Then she turns and walks back to her room, disappearing from view.
This should be satisfying, right? She’s learning the boundaries of her cage, understanding exactly how confined she is. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? To make her feel trapped, powerless, and completely under my control.
So why does watching her try those doors make me feel…sorryfor her?
I force my eyes back to the reports. I need to focus on the numbers, the schedules, and the business that actually matters. But thirty seconds later, I’m looking at the monitors again.
This time, it’s monitor four—the main floor. Vera appears in the kitchen doorway, hesitant, like she’s afraid to enter. Mrs.Kozlov is there, her back to the camera, and I watch Vera say something. Mrs. Kozlov doesn’t turn around. She just keeps working, ignoring her completely.
Vera tries again. I can’t hear the words, but I can see her mouth moving, and see the way she’s wringing her hands in front of her. She’s clearly nervous.
Mrs. Kozlov finally turns, and even though I can’t see her face from this angle, I know that expression. Cold. Dismissive. She says something short, then turns back to whatever she’s doing.
Vera’s face crumbles.
It’s subtle—just a slight tightening around her eyes, a tremor in her chin—but I see it. I see the moment she realizes she’s not going to get whatever she was asking for. She nods once, then turns and walks away, her movements stiff and mechanical.
Like something broken trying to pretend it’s whole.
I reach for my phone before I can stop myself, pulling up Mrs. Kozlov’s number. My thumb hovers over the call button.
What am I going to say? Stop treating her like the enemy? Be nicer to my hostage bride? Sheisthe enemy. Sheisan Ashford. Mrs. Kozlov is just following the unspoken understanding—Vera isn’t welcome here. She doesn’t belong. She’s being tolerated, not accepted.
That’s exactly what I wanted.
I set the phone down without calling.
The next morning, I’m sitting at my desk at five-thirty am with coffee that’s so strong it could put hair on my chest and reportsI’m not reading, watching the monitors like they’re the most important thing in the world.
I’m looking at the second-floor hallway outside her bedroom. At six-fifteen, her door opens. She emerges wearing what looks like a simple dress and heads toward the stairs.
I switch my attention to monitor four and watch her make her way to the kitchen.
Mrs. Kozlov is already there, as always. The woman is an early riser and I’m not convinced she actually sleeps. She’s been with my family since my parents married, and she runs the household like a general commanding troops. Vera says something to her and Mrs. Kozlov responds without looking up from whatever she’s preparing.
Vera sits at the small table in the corner. Mrs. Kozlov sets something in front of her. It looks like toast and coffee.
Vera picks at the toast, and takes a sip of coffee. Then she freezes.
Her face goes pale and she shoves back from the table so fast the chair nearly tips over. One hand clamps over her mouth. Then she’s running and stumbling out of frame so quickly Mrs. Kozlov drops whatever she’s holding.
I switch to another monitor. Vera appears, practically flying down the corridor. She disappears into the bathroom.
She doesn’t come out for twenty minutes.
When she finally emerges, she looks like death. She’s pale as a ghost, shaking, one hand pressed against her stomach. She moves slowly back toward the kitchen, and even the way she walks looks wrong. Careful. Like every step hurts.
This is the third morning I’ve watched this happen.
The first time, I thought maybe she had food poisoning. It happens sometimes even with the best kitchen staff (although I’ve never had food poisoning by my staff’s hands). But three days in a row? And she’s not eating anything that could cause it. I’ve watched her barely touch her food at dinner, picking at meals that probably took my staff hours to prepare.
Something is wrong with her.
And it bothers me that I’ve noticed. Mostly because it means I’ve been watching closely enough to see the pattern. I’ve rewound the footage multiple times, studying her face, her movements, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
I tell myself it’s practical. She’s an Ashford. She could be faking illness to lower my guard. Or planning something, gathering intelligence, playing some kind of long game. I need to know what’s happening in my own house.
But that doesn’t explain why I’ve watched the footage of her eating alone at the dining table four separate times. Why I’ve studied the way she pushes food around her plate without actually eating. The way her hand keeps drifting to her stomach, then jerking away like she’s caught herself doing something wrong. The way she sits there in that enormous room, looking so small and alone it makes something in my chest constrict uncomfortably.
