Page 29

29

Alina

I hear the click of the lock before the door even swings open, but I don’t stand. I don’t move. I’ve learned the value of stillness here—how staying still sometimes keeps you from being noticed.

Mendes strides in with a confident swagger, wearing a button-down shirt as if this were a business meeting and not a prison. Behind him follows a man I haven’t seen before—bald, thick around the middle, and carrying a black medical bag that swings like a weapon at his side. His expression is blank, but there’s a hardness in his eyes.

He is definitely not the kind of doctor who saves lives. Instead, he is the kind who uses his knowledge for power.

“This is Dr. Henaro,” Mendes says, like he’s introducing a dinner guest. “He’s going to help confirm the wonderful news.”

Wonderful.

My stomach coils.

Henaro doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. He opens his bag and pulls out a small plastic pouch. “We’ll need a urine sample,” he says, his voice rough, not from age but from habit—like someone used to shouting over screaming patients or silencing them entirely.

He holds out a plastic container toward me.

Mendes watches me, arms folded, an evil smile playing on his lips. “Cooperate, my dear wifey. It makes everything easier.”

There it is again. That delusion. That twisted pet name he’s adopted as if he has the right to it. He talks like we’re already halfway down the aisle. Like I haven’t spent every waking moment planning how I might escape.

I reach for the container with shaking fingers.

“Bathroom’s through there. Don’t take long.” Mendes says.

I make mechanical steps toward the bathroom. The mirror above the sink is cracked—five jagged fractures like a spiderweb splitting my reflection apart. I stare at myself for a second longer than I should. My eyes look haunted. My lips are pale. I’m not the girl who came here.

I close the door, lower the toilet lid, and sit. The humiliation of it hits me fast and deep.

I’m peeing into a plastic cup so that the man who kidnapped me can decide if I get to keep the child growing inside me.

Tears threaten.

I choke them down.

I hold the warm container in my hands like it’s a live grenade and walk back out into the room.

Mendes is still smiling. Dr. Henaro is tapping a test strip impatiently against his hand.

As I approach, I “trip” slightly, and the container jolts. A thin stream splashes onto Henaro’s coat.

“Oh,” I say softly. “Oops.”

I don’t look away.

His lips thin. Mendes’s eyes narrow because I know exactly what I just did. And so do they.

Henaro looks down at the spreading stain on his pristine white coat. Disgust flashes across his face, but it’s controlled—this man is used to messes, though clearly not ones he can’t punish.

Mendes’s reaction is slower and colder. His expression doesn’t change at first. He simply tilts his head, like he’s observing a child misbehaving. But there’s something behind his eyes. A flicker of something mean and gleaming and unstable.

Delusion cracking at the edges.

“You think that’s funny?” Mendes asks, his voice calm—too calm.

I don’t answer.

My cheek is still stinging from the last time he touched me, but I stand straighter anyway. My fingers tremble, but I hold my ground. Maybe I want him to see it. Maybe I want him to know that no matter how he dresses me up or pins me down, I’m not his.

He takes one step forward and then another. I brace myself before I feel the sting that turns to a white-hot explosion across my face. My head snaps to the side, and my knees buckle slightly.

“You disrespect the doctor again,” Mendes says tightly, “and I’ll forget that I ever wanted to make you my wife.”

You never wanted a wife. You want ownership. I scream internally.

I wipe at my mouth and say nothing, though the sting burns all the way down my spine.

Henaro clicks his tongue and takes the container from my hand with a sharp jerk. He doesn’t even look at me as he walks over to the table and begins prepping the test strip.

“You think this little rebellion of yours changes anything?” Mendes murmurs. He’s closer now, his breath hitting my skin. “You’ll learn, Alina. You’ll learn to obey. And in time, you’ll thank me for putting you back in your place.”

His words crawl over my skin like rot.

He’s sick and mistaken if he thinks that I’ll ever be his.

He actually believes this fantasy he’s built—me, him, married, like some twisted fairytale with a crown made of chains.

I glance at the door, which is still locked and guarded. Hope feels too fragile in my chest, but I cling to it anyway. Because what else do I have?

Doctor Henaro holds the strip up to the light. The tension thickens like molasses. Two lines appear—bold and undeniable.

Positive.

“Well?” Mendes asks.

Henaro nods without even looking at me. “She’s pregnant. I’ll need to see her in the clinic to determine how far along. Preferably tomorrow.”

Mendes’s smile returns, but it’s devoid of joy. It’s all teeth and venom.

“Fine. Tomorrow it is.”

He turns to me, his gaze flicking over my stomach like I’m carrying something he already owns.

“You’ll be ready to go,” he says, his voice like ice. “Because once we confirm how far along you are, I’ll do what needs to be done.”

I swallow hard. “What does that mean?”

He leans in, his words soft but laced with malice. “It means we end this farce. The baby, the so-called husband, the stupid little elopement you thought would save you. I’ll find your marriage record, and I’ll have it destroyed. In the blink of an eye.”

His fingers trail along my jaw where he struck me, and I flinch.

“You were always meant to be mine, Alina,” he whispers. “And I don’t let what’s mine go.”

He’s pacing again.

Not frantically, but with that same smug calculation he wears like a second skin. One hand behind his back, the other gesturing like he’s giving a speech no one asked for.

“Well,” he says with theatrical satisfaction, “at least now we know. No more lies. No more drama. You’re pregnant. And that makes things simple.”

Simple.

I nearly laugh.

There is nothing simple about the hell I’m in.

“I’ll have Henaro run the dates tomorrow,” he continues. “We’ll confirm how far along you are, and then…” He waves a hand, as if the life growing inside me is just an inconvenient clause in a contract. “We’ll handle it.”

My mouth goes dry. “Handle it?”

He turns toward me, smile fading, expression hardening. “Don’t act stupid. We both know this pregnancy ends tomorrow.”

A tremble runs through me.

No. No. No.

This is mine. This baby is all I have left of Lev. Of that night. Of something real in a world built on blood and lies.

I move a step back before I can stop myself.

His eyes flash, and he closes the distance just as fast, his hand catching my wrist—not cruelly, but firmly. Like a man claiming what he believes is already his.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he says gently.

I flinch at the gentleness. It’s more terrifying than anger. Because it’s not kindness—it’s delusion. He truly believes this. Believes that wiping out my child, rewriting my past, and making me his bride is something righteous. Logical.

“Once your little secret is erased, we’ll start over.” His eyes soften in a way that curdles my stomach. “You’ll wear white. I’ve already picked the dress. You’ll look perfect walking toward me.”

My breath shudders out of me, and his voice hardens. “Don’t fight me on this, Alina. I’ve waited long enough to rise. You were wasted on some street soldier in a back-alley marriage that no one even knows about. But me? I can give you more. I will give you more. Power. Legacy. My name.”

I say nothing.

He gives me one last look, like he expects gratitude. Then he turns and walks out, the door locking behind him with a mechanical click.

As soon as I’m alone, I crumble to the floor. I fold over my stomach, wrapping both arms around it protectively. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. Don’t cry. Not now. Crying won’t save you.

I whisper against my skin. “Please… please hold on.”

And then, barely louder than breath, I say the only name that comes to my lips.

“Lev.”

The next morning comes in pieces—no windows, no sun. Just the echo of footsteps outside my door and the hollow beat of my heart in the quiet.

I haven’t slept. I couldn’t. My hand has been resting over my belly all night like a shield, as if that alone could stop what’s coming.

A knock. Then the door opens.

Mendes steps in, impeccably dressed in a navy suit like he’s heading to a board meeting instead of orchestrating the dismantling of my life.

“I trust you’re ready,” he says, smiling. “The doctor will meet us at the clinic. It’s a private one—quiet, discreet. No one will bother us.”

Us.

He keeps saying that word like it means something. Like there’s a future where he and I exist as anything other than predator and prey.

I keep quiet and don’t say anything because I don’t trust what might come out if I open my mouth.

He walks closer, adjusting his cufflinks. “Once we know how far along you are, we’ll take care of it. You’ll feel better, lighter. Ready to start your real life.”

His gaze slides down to my stomach. “There’s no room for mistakes in our story, Alina. No baggage. No bastard child from some ghost you won’t even name.”

My fingers curl into my palms.

“I told you,” I whisper, “I’m married.”

He doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head like he’s humoring a child.

“Ah, yes. A hasty decision made in rebellion. But don’t worry—I’ll find the record. And I’ll have it erased. Nullified. That marriage is as good as if it never happened. But us? We’ll be flesh. Forever.”

His eyes gleam with something darker than lust—something fanatical. And I can see he believes every twisted word coming out of his mouth.

“You were meant for me,” he says. “Fate just needed a little push.”

I want to scream. To claw his face open and stick the truth into him like fire—but I can’t.

Because he holds all the power.

He straightens his cuffs again and gestures toward the hall. “Get ready. You’ll want to look your best when we leave. Maybe wear your hair down.”

He walks out without waiting for a reply, leaving the door wide open behind him for the guards to step in.

One of them moves toward me, but I lift a hand, stopping him.

“I’ll get ready,” I say.

He nods and backs off.

I walk to the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, bruised but standing. Pale but not broken.

“Viktor, please find me.”

As we leave Mendes’s compound for the hospital, the car jostles over a pothole, and my stomach lurches—not from the movement, but from the dread coiled deep in my belly. The atmosphere smells like leather, smoke, and fear.

I sit rigid beside Mendes in the back seat, my body pressed against the door as if I could vanish into it. The driver doesn’t speak. Neither does the man up front with the gun resting across his lap. Outside, the gray streets of New York blur past the tinted windows, the city moving without knowing what’s about to happen.

Mendes is too close.

His arm rests lazily on the shared leather divider, fingers tapping in a rhythm that scratches at my spine. His sharp, cologne-heavy scent clings to the air between us.

“You can fidget all you want, princesa,” he says, his voice hard like polished steel. “But this is happening, and you should be grateful I’m handling this quietly. No blood. No screaming. Just... a necessary adjustment.”

I say nothing, but my stomach clenches. I turn my face toward the glass to hide the tears burning behind my eyes. Every bump in the road rattles my bones. The silence between us is thick—until his phone rings.

He answers without hesitation, placing the call on speaker. I hear a low male voice on the other end, frantic, Spanish bleeding into his English.

“Jefe, word’s going around. The Russians are sniffing around heavily. They are seriously mobilized.”

Mendes goes still.

“Who?” he asks, his tone suddenly razor-sharp. “My intel informed me that Viktor is abroad, so who is leading the search?”

“No confirmation yet. Just whispers. Someone’s shaking trees. Looking hard.”

I freeze.

My heart leaps to my throat. The Bratva is looking for me. Of course, I expected them to, but hearing it renews my hope.

Mendes’s jaw ticks. “Is Viktor back?”

“I don’t know. But whoever is leading this is loud. Money’s moving. Calls are being made. He is not relenting and they’re leaving no stone unturned.”

Mendes cuts the call, his fingers tightening around the phone. The smooth calm he wore like a mask begins to crack. I can see it—the sudden shift from smug bastard to calculating predator.

His next call is to his sleezy doctor.

“Henaro,” he says, voice low and urgent. “We need to change plans. Can you do the procedure at the house?”

A pause.

Mendes nods. “Pills then. Bring whatever you need. I want it done right now.”

My stomach twists violently.

He ends the call and turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Change of plans, dear wife. No clinic. Too much noise. Looks like we’re going back home.”

The driver silently adjusts the course of our trip.

Mendes studies me like I’m a book he already knows the ending to. “Don’t bother hoping, Alina. No one’s coming.”

I look away again, but this time I’m not crying. I’m thinking about how to best his evil doctor.