Page 66 of Cruel Submission

He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His clothes are still in the hallway, so he’s naked as he stalks toward the door.

“Arkady—”

He doesn’t look back. Just walks out, leaving me sitting on his bed, feeling like the stupidest person to ever walk this earth.

The door doesn’t slam. That would be too much emotion. It just closes. Final.

I sit there silently, my body still humming from what we just did. What I just did. My heart throbbing with anger and hurt.

That’s it. I really am done here.

Yeah, right.

How many times have I told myself that? Made the decision to leave, only to let him pull me back in? Too many. Every time I think I can walk away, something happens—a look, a touch, a rare flash of vulnerability—and I’m right back here.

But I can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep spinning in this cycle.

I don’t have much time anyway. A few more weeks, maybe a month, before he sees and demands answers, and everything becomes even more impossible than it already is.

I’m so angry at myself. So furious that I can’t stay away from him. And deep down, beneath all the justifications, I know it’s not really about the money. Not about Dad’s treatment or financial security.

It’s this. This inexplicable, visceral pull to Arkady that defies every logical reason to run.

But tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m leaving.

Before he can pull me back again. Before I lose what little resolve I have left.

Before this thing between us destroys me completely.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mirabel

This is it. This is the day I’m getting the hell out of here.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them flat against the bedspread, smoothing wrinkles that aren’t there, erasing the evidence of my body from these sheets. The room looks pristine—windows gleaming, surfaces dust-free, the sharp bite of lemon polish still lingering in the air. Months of my life compressed into the clinical scent of cleanliness.

I’ve finished my weekly tasks. The house is in perfect order. And now, after finding that pawnshop willing to take Mom’s ring—the one with the flawless diamond she wore every day of her marriage—I have enough cash to keep Dad’s treatment going for another month, maybe two.

The ring felt like tearing off a piece of my own skin. The jeweler weighed it without looking at me, pushed bills across the counter like he was buying scrap metal instead of the last tangible piece of the woman who used to braid my hair and sing off-key in the kitchen.

But Dad needs to live more than I need to hold onto ghosts.

I swallow the grief threatening to climb up my throat. No time for falling apart. No time for anything except getting out before I lose my nerve.

My day off. The one day Arkady’s surveillance loosens just enough to breathe.

The protest started an hour ago—eco-activists blocking downtown traffic, chanting about corporate greed. I watched it on the morning news and thought: Perfect. Crowds mean chaos. Chaos means I can disappear into a sea of bodies where even his most loyal guard won’t be able to track me without causing a scene.

I’ve already told Volodya I want to hit the boutiques near the protest route. He didn’t question it. Why would he? I’m just the housekeeper going shopping on her day off, same as it’s been since Arkady decided I was too valuable to let out of his sight.

Except this time, I’m vanishing into that crowd and never coming back.

The duffel bag sits on my bed, bulging more than it should. I packed it last night after Arkady left—clothes rolled tight, toiletries wedged into every gap, Mom’s photo album wrapped in a sweater. It’s bigger than my usual shopping bag. Volodya might notice.

Or maybe I’m delusional for thinking any of this will work.

My stomach twists, nausea rolling through me—pregnancy or terror, I can’t tell anymore. The baby makes itself known with a flutter that might be movement or might just be my body tearing itself apart from the inside.