The room tightens around us.
Timofey doesn’t hesitate.
He takes the envelope from the guard with calm, controlled precision. He nods once.
Then opens it.
The sound of the paper tearing feels too loud in the silence.
My chest tightens as his eyes drop to the contents.
I watch him.
Not the letter.
Him.
Waiting for something to change in his expression.
Waiting to see how bad it is.
But nothing changes. There’s no reaction at all. That alone tells me everything.
My gaze drops slowly to the paper in his hand.
I reach for it before I can stop myself.
Timofey doesn’t resist. He lets me take it.
My fingers tighten slightly as I read.
A short message.
Congratulations on your pregnancy.
I wish you good health—for both you and the child you carry.
Take these next two days and enjoy them.
Because when I arrive, you should prepare to die. You and your child.
Silence fills the room again.
He didn’t need more words.
For a moment, something cold presses against my chest. It’s fear, threatening to rise.
That’s what he wants.
I inhale slowly. Then again.
By the time I look up, my expression is steady.
I won’t give him that.
Not now.
Not ever again.
