Her eyes widen slightly, like the question surprises her. Or maybe it’s dangerous to answer honestly. She glances over her shoulder, checking to make sure Mrs. Kozlov isn’t within earshot.
“Mr. Volkov is a good employer,” she says carefully, like she’s reciting something she’s been told to say. “Fair. He takes care of his people. He pays well. Better than most.”
Hispeople. Not me. I’ll never be one of his people. I’ll always be the outsider. The enemy. The Ashford girl who doesn’t belong.
“I see,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, and I see something flicker across her face (pity? Sympathy?). Then she adds in a rush, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Mrs. Kozlov is very loyal to Mr. Volkov. She has been with the family for thirty years. She was here when his father was alive. When his mother was still…” She trails off, color rising in her cheeks. “When Mr. Alexei?—”
She stops abruptly, her face going pale, her eyes wide with horror at what she’s just said. At the name she’s just spoken. The clearly forbidden name.
“I should not have said that. I’m sorry. I have to?—”
She practically runs from the room, her footsteps quick and panicked, leaving me alone with my tea and crackers and the echo of Alexei’s name hanging in the air like a ghost.
Even here, in this house, his presence haunts me. His name is forbidden, but his memory is everywhere. I can feel it in the way the staff moves, the way they look at me with such hatred. They loved him.Allof them. And they blame me—blame my family—for taking him away.
If only they knew the truth. If only they knew that I loved him too. That I’m carrying his child. That I would giveanythingto have him back.
But they’ll never know. No one will ever know.
I sip the tea slowly, letting the warmth soothe my roiling stomach. It’s peppermint, gentle and settling. The crackers help too. They’re bland and dry and exactly what I need. After a while, the nausea recedes to a dull queasiness I can almost ignore. Almost.
But the panic doesn’t recede. If anything, it grows stronger with each passing minute, building in my chest like a storm gathering strength.
I can’t hide this. Not long-term. Maybe I can blame morning sickness on stress or bad coffee for a few days, but eventually, someone will notice. The nausea. The way my body will start changing. My clothes won’t fit. I’ll start to show and I’ll need to see a doctor.
And then what? When Dimitri finds out? When he realizes what this means?
I press my hand to my stomach again, a gesture that’s becoming habitual.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper to the empty room.
No answer comes. Just the tick of an ornate clock on the mantle and the distant sound of a lawn mower outside. The lonely sounds of a house that’s full of people but devoid of warmth.
I’m trapped in this beautiful prison with a secret that could get me killed, married to a man who hates me, mourning the love I lost.
And I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life.
I spend the rest of the morning exploring the grounds.
Or trying to. Because it quickly becomes clear that I’m not allowed to explore freely. There are guards everywhere that are discreet but impossible to miss. Men in dark suits with earpieces, positioned at strategic points around the property. They don’t approach me or acknowledge me, but they’re always there. Watching. Monitoring.
And when I walk toward the front gate, two of them materialize beside me like magic.
“Mrs. Volkov,” one says politely but firmly. He’s tall, maybe in his thirties, with a military bearing and eyes that scan constantly, assessing for threats. “Perhaps you would prefer the gardens in the back? They’re quite lovely this time of year.”
It sounds like a suggestion, but I’m not stupid. It’s an order dressed up as friendly advice.
“I was just going to—” I start, but the look on his face stops me. It’s polite, professional, and unmovable. His hand rests casually near his hip, where I can see the bulge of a concealed weapon.
“The back gardens,” he repeats, and this time, there’s steel under the politeness.
So I go to the back gardens, with the two guards trailing ten feet behind me the entire time, their footsteps crunching on the gravel paths.
The grounds are extensive. There’s the formal garden with its geometric flower beds and pristine pathways, everythingarranged in perfect symmetry. A rose garden that must have hundreds of varieties, all perfectly maintained, not a single dead bloom or fallen petal marring the display. The hedge maze I saw from the window, which I start to enter before one of the guards clears his throat meaningfully and I back away. The message is clear. Some areas are off-limits.
An orchard with apple and pear trees. Even a small lake with a decorative bridge looks like something out of a Monet painting, with weeping willows trailing in the water and lily pads floating on the surface.
