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The watch. Our encrypted line.

I angle my wrist, eyes scanning the message scrolling across the diamond-studded face.

STAY STRONG. WE'RE WORKING ON IT. – Z

The words hit harder than any touch, solid ground beneath my feet when everything else threatens to collapse. I’m not alone. Not completely.

The bathroom door creaks open. Dr. Lebedev steps out, latex gloves already in place, his movements swift despite his size. He stations himself at the foot of the chair.

“Feet in stirrups,” he commands, not bothering to look at my face.

I comply, swallowing my revulsion as I place my feet in the cold metal supports. The vulnerability of the position makes my skin crawl, memories of the clinic during my captivity threatening to overwhelm me.

“This will be cold,” Dr. Lebedev warns, his voice devoid of empathy.

The shock of the cold speculum makes me flinch despite my determination to remain stoic. I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling, retreating into my mind as the doctor's clinical examination proceeds. His touch is impersonal, mechanical, just another man handling my body without my consent.

I hear the door opening, but assume it's one of the female guards checking on the examination's progress.

“We are not done here,” the doctor bellows from between my legs.

“Leave us.” The voice attached to that command chills my blood. I shift, just enough to see Dmitri standing in the doorway. “Get out,” Dmitri commands, his voice quiet yet carrying such authority that Dr. Lebedev immediately withdraws the speculum and straightens.

The doctor nods stiffly, stripping off his gloves and gathering his instruments. He moves past Dmitri, the door closing behind him with a soft click that echoes in the sudden silence.

I scramble to close my legs, fighting against the stirrups that hold them apart. Humiliation burns through me, hot and suffocating as I struggle to maintain what little dignity I have left. Dmitri watches me, his expression unreadable as he stepsfurther into the room. With a few short steps, he’s at my spread feet

“Get your hands off me,” I snap, trying to push myself out of the chair, but Dmitri moves with unexpected speed.

His hand shoots out, pressing against my knee, stopping my attempt to close my legs. “Not yet,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “I want to see what my wife’s blood bought me.”

“Don't you dare,” I hiss, struggling against his grip, but he's stronger than he looks, his fingers digging into my skin as he forces my legs to remain spread in the stirrups.

“Stop fighting,” Dmitri commands, stepping between my legs where the doctor stood moments before. “If we're to be married tomorrow, I should know what I'm getting, shouldn't I?”

I twist against his hold. “I am not merchandise to be inspected.”

His fingers press harder, bruising my skin as he leans closer. “Everything in this house belongs to my father. Soon, you'll belong to me.” His free hand moves toward my inner thigh, and I recoil from his touch.

“I belong to no one,” I spit, summoning all my strength to kick out with my right leg, wrenching it free from the stirrup. My heel connects with his shoulder, sending him stumbling back a step.

Dmitri recovers quickly, his expression shifting from shock to something darker as he straightens. The blow didn’t injure him—only caught him off guard.

“I like it when they fight back,” he snarls. “Breaking you will almost be worth the cost.”

I yank my other leg free from the stirrup, scrambling backward until my back hits the raised portion. My dress is bunched around my waist, my dignity in tatters, but my eyes never leave his face as I reach for anything I could use as a weapon.

“Did you fight my cousins when they fucked you? Did you let your security guard stick his dick inside of you like a fucking whore, Vesper?”

His words hit like physical blows, but I refuse to show how they affect me. Instead, I reach for the only weapon within reach, a metal speculum from the doctor's abandoned tray.

“Touch me again and I'll gouge your eyes out,” I say, calm and cold, each word honed to cut through the heat of my rage.

Dmitri studies me, his head tilting slightly as if seeing me for the first time. To my surprise, he laughs, a sound devoid of humor that raises gooseflesh along my arms. “You think I'm the monster here? My father just executed my wife. The mother of my—” He stops abruptly, jaw clenching as something like grief flashes across his features before hardening into rage.

“Your wife was a fraud,” I remind him, still clutching the speculum. “And that boy is my son.”

“A son you've never met. A son deprived of his mother because of you.”