You know I am.
I had apologized for things I hadn’t done.
Begged for mercy I shouldn’t have needed to beg for.
And then—
The letter I never should have written.
I’m pregnant.
Our child.
I remember pressing my palm against my still-flat stomach in that cold cell, whispering to something I couldn’t yet feel.
Please soften your heart.
Please come.
Please protect us.
Some letters had been returned unopened.
Others never came back at all.
I understood later what it meant — I was disposable to him. He didn’t care that I carried his child, his blood. He wanted me destroyed, locked away and forgotten. And because of that obsession, I lost my baby.
And now they expected me to return to him?
Dario stepped closer, lowering his voice as if I were fragile glass.
“Elena, please,” he murmured. “Let’s get you somewhere safe first. Cleaned up. Treated. You need a doctor. Antibiotics. Rest.”
Safe?
The word almost made me laugh.
Safe in Ruslan’s estate?
In that sprawling marble fortress where every hallway echoed and every guard reported directly to him? Where loyalty was currency and affection a liability?
I would rather sleep on concrete again.
I lifted my hands and signed sharply, ignoring the way my wrists screamed in protest.
I am not going to his house.
Ethan translated immediately, his voice steady but firm. “She says she’s not going.”
Silence fell.
Dario’s shoulders sagged.
“Elena...” he tried again.
I cut him off with another set of urgent signs.
He let me rot. He knew I was innocent.
