“So here’s what happens,” Artyom says, pulling out a phone. “We contact Aleksandr. Tell him we have you. Make demands. He agrees, or—” He shrugs. “—unfortunate things happen to his very important wife.”
“He won’t care.”
“He will. Trust me.” Artyom’s expression hardens. “Men like Sharov don’t marry random women. Don’t invest this much in protection and control. You’re valuable. Whether you realize it or not.”
Nausea hits again, stronger this time. I swallow hard, trying to force it down. Stress. Fear. The drugs they used. All of it combining into waves of dizziness that make focusing difficult.
It’s been happening before today too. The nausea in the mornings. The way certain smells make my stomach turn. The exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.
No. No, it can’t be.
“You look pale,” Artyom observes. “Probably the sedative. Should wear off in a few hours.”
I don’t think it’s the sedative. Don’t think it’s just fear and exhaustion.
My hand moves instinctively behind my back, pulling at the ties. The motion is small, barely noticeable, but Artyom catches it. His eyes narrow.
“Interesting,” he says softly. “Very interesting.”
“I’m not—it’s not—”
“When was your last period?”
The question is clinical. Invasive. None of his fucking business.
My mind is already calculating. Counting backwards. Trying to remember the last time I—
Four weeks. I’ve been so distracted by escape planning, by emotional turmoil, by everything else that I didn’t notice. Didn’t track it.
The night in his office. The lack of protection. The way Aleksandr…
Oh God.
“You don’t know,” Artyom says, watching my face. “Do you? You haven’t even realized yet.”
“Realized what?” But the denial sounds hollow even to me.
“That you’re pregnant.” He says it with certainty. “That you’re carrying Aleksandr Sharov’s child. That you’re not just leverage; you’re the ultimate leverage.”
The room spins. Nausea surges and this time I can’t stop it. I lean forward as far as the restraints allow and vomit, the contents of my empty stomach burning up my throat.
When it finally stops, I’m shaking. Cold sweat coating my skin. The zip ties cutting deeper as my hands clench into fists behind my back.
“This is good,” Artyom is saying, speaking to his men in rapid Russian. I catch fragments: “…better than expected… maximum value… Sharov will pay anything.”
“Better than we thought,” he continues in English, clearly for my benefit. “Sharov will pay anything to get you back now. Anything to protect his heir.”
Chapter Twenty-Two - Aleksandr
I know something is wrong before the alarm finishes sounding.
It’s 6:15 a.m. Elena’s guard should have reported in. He hasn’t.
I pull up the camera feeds. Her room is empty. Bed made. No sign of struggle.
She left voluntarily.
The realization hits like ice water. She planned this. Watched. Waited. Executed with precision during the exact window when coverage was thinnest.
