fit and go on a hunger strike, but I am just not that strong. I take a bite and tell myself I’m doing it for the baby.
After breakfast, Mila is whisked away by her nanny to clean up for the day and tackle a piano lesson that she really wants no part of.
I take advantage of being alone—which is a relative term.
I head for the French doors that lead to the terrace, needing space to think. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of roses and fresh cut lawn.
The gardens are beautiful, I'll give him that. Winding paths lead through carefully tended beds of flowers I can't name, past fountains and benches positioned for maximum serenity. It's the kind of place where you could forget the world exists, if the world wasn't currently holding you hostage.
I walk until I reach the fence—a work of art that manages to look decorative while clearly being functional. The iron bars are topped with what look like roses but are probably razor wire cleverly disguised.
There's a gate about fifty yards away, manned by two guards who try to look casual but are clearly watching my every move. I walk toward them, my heart pounding with false confidence.
"Excuse me," I call out. "I need to leave."
The larger guard—a man who looks like he bench-presses small cars—shakes his head. "Sorry, miss. No one in or out without authorization."
"I'm authorizing myself."
"Doesn't work that way."
I try a different approach. "I'm not a prisoner here. I have rights."
"Talk to the boss about your rights."
"The boss is the problem."
The guard shrugs with the indifference of someone who's had this conversation before. Probably with other women who thought they could reason their way to freedom.
And that pisses me off.
Am I the first woman he’s gone all caveman on?
That son of a bitch.
I have zero right to be jealous, but I am.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the gate that might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me. The guard's radio crackles with Russian I don't understand. I realize they're probably reporting my escape attempt to Dante right now.
Perfect.
I turn away from the gate and walk deeper into the gardens, fury and frustration building until I can barely breathe. This is insane. All of it. Yesterday morning I was a successful real estateagent with nothing more complicated than a possible pregnancy to worry about. Now I'm trapped on an estate by the father of my unborn child, while my own father sits in his office pretending he's not a criminal accountant for the Russian mob.
I find myself in a secluded corner of the garden, surrounded by hedges that provide the illusion of privacy. That's when the tears start.
Not delicate, feminine tears, but ugly, angry sobs that shake my whole body. I'm furious at my father for lying to me my entire life. Furious at Dante for turning my world upside down. Furious at myself for being attracted to a man who's holding me prisoner.
And terrified about the baby growing inside me.
"Hey."
The voice is soft, concerned. I look up through my tears to see Bogdan approaching, his expression gentle in a way that surprises me.
"You okay?"
