Page 120 of Cruel Submission

“I’ll go grab a few maternity dresses,” I tell Yanis and Debra as we finish up at the register, bags heavy with purchases. “There’s a boutique two stores down. Meet you at the restaurant across the road?”

Yanis’s eyes sweep the area. I can see him calculating—distances, exits, the positions of the security detail he’s been tracking on his phone all afternoon. “Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Then I’m coming to find you.”

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Debra squeezes my arm as I pass. Brief contact, light pressure. The kind of touch she gives now that she’s learning her own body is safe again. I squeeze back.

The boutique is small, tasteful, populated by mannequins wearing floral wrap dresses and linen trousers designed for women whose bodies have been colonized by small humans. I move through the racks with purpose, selecting four dresses that might accommodate both my current shape and whatever shape Sara decides to reshape me into over the next few weeks. A dark green wrap. A soft gray jersey that drapes without clinging. A navy print with an adjustable waist. And a cream midi dress that I have no business buying, but that makes me feel like something other than an incubator.

The fitting room is at the back, a corridor of curtained stalls, mirrors on every surface, the smell of new fabric, and someone’s abandoned cappuccino. I slip into the last stall, hang the dresses on the hook, and begin the awkward process of undressing around a stomach that has its own gravitational field.

The green wrap fits. The gray jersey is perfect—soft enough to sleep in, structured enough to wear to dinner. The navy print makes me look like a sophisticated sofa cushion, so that’s a no. I’m reaching for the cream dress when the curtain moves.

I start to say occupied, but a body is already inside the stall, fast and close and silent, and a hand clamps over my mouth before the word can leave.

“Don’t make a scene.” A woman’s voice. Low. Controlled. Her breath is warm against my ear, carrying the chemical sweetness of mint gum. She’s behind me, taller than me, her grip firm and precise.

The hand stays on my mouth. Her other hand draws the curtain shut with a single motion.

Then I see the gun.

Silencer attached. Held casually at waist height, angled toward my belly.

Shit.

Everything in me contracts. Not just fear—something deeper, older, animal. A mother’s instinct wrapping itself around the baby inside me like armor made of terror and adrenaline. My hands go instinctively to my stomach, covering Sara, shielding her with flesh and bone and the only protection I can offer.

“You’re coming with me quietly,” the woman says. She steps around to face me. Blonde. Mid-thirties. An unremarkable face designed to disappear in crowds. The kind of woman you’d pass on the street without a second glance. That’s what makes her dangerous. “There are two men outside. Don’t make them use force.”

“Who are you?” The words come out muffled against her palm. She removes her hand but keeps the gun where it is, aimed at the few inches of skin and muscle that separate my daughter from a hollow-point bullet.

“Shut up and do as I say.”

Through the fitting room window, partially obscured by the curtain, I catch a glimpse of two men standing in the boutique. Large. Positioned with the casual intent of professionals who know how to look like they belong. One is browsing a rack of dresses with absolutely zero conviction. The other stands near the door, arms folded, watching the corridor.

My fingers move. Slowly, carefully, while the woman’s eyes are on the window. I reach for my purse hanging on the back of the stall door. The wristband with the panic button on it. If I can just press it, just brush it with my thumb—

My fingers find the purse’s clasp. Work it open. Reach inside, feeling past my wallet, my phone, the lip balm I carry everywhere. The disk shape of the button is there, right at the bottom, and I think—I think—my thumb grazes it. A millisecond of contact, maybe enough to activate the signal, maybe not.

The woman’s hand snaps out. Fast. Rips the purse from my grip before I can confirm the press.

“You won’t be needing that where we’re going.”

No.

She hooks the strap over her own shoulder and jerks the gun toward the curtain. Move.

I dress quickly, pulling my clothes on with fingers that won’t cooperate. My mind is running calculations: where is Yanis? How many minutes since I left him? Has he noticed the time? Is the security detail watching this entrance?

She opens the curtain and walks me out.

The two men fall into formation, one ahead, one behind, the woman at my side with her hand wrapped around my upper arm. The gun is hidden now, tucked beneath a jacket draped over her forearm, but I can feel its shape pressed against my ribs through the fabric. A harsh reminder that compliance is not optional.

I scan for Arkady’s security. The plainclothes men who’ve been shadowing us all day, the ones dressed as shoppers and coffee drinkers and bored husbands. They should be here. They should be everywhere.