“I can’t,” I manage. “I’m not hungry. The smell is awful.”
“Mr. Volkov’s orders,” she repeats, setting the tray on my lap with more force than necessary. “Eat.”
She stands there, arms crossed, waiting and watching, like a fucking prison guard making sure I comply.
I manage three bites of toast before I have to run to the bathroom and throw it all up.
When I emerge, weak and shaky, Mrs. Kozlov is gone. But within minutes, my phone—the house phone I’m not supposed to have access to—rings. I pick it up in confusion.
“Hello?”
“You didn’t eat breakfast,” Dimitri says accusingly.
My mouth drops open. How did he know so fast? I wasn’t in the bathroom that long. “I tried. I couldn’t keep it down.”
“Try harder. The baby needs nutrition.”
“The baby needs me to not vomit everything I eat!” My voice rises, frustration bubbling over. “I can’t help the morning sickness. I’m trying?—”
“Try harder,” he repeats and hangs up.
That’s how it goes. Every meal. Every day.
If I skip lunch because I’m too nauseous, Mrs. Kozlov reports it. Within minutes, Dimitri appears with fury in his gray eyes demanding to know why I’m not eating.
If I only manage half a meal, he knows. He always fuckingknows.
If I spend too long in the bathroom being sick, someone tells him.
Everything I do is reported, monitored, and controlled.
I’m not allowed to leave the estate or use the phones. When I find a staff phone in the kitchen and try to call my mother, it disconnects mid-dial. Two minutes later, Dimitri is there, yanking the phone from my hand.
“Hey!” I lunge for the phone, but he holds it firmly out of reach, a murderous look in his eye.
“No contact with your family,” he snaps. “Not until I’m sure they’re not behind the attack and I know you’re safe.”
“Safe?” I laugh bitterly. “I’m a prisoner in this house. You monitor everything I do, eat, and where I go. How is that keeping me safe? This is about control, not protection!”
“Call it whatever you want.” He turns away, dismissing me. “The rules stand.”
The staff treats me differently now too. It’s not overt hostility anymore (which is a relief) but now, I’m treated like an unwanted responsibility. Something to be managed and reported on.
Anya is the only one who shows any warmth, and even she’s careful. She brings me ginger tea without being asked, leaves crackers by my bedside for when the nausea hits at night. Small kindnesses she has to hide because showing me any compassion might get her in trouble.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her one morning when she brings me plain toast instead of the heavy breakfast Mrs. Kozlov ordered.
She just nods, glances over her shoulder nervously, and hurries away.
Everyone is afraid of him. Everyone follows his orders without question.
And I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.
Dr. Petrov’s daily visits become their own special form of torture.
Every morning at nine am, he arrives with his medical bag and his kind smile and his endless questions. And every morning, Dimitri is there too.
He stands by the window, arms crossed, watching and listening to every word and my every answer. He knows every detail about my body and the baby growing inside it.
