She’s lying. I can see it in every line of her body and hear it in the way her voice pitches higher. She's a terrible liar, and right now, her face is showing me fear. Pure, undiluted fear.
Why? What is she so afraid of?
“You’re not fine,” I say flatly. “And I don’t believe you.”
She shrinks back against the window, pressing herself into the corner of the seat like she wishes she could disappear throughthe glass. “I swear, I’m not sick. I’m not contagious or anything. It’s just—” She stops, swallows hard. “It’s just stress. That’s all. Adjusting to—” She gestures vaguely between us. “To this. Being here.”
To being my prisoner, she means. Being trapped in this house with people who hate her. Being married to a man who can barely stand to look at her except through security monitors.
That uncomfortable tightness is back in my chest, worse than before.
I should push and demand the truth. Whatever she’s hiding, I have a right to know. This is my house, she’s my—my responsibility. My property, legally. I have every right to know what’s going on with her health.
But something about the fear in her eyes stops me. Something about the way looks so small and fragile and utterly terrified of me.
Maybe it is just stress. God knows I’ve put enough of that on her shoulders by locking her in this house, cutting her off from her family, and making it clear she’s unwelcome. Maybe that’s all it is—her body responding to the hell I’ve deliberately created for her.
Job well done, right?
I feel sick.
I need to think. I need space to process this and not be standing here watching her shrink away from me like I’m some kind of monster.
Even though that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to be.
“You’ll eat dinner with me tomorrow,” I hear myself say. The words come out before I’ve fully decided to say them. “Seven o’clock. No arguments.”
Fear flashes across her face, so quick and vivid it’s like watching lightning strike. “You want me to—to eat with you?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No! No, of course not. I just—” She swallows again, that nervous gesture that tells me she’s scared shitless. “I thought you preferred not to... I mean, you haven’t been home, so I assumed you didn’t want?—”
“Seven o’clock,” I repeat, cutting off her rambling. “Be ready.”
I turn to leave before I can do something stupid like ask her what she’s really afraid of or try to figure out why watching her fear makes me feel worse instead of better. Like reaching out to?—
No. Absolutely not.
I’m at the door when her voice stops me.
“Dimitri?”
My name on her lips makes my heart clench. It’s the first time she’s said it since our wedding night, when I had her underneath me, crying out that name as she came apart. The memory slams into me with unwanted force.
I don’t turn around. “What?”
“Thank you. For…” She trails off, and I can hear the confusion in her voice. Like she’s not sure what she’s thanking me for. “For checking on me. I know you didn’t have to.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because she’s right. I didn’t have to come here or confront her. I didn’t have to order her to eat dinner with me tomorrow. I could have kept avoiding her, watching through monitors, and pretending she doesn’t exist except as a chess piece in a game of revenge.
But here I am.
“Don’t think this means anything," I say, my voice cold. “You’re an investment. I need to make sure you’re... functional. That’s all.”
I walk out, closing the door firmly behind me, cutting off whatever she might have said. I make it to my office before I have to stop, bracing my hands on my desk, breathing hard like I’ve just run a marathon.
What the fuck am Idoing?
