Tears blur my vision. I knew that, of course I did. It’s not lost on me that every step I took back then—every stolen glance, every kiss, every night I let myself fall deeper into him—was a choice. A choice to be part of something I didn’t fully understand until it was too late to walk away clean.
The moment I found out he was still alive, I knew it could end like this, but I was naive and let myself believe things could be different. I allowed myself to be seduced back into this life and his arms. And now it’s going to be the death of not just me, but my son, too.
Tears leak out of my eyes.
What do I do?
The question spirals in my head, louder than Mikhail’s voice, louder than the hum of the static still faintly bleeding through the receiver.
A memory crashes through the panic like a flare in the dark.
Last night. The nurse.
Her trembling hands as she offered me that scalpel. Despite the fear in her eyes, and the bruises I’d given her, she still helped me. She’d believed in me enough to hand me a way to get my freedom back. She’d gone out of her way, risked her own safety, just for me.
She’d had faith in me. She thought I was the one who might survive this and gave me a damn fighting chance.
My hand flexes around the receiver.
Even if I can’t use the scalpel, it still symbolizes something—a tiny splinter of hope glimmering amid the depressing darkness that is still threatening to consume me at every turn. It represents so much more than the sleepless nights I’ve spent wondering what will happen to me and my son, the desperation I’ve felt to get out of here.
It’s choice. The first one I’ve been offered since this all began.
Back before Maksim.
Before Mikhail.
Before I ever found that godforsaken flyer hanging off that telephone pole with the promise of a life-changing opportunity.
It’d come from someone like me. Someone trapped and afraid. Someone who knows what it feels like to be powerless under someone else’s boot and still chooses todosomething about it.
The scalpel says I still have a say in what happens to me. That I’m not finished yet. It reminds me who I am—a woman who once walked away from all of it and still lived to tell the tale.
And even if I never lift that scalpel once, justhavingit means I’m not as broken as they think I am. ThatIthink I am.
“If I convince him to give over the Bratva to you,” I say slowly, testing the words, “will you give me back my son? Let us go and never bother us again?”
Mikhail’s deafening silence is almost overwhelming.
The static hum of the receiver fills the space between us, every second ticking by like a countdown to a verdict I can’t bear to hear. My heart is pounding so violently, I swear he can hear it through the line.
“You are a clever one, Ivy. Though some might wager you’re also very foolish.”
I ignore the chill his tone puts down my spine. “Answer my question.”
There’s no falter in my voice now. No tremor to betray how on edge I feel negotiating like this. I’m certain I’ve piqued his interest. Not only because he didn’t automatically say no, but also because he hasn’t disconnected the call entirely for my proposing such an outlandish idea.
“If I can convince Maksim to give over the Bratva to you, will you give me my son back? Aliveandunharmed, and leave us alone for good? No more using us as bait for whatever games you want to play. No more keeping us as pawns to use against anyone.”
There’s another long beat, and then his tone changes, still calm and cold as before, but it’s dipped into something darker now. “What makes you so sure you can convince him to do something like that? You were merely sleeping with him. You held no high position within his ranks. You were only there to warm his bed and birth his heir.”
“Is he, or is he not, tearing apart the city right now looking for me?” I counter, forcing my tone to remain even.
There’s a pause, followed by a soft chuckle. “Fair point.”
I lean forward, voice tightening. “Then answer my question, Mikhail. If I get him to agree, do I get my son back? Yes or no.”
On the other end of the line, I hear him exhale a long, exaggerated sigh. Something taps in the background, slow and rhythmic. Fingers against a desk, maybe. Or the butt of a knife, drumming in thought. “I’m willing to think about it. I must say, Ivy, I didn’t expect this from you. You’ve certainly… proposed an interesting idea.”
