Page 32 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

Inside the pharmacy, the lights are bright enough to make me squint. Shelves run in straight rows. Boxes sit lined up clean and even. Everything looks tidy, watched, and easy to scan. That only makes me more aware of the men trailing me through it.

A man behind the counter steps forward at once. “Can I help you?”

“Vitamin D,” I say. “And cod liver oil capsules, if you have them.”

“Of course. Standard bottles of one hundred and fifty capsules. We also have imported stock. Higher strength.”

Damn. “Show me.”

I turn slightly, letting my back block Mrs. Wentworth while my eyes keep moving. The man starts up the aisle. “This way.”

Mrs. Wentworth leans in beside him. “Do you have Ginkgo? I need it for my balance.”

“We do, Madam. People take it for many things.”

She’s caught on.

Good. Let her hold him.

I move off at an easy pace. One aisle, then the next, shelf by shelf.

Then I see it.

Tucked near the back beside fertility kits and the vitamins people buy fast and hide faster. Small box. Plain white and blue. No branding tricks. I pick up two and slide them between other items. At the counter, I pay without looking up. The girl bags everything neatly, her eyes flicking once to the men behind me, then back to the register.

Mrs. Wentworth joins me, pleased with herself. “Reasonable prices,” she says lightly.

“Wonderful,” I reply.

Back in the car, I keep the bag in my lap while Mrs. Wentworth sits beside me, still none the wiser about what’s inside. Good for her. The estate gates open for us, then close again behind the car. I walk inside, nod once at Mrs. Wentworth, and head straight up to my room. I lock the door and my hands stay steady until I open the bag. Then they don’t.

I take the box into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. Then I just stand there with it in my hand. If I don’t move, I don’t have to know yet.

I sit on the edge of the tub and stare at the strip in my hand until the second line stops looking like bad light. I check the instructions, take the second test, and wait again. When that one turns positive too, I set both on the closed toilet lid and brace my hands on my knees.

Then I wrap them in tissue and shove them into the back of the drawer under spare towels. I rinse my hands twice, stand at the sink, and look at a face that still looks like mine. Nothing gives it away yet. I hold on to that. If this reaches Maksim’s world, it stops being private. Men will count blood before I’ve even had time to think.

I don’t sleep.

By morning I’ve hidden the tests, put the vitamins out where anyone can see them, and started changing small things. Less food. More water. Slower stairs. Mrs. Wentworth notices first and swaps my breakfast for crackers, apple, and pickled cucumber without asking.

Maksim notices three days later. In the legal room, he sets down his pen, comes around the table, and looks at me too closely.

“You barely touched dinner,” he says.

“Are you tracking my meals now?”

“I’m tracking you.”

Then he slides the water glass into my hand and asks, “Are you sick?”

That’s when the fear settles properly. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone here. If this gets out, it stops being news about my body and becomes a matter for men with power, blood, and opinions. By the time they’re done with it, there may be nothing left that still feels like mine.

10

MAKSIM

Isit in the chair by the balcony doors. The guards are on shift, the feeds are live, and the perimeter has been checked twice. At this hour, nobody comes near me. They know better.