Page 104 of Twisted Addiction

“I’m fine,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I can continue treatment at home.”

The doctor glanced up from his clipboard, his tone calm but firm. “Ideally, we’d like to keep you under observation for another forty-eight hours—to monitor pulmonary recovery and ensure the inflammation in your bronchial tubes doesn’t worsen.”

He caught the stubborn set of my jaw and sighed softly. “But if you insist, I’ll authorize discharge with home-based care. You’ll need to continue your bronchodilator and corticosteroid therapy as prescribed, and avoid any exertion or emotional stress for at least a week.”

I nodded stiffly, though his words barely sank in.

Emotional stress? My entire life was emotional stress. The idea of “rest” felt like a luxury for people who weren’t constantly fighting to survive love, betrayal, and suffocation.

My chest still burned faintly with each breath, but I refused to let him—or anyone—see that weakness.

“I’ll manage,” I murmured.

He moved with precise efficiency, peeling back the tape on the IV.

The needle slid free with a faint sting.

The nasal cannula came next, plastic scraping raw against my skin, followed by the electrodes, each tug sending a subtle pulse of discomfort.

The monitor’s steady beeping slowed, then cut off completely, leaving behind a faint, sterile silence.

“You’ll need to continue your asthma medication,” he said, voice calm but firm. “No exertion, no emotional strain. Your lungs are still inflamed and your oxygen saturation hasn’t fully stabilized. Schedule a follow-up in seven days so we can reassess your pulmonary function.

I nodded, my hands trembling as I adjusted the hospital gown.

The freedom of movement was liberating—and terrifying.

The doctor had left, the sterile room pressing in with its quiet, clinical emptiness.

Tomorrow, I would be on a flight, leaving Dmitri, leaving Lake Como, leaving the suffocating prison of his control.

And yet... a gnawing unease twisted inside me. My father’s betrayal—hacking servers, manipulating messages—haunted every thought. Papa, who had always been my protector, my anchor, could he have orchestrated such a deception? The notion made my stomach twist, sour with disbelief and dread.

Chapter 23

PENELOPE

Iswung my legs over the edge of the hospital bed, the cold linoleum biting into my bare feet.

A faint wheeze escaped me as I drew in a shaky breath.

Fear and shadows had nearly stolen my life.

I’d passed out, come back, slipped away again—each cycle a descent into a pit where my body betrayed me and my lungs clawed for air.

Yet, despite the ordeal, I was here. Weak, trembling slightly, but alive.

How I had survived those two days in Dmitri’s dark prison, with my body flaring and my mind fracturing, felt like a miracle I wasn’t ready to understand.

I was just about to force my body upright when the door creaked open—slow, cautious, as if the person behind it feared startling me. The doctor stepped in, his voice cutting cleanly through the haze, calm and precise.

“I came to remind you, Mrs. Volkov—be careful. The pregnancy is high-risk, and any emotional or physical stress could trigger complications. You need rest, not strain.”

Panic clenched my chest, and my fingers dug into the edge of the bed until my knuckles ached.

Had Dmitri found out? The lie Giovanni and I had spun—that I’d aborted the baby with misoprostol—had been my shield, my secret to protect the child growing inside me.

My gaze snapped to the doctor, searching for betrayal.