“If you satisfy me well enough, Penelope,” he said, the name sounding strange and intimate on his tongue, “I can purchase you legally from the Albanians. A clean transaction. No loose ends. No one comes looking. No one asks why you’re still breathing under my roof.”
My stomach twisted violently.
Purchased.
Owned.
Alive.
I nodded, bowing my head. Shame burned through me like molten fire, scorching everything left of my dignity.
The scraps of self-respect I had clawed from a year of nightmares crumbled instantly.
The air around me felt thick, suffocating, pressing against my chest as if the house itself disapproved.
“That room you woke up in will be yours,” he continued, voice low and deliberate. “Be available at all times. Day or night. I may call for you without warning. You do not speak to my son. You do not speak to Seraphina unless spoken to first. You are beneath them—far beneath. Forget your place, cause trouble in my house, or so much as look at them the wrong way, and the pain you felt with the Albanians will seem like mercy.”
I lifted my gaze just enough to meet his eyes, trembling but trying to keep my voice even. “Understood.”
He stood, fluid, predatory, pocketing the phone. “Giovanni is my assistant. If you need anything—clothes, food, basic necessities—you go to him. No one else.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away, long legs eating the distance toward the east wing. Each footfall echoed against the marble, a metronome marking my despair.
Whatever the Orlovs had done, whatever twisted truth they’d fed him, it was complete. Surgical. Irrevocable.
And I—bloodied, scarred, and broken—was nothing more than a stranger sprawled across his threshold, a puzzle to observe, perhaps use.
The rule that cut deepest was not the sex. Not even the humiliation. It was the one that clawed at the marrow of my bones: the prohibition against Vanya.
I could not speak to my own child.
Every tooth-gritted night in that Albanian pit, every inch of that wretched tunnel we dug, every broken scream and call for help—it had all been for him. Vanya. My son. My reason forsurviving. And now I was here, beneath the same roof where he laughed and played, and I could not reach him. Could not breathe his name without risking everything.
I pressed my palms against the edge of the low leather chair, knuckles white, as a sound floated from the living room—light, bright, deliberate.
Laughter.
Not the muffled, haunted laughter of a scared child. Real, unfettered joy.
I turned slightly, peering through the half-open corridor into the grand living room.
Seraphina was moving with effortless grace, weaving between the sectional sofas with a practiced lightness.
Her eyes gleamed, lips curved in a triumphant smile, as Vanya darted after her.
He squealed, small legs pumping beneath him, the carefree sound tearing through my chest like a blade.
She feinted to the left, then right, pretending to lunge. Vanya shrieked, ducking low, twisting toward the wide television console, safe under the guise of play.
“Got you!” Seraphina called, deliberately missing him by a hair.
“No you don’t!” he countered, spinning out of her grasp, laughter spilling from him in unrestrained joy.
They moved together like dancers who’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times—intuitive, fluid, perfect.
She pivoted, exaggerated stealth in her steps, tiptoeing past him. When he peeked out, she pounced, scooping him up and spinning him once before setting him down.
“Caught you, little one!” she crowed, her voice sugary, triumphant, marking her territory in every syllable.
