A muscle in his jaw ticks. “The baby?—”
“The baby is fine!” I shout standing up and throwing my napkin onto the chair, two weeks of frustration finally exploding. “Dr. Petrov said so. The baby is growing perfectly. It’s getting everything it needs even if I’m sicker than a dog. So stop acting like I’m deliberately starving your precious Volkov heir!”
Dimitri’s nostrils flare and he sets his fork down. “That’s not what I?—”
“Oh yes it is!” I can feel hot and angry tears sliding down my cheeks and I swipe them away. “That’s exactly what this is about. You don’t care about me. You never have. I’m just the incubator for Alexei’s baby. A means to an end. Something to be fucking controlled!”
“You’re my wife?—”
“I’m your PRISONER!” The word echoes in the dining room and Dimitri stills. I breathe heavily. “You watch everything I do. Monitor what I eat. Control who I talk to. I can’t even fucking call mymotherwithout you appearing like some kind of—of controlling dictator! I’m not a child, Dimitri! I’m not a prisoner! I’m your wife, and you’re suffocating me!”
The silence that follows is deafening. Dimitri stares at me, his expression unreadable, his jaw so tight I swear I can see him grinding his teeth.
“Sit down,” he says quietly.
Is he serious right now? “No,” I snap.
“Vera—”
“No! I’m going to my room. I’m going to lie down. And I’m not eating another fucking bite tonight. So you can report that toyourself!” I storm toward the door, half-expecting him to stop me.
But he doesn't. He just sits there, watching me leave, and I can feel his eyes boring into my back the whole way.
I make it to my room before the tears really start and the anger gives way to exhaustion and fear and this overwhelming sense of helplessness.
I hate this. I hateallof this.
I hate being controlled. I hate being watched. I hate feeling like I’m not a person but a problem to be solved.
I cry into my pillow until I’m too exhausted to cry anymore and I’m empty and wrung out and so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes, there’s dried drool on the side of my mouth.
How long was I asleep for? I slowly sit up, wiping at my lips and look around the room.
That’s when I notice it.
There’s a plate on my bedside table covered with a metal top. Beside it, there’s a note. Curiously, I pick the note and unfold it. There, written in sharp, masculine handwriting,
Eat. - D
I lift the cover, and my breath catches.
It’s pasta. Bucatini with butter and parmesan. It’s nothing fancy, and most people would turn their nose up at it.
But it’s my favorite comfort food. I mentioned it weeks ago during one of those early hostile dinners. It was said in passing, not even thinking he was listening.
But he remembered.
I pick up the fork with shaking hands and take a bite. It’s perfect, exactly how I like it. Not too much sauce. Just butter and cheese and pasta.
I eat every last bite and for the first time in days, nothing comes back up.
When I’m done, I put the plate down and lie back on my bed, staring at that note.
Eat. - D
It’s not kind. Not exactly. There’s no apology or acknowledgment of the fight we just had. But it’s... well, it’ssomething. Some acknowledgment that he’s paying attention and that he’s trying, in his fucked-up, controlling way, to take care of me.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to reconcile the man who monitors my every move with the man who remembers my favorite food and makes sure I have it when I can’t eat anything else.
