Why didn’t you trust me?
I press my hand harder to my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Then I move.
I change out of the pale dress quickly, pulling on dark trousers, a black sweater, and the plainest coat I own. I wrap a scarf around my hair and tuck the ends into my collar. In the mirror, I look dull, forgettable, almost invisible.
I take cash from the small drawer where I keep it. Not much. Enough for a taxi. Enough to make a driver stop asking questions.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from my father’s number.
An address near the south canal.
I read it twice, then a third time, forcing myself to remember every word. I don’t know whether Yaromir tracks my phone. I assume he does. A man like him would call it protection and believe himself completely reasonable.
So I leave it on the vanity.
The pregnancy test stays hidden.
The phone stays behind.
I take only the cash and an old pair of gloves.
At the bedroom door, I pause and listen. The guard who usually stands at the far end of the hall is there, but his back is half turned while he speaks into a radio. I wait until he looks toward the main staircase, then slip out and move in the opposite direction.
My heart is beating so hard I feel it in my throat.
I know this house better now than I did when I first arrived. Not because anyone gave me a map. Because I have spent weeks being bored, watched, and quietly angry. I know which corridorslead to staff rooms. I know where the floorboards creak. I know the side staircase near the linen closet is used more by maids than guards.
I take that staircase. Halfway down, I hear men speaking below.
I freeze, one hand against the wall.
“East gate is covered,” one says.
“Viktor wants another man near the stables.”
Their voices move closer.
I duck into the small landing where folded sheets are stacked on shelves, pulling the door almost shut. Through the narrow gap, I watch two guards pass beneath me without looking up.
One of them laughs quietly at something.
Normal. Ordinary. Like I’m not standing ten feet away, sneaking out of my husband’s house to meet the man who betrayed me.
When their footsteps fade, I keep going.
The kitchen corridor is busier. That helps. A cook argues with someone about delivery invoices. A maid carries a tray of glasses toward the dining room. Two men unload crates near the service entrance, their coats damp from outside.
I lower my head and walk like I belong there. No one stops a woman who looks like staff and doesn’t hesitate.
At the last second, a young maid glances at my face. Her eyes widen.
I stare at her, silently begging.
Please.
She looks at the scarf, the coat, the cash clutched in my gloved hand.
