Page 106 of Cruel Submission

I watch it land on her. The way her face works through disbelief, then resistance—because Debra has learned that good news is often the prelude to worse news—and then, slowly, the resistance giving way to something softer.

“Really?”

“Really. The nurse said Dr. Klein called it remarkable.”

Her shoulders drop, tension draining from her. “Oh, thank God,” she breathes.

I pull her into me. She comes willingly, her face tucked into the curve of my neck, her hand finding my belly and resting there as if she needs to touch all the proof of life she can reach. My daughter kicks against her aunt’s palm.

“He’s going to be okay?” She pulls back enough to look at me.

“He’s fighting. And he’s winning.” I wipe my face with the heel of my hand. “We’ll go see him as soon as we can. When things settle here.”

When things settle. As if things are a tablecloth that got ruffled and not the entire structure of our safety, blown open by a man with a convoy of killers.

But the news has done something—shifted the air, at least in our corner of it. Debra’s breathing has evened out. Her color is coming back. She’s still shaking faintly, but the worst has passed. She’s here. She’s okay.

I want to go to Dad. Right now, tonight… drive to St. Mary’s and sit beside his bed and hold his hand and tell him about the engagement, about the ring, about the way Arkady stood in front of a garden full of people and called me the woman of his dreams. I want to tell him about the shooting too, because I’m sick of curating the truth, sick of shaving off the ugly parts before handing them over to the people I love.

But that’s impossible. The gates are sealed, the guards posted, and Arkady’s eyes carry the cold look of a man who won’t risk another breach until every entrance is covered and every vulnerability handled. Ashwater Heights is a cage and a fortress simultaneously, and the only way to survive tonight is to accept both.

Yanis leans toward Debra. “Let me get you some water.”

She nods. “Thanks.”

He stands, touches her shoulder lightly, and crosses to the sideboard. Pours water from a jug that was meant for guests celebrating a proposal. Brings it back. Debra drinks half in one go, the action seeming to steady her.

Across the room, Arkady catches my eye. He doesn’t come over—still in operational mode—but his expression changes for half a second. A question: Are you all right?

I mouth the words across the ruined party: Dad’s getting better.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Recognition. The acknowledgment that, in the middle of the worst evening of our shared life, one thread held.

He nods. Turns back to Stefan, who’s reappeared with a tablet.

Debra settles against my side. Her hand finds mine.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she says.

“You won’t be,” I say.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Arkady

The house is quiet by midnight.

Wrong kind of quiet—the kind that sits too heavy.

Mirabel is upstairs with Debra, asleep or pretending to be. Aleks is in the nursery with Fanny. The last of the guests cleared out hours ago, ushered into cabs and Ubers by men with earpieces and holstered weapons, sent home with a story nobody will believe and an evening nobody will forget.

Oh, the Laurov engagement? Lovely catering. Bit of a shooting. Pass the butter.

I haven’t slept. Won’t sleep. My fucking father isn’t finished. The attack today was a statement—a declaration, not a conclusion. My father doesn’t make declarations unless he’s already planning the next act. And whatever that next act is, it will be worse. He’ll come better armed, better prepared, and with the savagery of a man who has been publicly humiliated.

I need my men.

They gather quickly. The conference room fills in under twenty minutes, which tells me everything about the state of this house tonight. Nobody was sleeping. Nobody was even trying.