That's something I've noticed about him, these past two weeks. He doesn't try to control me the way I expected. Doesn't make decisions for me or override my choices. He offers opinions, provides resources, keeps me informed about threats—but the final call is always mine.
It's not what I imagined when I thought about being with a man like him.
Maybe that's why it's working.
***
I make the call from the greenhouse.
It takes me twenty minutes to work up the courage. I sit on the one bench that survived the destruction, the phone in my hands, staring at the number I've dialed a hundred times before.
Leslie Peters. My closest friend from medical school. We studied together for two years, shared countless cups of terrible coffee, quizzed each other on anatomy until we could recite the bones of the hand in our sleep.
She must think I'm dead. Or worse.
I press call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings three times. Four. I'm about to hang up when the line connects.
"Hello?" Leslie's voice, suspicious. She doesn't recognize the number.
"Les. It's me. It's Bianca."
Silence. Then: "Oh my God. Oh my God, Bianca?" Her voice cracks, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Where the hell have you been? We've been going out of our minds! David filed a missing persons report, and the police couldn't find anything, and your family—your family said you'd gone abroad for a family emergency but nobody believed them because you would have told us, you would have—"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?"
The questions pour out of her, tumbling over each other, and I close my eyes against the wave of emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. Her voice is so familiar. So normal. A reminder of the life I used to have, the person I used to be.
"I'm okay," I say. "I'm safe. I can't tell you where I am or what happened—it's complicated, and I don't want to put you in danger—"
"In danger? Bianca, what the hell is going on?"
"I can't explain. Not over the phone. Maybe not ever." I swallow hard. "I just needed you to know I'm alive. I needed to hear your voice."
Leslie is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more controlled.
"This is about your family, isn't it? Your father?"
She knows about my family. Not the details—not the trafficking, the auctions, the violence—but she knows they're bad. Knows I've spent my whole life trying to escape their shadow.
"Yes," I say. "And no. It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
I don't know how to answer that. How do you explain to your normal, medical-student friend that you were sold at an auction, rescued by a mobster, held captive by his enemy, and are now pregnant with his child? There's no framework for that conversation.
"I'm not coming back," I say instead. "To school, I mean. My life has... changed. In ways I can't undo."
"What do you mean, you're not coming back? Bianca, you're at the top of our class. You're going to be an amazing doctor. You can't just throw that away because of—"
"I'm not throwing it away. I'm just... taking a different path." I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the slight curve that's started to form there. "I'm going to find another program.Continue my studies somewhere else. But the life I had with you guys—the apartment, the study sessions, the plans we made—that's over."
Silence on the line. I can hear Leslie breathing, processing.
"Are you in trouble?" she asks finally. "Real trouble? Because if you need help, we can figure something out. David's uncle is a lawyer, and—"
