Page 14

Chapter 14

Don’t Call Me Weak

Galina

T he heels click down the makeshift runway—sharp, rhythmic, commanding attention. Models slink past in barely-there lingerie and glittering couture, the air thick with their perfume: sugary florals masking sweat and ambition. It turns my stomach.

I’ve been fighting this nausea since dawn, brushing it off as stress, dehydration, maybe the ghost of last night still clinging to my skin. But when another model breezes by in a fog of Chanel Mademoiselle, something in me rebels.

Nope. Not today.

I bolt.

The bathroom door slams behind me. I barely make it to the stall before everything comes up—lunch, nerves, maybe part of my soul. Acid scorches my throat as I retch again, braced on shaking arms, cold tile biting into my knees.

It’s not just physical anymore.

It’s becoming impossible to ignore.

When the last dry heave fades, I slump against the wall, my shirt clinging to my sweat-soaked back. I peel it off and stagger to the sink, dousing my face in cold water like that might scrub away the unraveling. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—cheekbones sharp, eyes hollow, skin too pale.

I look like prey.

And I hate it.

“That’s not me,” I whisper, and the woman in the mirror flinches at the sound.

I force my spine straight, dry my hands beneath the hum of lukewarm air, and fix my hair with steady fingers. I button my shirt like armor, adjust my lipstick. By the time I step out, no one would know I’ve been kneeling on tile.

Except someone does.

“Here,” a voice says softly.

I turn. Rebeka.

One of the few survivors from my father’s era—beautiful, ageless, unreadable. She holds out a bottle of water, her brow raised in silent judgment…or something uncomfortably close to concern.

“Thanks,” I mutter, swishing the water around my mouth before swallowing hard. “Must’ve eaten something off.”

“Food poisoning doesn’t last three weeks,” she says, arms crossing as she leans against the sink. “And it doesn’t make you gag every time someone walks by wearing perfume.”

My pulse spikes.

“You’ve been watching me?”

“We all watch each other here,” she replies. “Especially the ones who think they can hide.”

Her meaning is sharp enough to draw blood. The daughter of Boris Olenko, reduced to staff. A mistress pretending to be a manager. A girl playing queen in someone else’s empire.

The truth hovers like steam in the room, heavy and undeniable.

I swallow again. “Does anyone else know?”

“Just me. For now.” Rebeka’s voice softens—almost. “But you should be careful. Vasiliy…isn’t the kind of man who likes surprises.”

That earns a laugh, low and bitter.

Vasiliy Volkov, who calculates every move before you even make it. Who tracks his empire through a spiderweb of cameras and secrets. How would he react to something that can’t be controlled?

Something with a heartbeat.

A shiver crawls up my spine.

I’m not afraid of becoming a mother.

I’m afraid of becoming someone else’s weakness.

But it’s not just Vasiliy I have to worry about.

A baby shifts everything.

Not just my body. Not just my relationship. It cuts through the future I’d been building like a knife. My plans for the club. My position here. My carefully strategized rise. I wanted to turn the Velvet Echo into a legacy—something to reclaim my father’s name on my own terms. To prove I could rebuild the empire he ruined, not as Boris Olenko’s daughter, but as someone stronger and smarter.

One missed period and a scent-induced unraveling and I’m spiraling. I touch my still-flat stomach, breath shallow.

I never planned for this.

But worse, I always feared it.

Because my mother had a baby and no power. My mother had a man and no voice. She spent her life trapped under someone else’s name, someone else’s violence. I swore I wouldn’t end up like her.

And yet here I am.

As I stare down at the floor tiles, damp and scuffed beneath the bathroom light, another truth rises quietly. A dangerous one.

I don’t want to run from this.

I want to build something better.

Not just for me, but for the child I didn’t know I wanted until it threatened to ruin everything. I want this place to be more than smoke and skin and secrets. I want to create something real. Something clean. Something my child could be proud of.

Not just velvet and shadows.

But something solid.

I press a hand to my abdomen, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. But I can’t do that alone. I’d need a united front. I’d need protection and power. I’d need Vasiliy.

And Vasiliy…doesn’t like change. He controls outcomes. He manipulates variables. He doesn’treact—hecalculates. So what happens when the one variable he never expected lands in his lap?

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Rebeka says, misreading my silence.

I look at her, startled by her gentleness.

“But you should know,” she continues, her gaze sharpening, “Vasiliy has a way of knowing things. Especially about people he thinks are his.”

That word.

His.

It slices through me. Yes, Vasiliy considers me his—his employee, his possession, his favorite toy behind closed doors. But this? This baby? This isn’t something he can own. It’s not something he can control.

It’s something that will bind us forever.

And I don’t know if that terrifies me or thrills me.

Rebeka touches my arm. Her hand is warm and grounding.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

I nod, but my voice betrays me. “I need some air.”

She doesn’t stop me, just calls, “Tell the choreographer you’ll look at the rest tomorrow?”

I nod again and slip past her.

Her last words cling like smoke:Men like Vasiliy don’t change. Not even for the women carrying their children.

I don’t look back.

The club feels too tight now. Too full of noise and perfume and shadows. The bass thumps through the walls—heartbeat-like, mocking. I push through the front doors and out into the street, gulping down air like I’ve been underwater.

Part of me wants to disappear. Buy a ticket to anywhere, change my name, leave this world behind. But I’m not naive. Vasiliy has the reach to find me no matter where I run. The Volkovs don’t let things go.

And I’m not even sure Iwantto go.

Not yet.

Not when a part of me—some fragile, reckless part—still wants to believe there’s a way to make this work.

I slip into the alley beside the club and let my knees buckle, pressing my spine against the cold brick. For a second, I’m just a woman in the dark, not a daughter, lover or a future mother. Just me.

Tears slip down my cheeks. I let them. I’m too tired to hold it all in.

Because this child deserves better.

Better than a legacy soaked in blood. Better than a father who sees people as assets. Better than a mother who only just learned how to fight for herself.

I look down at my stomach, resting a hand against the place where everything has already changed.

“I’ll give you more,” I whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll give you a life.”

But first, I have to figure out what to do with the man who already owns too much of mine.

And whether he deserves to know he’s about to become a father.

I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my phone, my fingers trembling. I’ve been keeping my weekly appointments with Mila, but never once have I told her anything that mattered. Not the real things. Not the things that could get me killed. But now, with my stomach twisted in knots and my thoughts spiraling into chaos, I need someone. Anyone. Not a friend. Not family. Someone removed from it all. Someone safe.

I stare down at her name on the screen for a long moment before I hit call.

“Mila?” My voice cracks the moment she picks up. “It’s Galina. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Calling after hours?” she says, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“No.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t—” My voice gives out. “I’m not okay.”

“Galina,” she says, gently. “Take a breath. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I exhale shakily, running a hand through my damp hair. How do I explain this? How do I unravel the mess of secrets and want and fear? There’s no way to untangle it without confessing everything.

So I don’t try. I just whisper, “Everything.”

“Everything,” she echoes, her voice calm and steady. “Well, I can’t promise to fix everything. But I’m here. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, the words ripped from somewhere raw and hidden.

Silence.

Then, softly: “Are you sure? Did you take a test?”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Yes. I’m sure.” Shame floods my chest, heavy and familiar. “I’m sorry, I?—”

“Don’t apologize.” Her voice turns sharp, cutting through my spiral. “Galina, listen to me. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to reach out. I’m here for that. I’m here for you.”

My lip trembles. “It’s just...everything’s happening so fast. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Is it Vasiliy’s?” she asks.

The name is like a trigger; my heart lurches. I press my hand to my stomach, the small swell of future wrapped in flesh. “Who else would it be?”

Mila pauses, and then her voice shifts.

“Before we go further, there’s something I need to tell you. Something personal. Something I’ve debated sharing for a while now.”

My body tenses. “What kind of something?”

“My best friend,” she says slowly, “is Katarina. Katarina Sokolov. You might know her as?—”

“Katarina Volkov.” The words hit like a slap. My stomach flips. “Your best friend is married to Nikolai Volkov?”

“Yes,” she replies, voice steady. “She’s Vasiliy’s sister-in-law. I wanted you to hear it from me. I didn’t want this connection to catch you off guard.”

It already has.

My entire body goes cold. The phone burns hot against my ear. Of course. Of course they’re circling. Watching. Hunting. Mila was never just a therapist. She’s a window into me. A way in.

“Why now?” I whisper. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because I wanted to be transparent,” she says. “Because I care. And because I need you to understand—I know this world better than you think. I’m not just some outsider taking notes. I’ve seen it. Lived alongside it. And I still chose to be here for you.”

My throat tightens. “Or you’re just the next person they’ve sent to keep tabs on me.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice doesn’t waver. “I’ve never reported anything you’ve said. I would never betray that trust.”

I pace the alley, phone clutched tight. My breath comes fast and shallow. I want to believe her. God, I want to.

But trust? In this world?

It’s suicide.

“Tell me how this helps me,” I snap. “Tell me why this isn’t a threat wrapped in concern.”

“I’m telling you because I want to help,” Mila says quietly. “Because you’re spiraling. And because you’re not alone.”

The words cut deeper than I expect. I turn and press my hand to the wall, trying to stay grounded. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” she says. “You just have to stay steady. Start by breathing. You’re strong, Galina. You’ve survived worse than this.”

Have I?

“I need to go,” I whisper, suddenly exhausted. “I just…I need space.”

“I understand. Just promise me you’ll call when you’re ready. And remember you’re not alone in this. I mean that.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, ending the call.

But as I lower the phone, the pit in my stomach only deepens. I bend at the waist, breathing hard. The heat, the noise, the weight of the conversation—it all presses down like a storm.

And when the next wave hits, it’s all dry heaving and quiet sobs. Nothing left to give. Nothing left to lose.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a weapon, daughter or lover.

I just feel broken.