Page 30 of Cruel Submission

The gates to Ashwater Heights appear ahead. They swing open as we approach.

Stefan takes the drive at exactly twenty kilometers per hour. No faster. The gravel crunches under the tires in a rhythm I’ve heard a thousand times. The house rises ahead.

Mirabel’s inside somewhere. Probably stress-cleaning because I won’t let her leave the property.

Stefan parks at the east entrance—the service door that bypasses the main house.

“Bring everything up,” I tell him. “I’ll take the baby.”

I unhook the carrier and head inside before Fanny can object. The house wraps around me—warm air, lemon polish, the smell of whatever Mirabel baked this morning to burn off anxiety. The hallway stretches ahead, and I take the back stairs, boots silent on carpet.

The nursery door is closed. I nudge it open with my boot.

Yanis did good work. Crib in the corner, changing table stocked, a rocking chair by the window. Neutral colors. Nothing cute. Just functional space for keeping an infant alive.

A baby monitor blinks red on the dresser.

I set the carrier on the floor. Aleks shifts, face scrunching, but doesn’t wake.

Footsteps behind me—Fanny with the luggage. She enters and scans the room efficiently.

“This works,” she says.

“Unpack. Get him settled.” I pull out my phone, open a new note, and hand it to her. “Make a list of everything you need. Stefan will get it.”

She takes the phone. Her thumbs move over the screen—formula, bottles, wipes, diaper cream. The list grows. I watch her type, watch the way she’s already taking inventory, planning, organizing.

Good. I need organized. I need someone who can handle this without me holding their hand.

“When you’re done, text Stefan directly. His number’s already in there.” I head for the door. “And Fanny?”

She looks up.

“No one comes in this room. No one sees him. Not anyone I haven’t authorized.”

“Understood, Mr. Laurov.”

I leave her to it and walk three doors down to the Secret Room. The key is already in my hand—habit, muscle memory. I unlock it, step inside, close the door behind me.

Debra is sitting up on the bed. That’s new. Two days ago, she couldn’t hold her own weight, couldn’t speak without her eyes going somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t follow.

Now she’s dressed in clean clothes—gray sweatpants, cream sweater that’s too big for her. Her hair is clean, pulled back. There’s color in her cheeks.

“Arkady.” She says my name carefully, like she’s testing its weight. That’s new too.

“Debra.” I stay near the door. Don’t crowd her. Dr. Harrison was explicit about that—always let her see the exit, never block escape routes, treat every interaction like she might break. “How are you feeling?”

She takes her time answering. Her hands twist in her lap, then stop. Deliberate.

“Better,” she says finally. “Dr. Harrison gave me more medication. For when I can’t breathe.”

Panic attacks. He said they’d be violent enough that they’d look like cardiac arrest. Having witnessed a couple already, I don’t doubt him.

“Good.” I move to the chair by the window—slow, visible, hands loose. “I need to ask you about something. About what happened before. Can you do that?”

Her hands twist again. She presses them flat against her thighs.

“Okay.”