Page 28

SANDY

The clock ticks too loudly. It has become a cruel metronome, pacing my anxiety as I stand by the window of the bedroom.

Wind whispers against the glass, and somewhere in the mansion, a door slams, followed by the faint echo of shouted orders.

I don’t need to look to know Aleksandr's men are on alert. Dimitri is out there with his team, taking down the bastard doctor who dared to work for Morozov and threaten my baby. And I’m here, pacing.

My hand drifts to my belly, a protective gesture I make a hundred times a day now. The baby moves, a tiny flutter, and I close my eyes, breathing through the ache of worry. I want Dimitri back. I want him beside me, safe and breathing.

The minutes crawl by like hours. Each second stretches into eternity as my thoughts race between prayers and panic. Dimitri promised me he would return safely. It’s already past eleven. The grandfather clock in the hallway continues its merciless rhythm, each tick reverberating through my bones.

I move away from the window, trailing my fingers along the silk wallpaper as I circle the room for what feels like the hundredth time.

With its ornate furniture and plush carpets, this bedroom has become a sanctuary and prison in the weeks since Dimitri brought me here.

The Avilov estate is impenetrable, he assured me.

No one can touch me here. But safety comes with isolation, and tonight, the walls seem to close around me.

“Come back to me,” I whisper into the empty room. “Please come back.”

My reflection in the vanity mirror grabs my attention.

I hardly recognize myself anymore. The woman staring back at me has changed in subtle but unmistakable ways.

My cheeks are fuller, my eyes hold a wariness that wasn’t there a few months ago, and my hands now constantly seek the firm curve of my stomach.

If someone had told me a year ago that I would be carrying Dimitri Popov's baby, I would have laughed in their face.

But that was before I understood what it meant to belong to someone so completely.

A sudden crack of gunfire in the distance shatters my thoughts. I freeze. Then come more. Short bursts. They aren’t close, but my pulse surges. The estate is under attack.

I turn and grab my phone, but before I can unlock the screen, the bedroom door slams open.

“Miss Sandy! You must come with me now!” Elena, one of the household maids, stands breathless in the doorway. Her hair is loose from its braid, her apron stained, and her eyes wild with urgency. “We have to go. This way.”

I cross the room. “To the panic room? Is Talia there with the children?” I ask, remembering the last time Elena rushed me through hidden corridors to safety when Morozov's men tested the estate's security.

Elena's expression twitches almost imperceptibly. “Yes. Quickly. Follow me.”

Something about the way she says it scrapes against my instincts. The slight hesitation in her voice and the way her eyes don’t quite meet mine set me on edge. But gunfire crackles outside, growing closer, and I have no choice. I follow her into the hallway, one hand protective over my belly.

The corridor is eerily empty. Usually, Aleksandr’s security detail hovers nearby, their presence comforting but suffocating. Tonight, they are nowhere to be seen. The absence of guards sends a shiver down my spine.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, hurrying to keep pace with Elena.

“They are fighting,” Elena replies tersely. “All hands needed. Mr. Avilov gave orders for household staff to move you.”

We move fast, but not in the direction I remember.

The last time, the panic room was through the east wing.

We used a basement stairwell entrance beneath the library.

This time, Elena leads me through a corridor I’ve never seen, past the service kitchen, through the laundry hall, and out a narrow side door.

“Elena,” I say, slowing. “Where are we going? This isn't the way?—”

She stops and turns. And that's when I see the gun in her hand.

My heart stutters. “You're not taking me to the panic room, are you?”

She doesn’t answer. Just gestures with the weapon. “Keep walking.”

The betrayal cuts deep, even though I barely know Elena. Since my arrival, she’s been kind to me, bringing extra pillows without being asked for and sneaking chocolate when Dimitri’s doctor put me on a strict diet. I thought perhaps we were becoming friends. How naive.

“Why?” I ask, my voice faint over the distant gunfire. “Why would you do this? Dimitri and Aleksandr trusted you.”

“I have no choice,” she replies, her accent thickening with stress. “Now move.”

The air outside smells of smoke and gunpowder.

Somewhere south of the property, I hear shouting, orders barked in Russian, and the answering crack of return fire.

A distraction, I realize with sinking clarity.

The attack on the south perimeter is meant to draw security away from the north side, where Elena is now marching toward freedom. Or toward my death.

The grounds are dark, and the security lights are mysteriously disabled. I stumble over uneven terrain, mud sucking at my sneakers with every step.

“Elena,” I try again, my voice trembling. “You don't have to do this. Whatever they promised you?—”

“Quiet,” she hisses, jabbing the gun toward the waiting black van near the tree line. “I don’t have a choice. They will kill my daughter if I don’t do this.”

Two men wait by the open doors. One lights a cigarette with shaking fingers.

The other stands tense, hand on his belt as if he is barely holding himself back.

Their faces are unfamiliar, but their postures scream danger.

These aren’t Morozov's usual thugs. These are desperate men hired for a job they probably don’t fully understand.

I hesitate, every nerve in my body screaming for escape. But I’m outnumbered, unarmed, and pregnant. My options dwindle to a single, terrible choice: comply now to survive later. It is what Dimitri would want me to do. Stay alive at all costs.

The man with the cigarette grabs my arm and shoves me into the van. I land hard on the metal floor, my hip taking the brunt of the impact. I bite back a cry of pain, knowing it will only satisfy them.

“Careful with her!” Elena snaps, her words coming out quickly and angrily. “Mr. Morozov wants her unharmed.”

The man with the cigarette gets in and slams the door, plunging the interior into darkness. He grabs my wrists, binding them roughly with a zip tie that bites into my skin.

“The baby,” I whisper. “Please, not so tight. I'm pregnant.”

The man pauses, his grip loosening slightly. Perhaps it is a twinge of humanity or simply following orders to deliver me intact. Either way, I take advantage of it.

“Thank you,” I murmur, making my voice small and grateful. “How far are we going? I might get sick if it's a long drive.”

“Shut up,” the driver growls. “One more word and I’ll tape your mouth shut.”

I fall silent, cataloging details instead. The van smells of stale cigarettes and a metallic odor. Blood, perhaps. The floor vibrates against my legs as the engine roars to life. I brace myself against the wall as we lurch forward, tires spinning in mud before finding purchase.

The ride is long. My wrists are bound, but they leave my legs free.

I count the turns. Memorize the bumps in the road.

I will tell Dimitri everything if I survive.

Left out of the estate grounds. Right onto what feels like a major road.

Then, straight for perhaps twenty minutes.

Another right, followed by a series of winding turns that suggest we are heading into the countryside. Away from the city. Away from help.

My thoughts turn to Dimitri. Has he returned to the estate to find me missing?

Is he tearing apart the mansion in search of me, or is he still unaware and focused on his mission against the doctor?

Or worse, have Morozov’s men succeeded in taking him down?

The possibility makes my stomach clench with nausea that has nothing to do with pregnancy.

Time blurs. My body aches from the hard metal floor, each bump in the road sending jolts of pain through my joints.

I try to stay alert, to memorize every detail, but exhaustion pulls at me.

I lose track of how long we were driving by the time the van finally slows.

An hour? Two? The roads became rough, suggesting we are far from the city.

Eventually, the van comes to a stop, and the doors open. I’m yanked out, my legs nearly buckling after so long in one position. The night air hits me with unexpected warmth. We are indoors, I realize. Some type of garage or loading dock, dimly lit and smelling of engine oil and dust.

“Move,” the driver orders, prodding me forward with his gun.

I’m forced through a rusted doorway into an abandoned warehouse that reeks of mildew.

The concrete floor is stained with substances I don’t want to identify.

Forgotten machinery looms in the darkness like sleeping beasts.

Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space, announcing our presence to whoever may be waiting inside.

He leads me down a maze of hallways and narrow stairs to the basement.

We finally arrive at a doorway. He pushes me into a small room.

The door shuts behind me with a heavy thud.

A bulb dangles from the ceiling, swinging slightly with the movement of air, creating unsettling patterns of light and dark across the walls.

It exposes a crude cell that fills most of the room.

A caged-in corner with thick steel bars, a dirty mattress, and a chain bolted to the wall.

He shoves me into the cell. I back away from the steel bars, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my fear.

Then he walks in. Andrei Morozov.

He is taller than I expected, lean but unmistakably strong.

Silver streaks thread through his dark hair and neatly trimmed mustache, giving him a deceptive air of refinement.

But it is his eyes, cold, dark, and gleaming with triumph, that make my skin crawl as they roam over me.

They pause on my belly with a possessive hunger that makes me cringe.

“Welcome Sandy,” he says in flawless English, every syllable laced with venom.

“Nice place you have here,” I reply sarcastically.

He chuckles and motions for his man to leave. When the door clicks shut, he approaches the cage, dragging a chair with him. He sits with the casual ease of a man who owns everything around him, including me.

“You look lovely in your condition,” he purrs, his gaze returning to my stomach. “Motherhood suits you.”

I refuse to engage with his false pleasantries.

“Nothing to say?”

“What do you want from me?” I hiss, knowing the answer but needing to hear him say it.

His smile widens. “I want Dimitri to suffer as I have suffered. I want him to lose everything he cares about, as I lost everything when he murdered my brother and destroyed my operation in Moscow.”

“I am nothing to him,” I lie. “Just a temporary distraction.”

Morozov laughs, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls.

“Do not insult my intelligence, Sandy. Dimitri Popov has never taken a woman to a safehouse, let alone two of them. He has never brought a woman to his family estate. And he has never assigned his personal security to protect anyone outside his immediate family.”

He stands, approaching the bars, until his face is a foot from mine. “I want Dimitri to see what he’s cost you,” he says, almost dreamily. “I want him to look into your eyes as your child is ripped from your body.”

My knees nearly buckle, but I hold firm. I can’t let him see my fear. I won’t. Hot rage floods through me, replacing the fear with a clarity I never experienced before. This man threatened not just me but my child. Dimitri's child. Our future.

“You think hurting me will break him?” I ask. “You don't know Dimitri. You don't know me.”

Morozov leans closer, his hands on the bars. “I know everything. I know the day you met. I know you're carrying a Popov heir, and that makes you valuable.”

“How long have you been planning this?” I probe, needing to keep him talking. Every minute he spends gloating is another minute for Dimitri to find me.

“Since the moment Dimitri took what was mine,” he sneers.

“He will come for me,” I say with a conviction I don’t feel. “And when he does, there won't be enough left of you to bury.”

Morozov's expression hardens. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he will receive your body in pieces, starting with his unborn child.”

He smiles, all teeth and hate. “Sleep well, little dove. We'll have plenty of time to get acquainted.”

He turns and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Only then do I let the tears fall. But only for a moment. Because if Dimitri doesn’t save me…I'll save myself.

My fingers move to the zip tie binding my wrists. They made them too tight, cutting into my skin, but that was their mistake. Tight means the plastic is stretched. And stretched plastic can break. I twist my wrists, ignoring the pain as the edges dig deeper, working my hands against each other.

The mattress in the corner of the cell snags my attention. Dirty and stained, but it has potential usefulness. I move toward it, scanning the frame for anything I can use as a weapon. The springs are exposed in one corner where the fabric had torn away. Perfect.

I sit on the edge, positioning my body to block the view from the door in case someone looks through the small window. My fingers work the springs, tugging until one breaks free. It isn’t much, but it is sharp. And sharp is all I need.

As I work the metal between my bound wrists, sawing at the plastic, I think of Dimitri.

Of the night he told me about his childhood, about learning to survive in places much worse than this warehouse.

“Never show fear,” he had whispered against my hair.

“Fear is a luxury for people who have never had to fight for their lives.”

I’m not afraid anymore. I’m furious. Fury will keep me alive until Dimitri finds me. Or until I find my own way out.

The zip tie snaps with a satisfying pop. I rub my raw wrists, wincing at the sting of open wounds. Then, I turn my attention to the cell door. The lock is old and rusted, but it remains solid. No amount of makeshift tools will open it. But the hinges...those look promisingly worn.

I hear footsteps approaching outside. Quickly, I reposition myself on the mattress, hiding my free hands behind my back, the broken spring tucked into my palm. Whoever Morozov sent to check on me will be expecting a fractured, terrified woman. They will find something else entirely.