Page 50 of Cruel Submission

My voice splinters.

I can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep lying awake at night wondering if he’s with someone else. Can’t keep pretending my growing stomach won’t give me away soon. Can’t keep choosing him over my own self-respect.

“I can’t give you what you’re asking for.” His voice is quieter now. Careful. Like he’s trying not to detonate something fragile.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t.”

The non-answer feels like being locked out of a room I’m standing right in front of.

“Fine.” I step back, putting distance between us because if I stay within reach, I’ll do something stupid like hit him or kiss him or both. “Then we’re done here.”

“Mirabel—”

“I said we’re done.”

This time, when I walk out, he doesn’t try to stop me.

The hallway stretches endlessly ahead of me. I’m not sure I want to do this, but I keep walking anyway because the alternative is turning around, and I’ve already given him too many chances to choose me.

By the time I reach my room, the adrenaline is turning to something colder. Something that’s hard and unyielding. Unreasonable. I push through the door, and it swings shut behind me with a dull thud that matches the flatline rhythm of my thoughts.

He has a secret family.

He’s living a double life.

And I’m the idiot who fell for him anyway.

The tears come hot and fast, blurring everything. I let them. There’s no one here to see, no one to judge. Just me and the wreckage of my own poor choices.

God, you’re a fool, Mirabel.

I should’ve known better. Should’ve kept my distance. Should’ve remembered that men like Arkady Laurov don’t fall for the help—they use them and move on.

I press my palm flat against my stomach.

Another week, maybe two, and he’ll notice. He’s too observant not to. And when he does, when he realizes I’ve been keeping my own secret, what then? Will he feel betrayed? Angry?

Will he care at all?

The thought makes me cry harder.

I can’t do this. Can’t stay in this house, in this life, wondering if every closed door is hiding another piece of the truth he refuses to share. Can’t raise my baby in a world as fucked up as this.

I pull out my phone with shaking hands and scroll to Dad’s number. My thumb hovers over the call button.

But I can’t.

Not yet. Not until his next round of treatment is finished and paid for. Not until I know he’s stable.

So I’m trapped. Caught between leaving and staying. Between loving Arkady and hating him. Between protecting my secret and demanding the truth about his.

The sobs wrack through me until there’s nothing left. Until I’m hollow and empty and so tired I can barely hold my head up.

I crawl into bed fully clothed, curling into myself, arms wrapped around my middle.

This is it. This is the moment I stop being such an idiot.