The temptation is to yell. To let rage blow through the room and scorch everything. To make her feel the same pain that’s twisting through my chest.
But yelling doesn’t change facts. And it doesn’t protect the baby or keep us alive. So, I keep my voice low and let my anger show in the form of clarity.
“He played you,” I tell her.
Lila’s shoulders shake once. She nods.
“And you played me,” I add.
Her face collapses again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”
I swallow hard, the motion tight. My eyes sting, and I refuse to let tears fall.
“What did he want from Kiren?” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
Lila shakes her head. “He kept calling it a business opportunity. He kept talking about leverage. Saying Kiren needed to be… managed.” Her mouth twists. “He talked like Kiren’s position was temporary.”
The words don’t sit right. They feel too big for what she thought she was helping with.
I replay the hallway in my mind. The gunshot. Arkady pulling rank. Ivan not backing down or retreating. Just absorbing it.
She looks at me like she wants to argue, but she can’t. Because the reality outside that wall is still echoing in my ears. A man died so Arkady could prove his authority. And Ivan answered by grabbing Lila like she was a loose end.
Men don’t act like that when they’re just running errands. They act like that when they believe they’re owed something.
Lila’s voice comes out small. “What do we do?”
The question is raw. For the first time, she isn’t trying to manage the story. She isn’t trying to keep control. She’s terrified.
I lift my hand and press it lightly to my abdomen, not rubbing or soothing, just reminding myself what’s important.
“We stay alive,” I tell her.
I stare at the door again. The frosted glass shows blurred shadows moving past now and then. No details or faces. Only movement and the reminder that we’re being contained.
“We watch,” I tell her. “We listen and wait for a mistake.”
Lila shakes her head. “They won’t make one.”
“They already did,” I reply as my voice gets colder. “They kept us together.”
Her eyes quickly drop to my abdomen, and she drags them back up like she didn’t mean to look at all.
I see it clearly now. It isn’t cruelty or betrayal in her eyes, but fear for the life I’m carrying in a situation that doesn’t care what it breaks.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” she whispers, and this time it isn’t defensive. It’s wrecked.
I hold her gaze.
The anger is still there. It hasn’t faded, and it won’t disappear overnight. But beneath it is something deeper, a quieter ache that lingers where the heat of it can’t reach.
I see her desperation. The brother she’s trying to save. The debt she couldn’t fix. The way Ivan found the weakest place in her life and pressed until it gave.
“I know,” I say quietly.
And I do. That doesn’t mean I forgive her. It means I understand how she got here.
Down the corridor, a door opens and closes again, the sound followed by the muted thud of boots moving past and the faint jingle of keys before everything recedes into the distance.
