He nods slowly. “For what it’s worth, I think telling her might surprise you. She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”
“I know exactly how strong she is. That’s the problem.” I return to my desk, dismissing the conversation. “Increase her security rotation. I want four guards minimum anytime she leaves the house. Get me updated threat assessments on every family who’s been asking questions about the Petrovs.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves. I’m alone with guilt that doesn’t fade and desire that feels increasingly like punishment.
Elena deserves better than this. Better than me, better than the situation I forced her into, better than protection motivated by atonement rather than genuine care.
Better isn’t an option I can give her.
So I give her what I can: safety, distance, and the lie that at least makes sense in the world she understands.
Chapter Twenty-One - Elena
Planning the escape takes three weeks.
Three weeks of watching, memorizing, playing the role of the compliant wife who’s accepted her fate. I eat when food is brought. Sleep when expected. Move through the house with practiced docility that makes guards relax around me.
All the while, I’m cataloging everything.
Guard rotations shift every eight hours. The changeover happens at 6:00 a.m., 2:00 p.m., and 10:00 p.m. During those fifteen-minute windows, coverage thins. Men move to new positions, adjust to different responsibilities, communicate shift notes. Small gaps appear in the surveillance.
The camera in the east service corridor lags by three seconds. I’ve timed it dozens of times, watching the delay between real movement and recorded footage. Three seconds isn’t much, but it’s enough to slip past if I move fast.
The service exit near the kitchens stays unlocked from 5:30 to 6:00 a.m. when staff arrive for breakfast preparation. The lock mechanism jams sometimes—I’ve heard maintenance complaining about it. No one has fixed it yet.
These are the pieces. Small vulnerabilities in a system designed to be impenetrable.
I can do this. I can actually do this.
The ring stays on my finger—taking it off would raise immediate suspicion. But emotionally, I’ve already detached. Already started thinking of myself as Elena Lawrence again, not Elena Sharov. The name still feels foreign. Wrong.
I refuse to let it become real.
Aleksandr notices the distance, I think. He watches me differently now, something heavy in his gaze that wasn’t therebefore. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t force proximity or demand explanations.
Maybe he’s busy with Bratva business. Maybe he’s satisfied that I’m cooperating.
Maybe he just doesn’t care as much as I’d stupidly started to believe.
It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving either way.
I move just before dawn on a Tuesday.
The guard rotation shifts at 6:00 a.m. I leave my room at 5:45, dressed in staff clothing I stole from the laundry weeks ago. Plain black pants, simple shirt, nothing that screams prisoner attempting escape.
My heart hammers so hard I’m certain everyone can hear it. But the corridors are quiet. Most of the household still sleeping, skeleton crew handling early morning duties.
I move through the service corridor, timing my steps with the camera lag. Three seconds. Hold position. Move during the gap. Repeat.
The service exit appears ahead. I press my ear against it, listening for voices, for movement, for any sign I’m about to walk into security.
Silence.
I turn the handle slowly. It gives without resistance; it’s unlocked, just like I’d hoped.
The door opens onto the back gardens, early morning light just starting to break over the horizon. Cold air hits my face, sharp and clarifying.
