He’s probably going to kill me.
I know this is all supposed to be hush-hush. Eyes-only. Secret compound with an ocean view and enough silent hallways to film a horror movie. No one’s supposed to know where I am—not even the mailman. Definitely not my best friend with boundary issues and a screenshot addiction.
But I texted Elena the full address. Latitude. Longitude. Gate code. Annotated Google pin.
In my defense, I needed to be sure I’m not pregnant. I’ve always been regular—clockwork, even. And now? Now I’m late, trapped in a luxury fortress with stone bathtubs and mafia ghosts, healing from a crash I barely survived. I miss my life. My siblings. My deadlines. I needed something real to hold on to. Elena is that.
I also told her not to come unless I go radio silent for more than 48 hours or start posting inspirational quotes about loyalty.
So, really, it’s a safety measure. Kind of.
It’s not that I don’t trust the people here.
Okay. No, that’s exactly it.
But I also kind of do. In a weird, mafia Stockholm Syndrome sort of way. Which is probably a red flag. But the point is—Elena’s the only one who knows the real me. The before-all-this me. If I don’t keep some thread of that girl alive, I’m gonna wake up one day with a diamond gun holster and my own seat at the family table and think that’s normal.
It’s not.
None of this is.
Twenty minutes later, I leave my room. I promised Alya we’d paint together before dinner, and I meant it. Instead of takingthe main stairs, I veer right—toward the kids’ wing. The hallway on that side is longer, a little quieter. More art on the walls. Soft rugs.
I walk slowly, crutches thudding lightly beneath me. I’m in leggings and a long, oversized T-shirt from the stack of clothes I packed from my own closet when I came over—the softest thing I own that doesn’t scream “tragic hostage.” My hair’s still damp and dripping down my back in little curls. I smell like jasmine shampoo and a little bit of paranoia.
I turn a corner near the far bedrooms. That’s when I hear it.
Voices.
Soft. Low. Muffled through a half-open door I’ve never really noticed before. Yelena’s room? Her study?
“—bloodwork came back this morning,” Dr. Katya says.
Yelena answers after a pause. Her voice is clipped, low. “I want it confirmed.”
“She’s pregnant. There’s no doubt. We caught it early because of the trauma panel we ran after the wreck. I didn’t think she even knew yet.”
Silence.
Then: “No one can know,” Yelena says coldly. “Not yet. Especially not Konstantin.”
The silence is a different kind now. Like the floor just dropped.
“What are you going to do?” Dr. Katya asks cautiously.
A pause. Then Yelena’s voice drops to a razor whisper.
“If word gets out, everything we’ve built will be questioned. She’s not ready. He can’t know. Not yet.”
Another beat.
Dr. Katya says quietly, “Yelena—she’s the one who—”
Yelena interrupts, voice icy and controlled. “No one else needs to know yet. Not her. Not Konstantin. Not anyone.”
A pause. Then softer, almost to herself: “She may not even realize yet.”
My breath catches.
