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MIA

I spring up in a cold sweat on the bed.

The dream sways before my eyes. My hands are white-knuckled, gripping the covers so tight it’s painful. My heart is hammering in my chest, hard enough to burst through, hard enough to hurt.

Please, don’t take my son, too.

I force myself to take steadying breaths. In, hold, out, like he taught me.

Even after a whole month, I’m still hearing Yulian’s voice whenever I need it.

Slowly, my vision clears.

I’m not in my bed. Haven’t been for a few weeks now. My fingers curl into an impersonal set of sheets—another one of Brad’s guest rooms. White, bare, cold.

Matches how I feel.

“Calm down,” I whisper to myself. “Eli’s safe. As long as you play your part, he’s safe.”

Though I wonder how much longer I can keep this up.

I kick off the comforter and step into the ensuite bathroom. It’s still dark out, but lately, I’ve been preferring it, getting up earlier than the rest of the house. The maids, the cook—they’re all noise.

At least, before dawn, it’s just me.

I step under the shower spray and wince at the scalding temperature. But soon, I grow used to it, just like every other uncomfortable thing in this house.

Brad’s house—the Hamptons mansion he swore I’d never step foot in, gold-digging whore that I was.

Oh, how the tide changes.

Outside the window, the ocean rocks. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane, sometimes: the song of the ocean. A last scrap of home to keep close to my heart, reminding me who I used to be.

Who I can still be, if I play my cards right.

I throw open my wardrobe. There’s nothing but white in it—white dresses, white jackets, white underwear. I pick out a white cashmere turtleneck dress and slip it on, then pad into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Rosie greets. She’s one of the maids. Young and pretty, and as polite as they come.

“Good morning.” I smile back. It’s a little forced, but I won’t be rude to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. It’s not Rosie’s fault I’m in this mess, after all.

Louis, the French cook, isn’t here yet. Usually, breakfast would fall under his purview, but Brad decided to spice things up since I moved in.

You’re going to be my wife, he declared. Wives make breakfast for their husbands.

If it wasn’t for Eli, I’d have smashed a frying pan into his face on day one.

Eli. This is all for him. I have to remind myself of that fact every day, all day long, like a mantra in my head. Otherwise, I’ll never keep my sanity.

It’s good, in a way, that I’m the one making breakfast. The first few days, Eli wouldn’t eat a single thing that came out of Louis’s kitchen.

I tried explaining it to the chef and Brad that he’s particular about textures, that his foods need to be separated so the flavors won’t mix, but he wouldn’t listen.

You’re spoiling him. Look, he’s turned into a mumbling idiot because of you.

I grip my pan tighter. One day, I’ll make him eat those words with a side of maple syrup.

But not today.

I start with the pancakes. They’re delicate work—getting them just the way Eli and Brad like them. Eli loves a little burning on the edges, but Brad won’t eat anything that’s not basically raw. For him, his food must be as white as his clothes.

I make Brad’s batch first, then Eli’s.

“Hmm. What’s that smell?”

It’s Brad, coming up behind me. His arms try to wrap around my middle, but I slip away, busying myself with the food as an excuse.

“Pancakes,” I answer, trying to sound light and happy, the way he wants me to be.

He isn’t fooled. “Fuck, you’re such a cold fish. You should be more grateful—I let you keep your own room to give you time. But now, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t be taking that privilege away.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, forcing myself to peck him on the cheek. Just once. Just to sell it. “But I’d just bother you if we shared. You wouldn’t want me to wake you up at the crack of dawn, would you?”

He tries to twist his head to capture my lips, but I’m already gone. Sleep, I’ve learned, still makes Brad as sluggish as it used to.

“Damn right,” he exhales. “I’m not like you. I need my sleep to function at work.”

Right. Busy job you’ve got there, sitting at your desk looking important all day.

I bite my tongue and force another smile. “Speaking of work?—”

“Don’t even try it,” he interrupts, stealing a pancake off Eli’s plate and pulling a face because, surprise, it’s not to his taste.

“We’ve already gone over this. Being a mom is a full-time job.

You’ll be handing in your resignation tomorrow, once your suspension’s over. God, you suck at cooking, don’t you?”

Think. Quick, think.

“I have some PTO left over,” I say. “Be a shame to waste it. Maybe I could take it and then resign?”

He fixes me with a thoughtful stare, as if gauging whether I’m trying to fuck him over. Which I very much am.

“Sure. It’d be dumb not to. Looks like it’s not all cobwebs and makeup in that pretty little head, huh?” he says at last.

“Morning.”

We both turn towards the voice in the doorway. “Morning, what? ” Brad asks with a saw-toothed grin.

Eli cringes. “Morning… Dad.”

Brad nods in approval. “Better. How’s that new pillow working out, sport?”

“It’s too soft,” Eli mumbles. “My neck’s all stiff.”

Brad’s smile tightens. “It’s a thousand dollar pillow. Get fucking used to it, Jesus.”

Eli’s brow knits. I can tell he wants to argue, which is not a good idea right now. Brad’s never more volatile than when he’s had a drink or when he’s just woken up. “But?—”

“No ‘buts,’ munchkin,” I chime in. “Now c’mon, time for breakfast.”

Eli doesn’t reply to me. He barely even looks at me. Just climbs into the designer stool that’s clearly too tall for him and starts pushing food around on his plate, lips sealed like the tomb.

My heart cracks, but I don’t let it show.

Eli. My son, my world. The first few days we were here, he’d gone completely non-verbal. Brad blamed it on me, of course.

Look what you did to him. He’s gone stupid because you’re such a shitty mom.

He was about to strike me, that night, when Eli spoke again.

“Dad. … Please, don’t hurt her.”

Five words. Just five, but Brad lit up like a Christmas tree.

Because, for the first time, his son had called him “Dad.”

He has no idea how bad that is—that he’s not throwing himself into his arms, yelling ‘Daddy’ at the top of his lungs, filling his ears with chatter. Only I see how withdrawn he’s become, how wan, how blue.

His dad is unpredictable. His mom is a liar. His house is unfamiliar, filled with strange smells and fabrics he’s never felt before. His Garfield plushie isn’t here—we have no idea where it ended up, after that night at the apartment.

Maybe that’s a good thing, though. Brad never would have let him keep it. He would have bought him a new one and tossed it in the trash. Eli would have cried. Brad would have lost his temper.

It’s a good thing Garfield left.

If only we’d been half as smart.

“You’re not eating.”

I startle back to the present. “I’m not hungry,” I tell Brad.

He considers my words for a second, sipping his morning coffee. “Good. You should watch your weight. Your body’s not what it used to be.”

Oh, you mean after I had a fucking kid?

I grind my teeth into dust. Keep quiet. Don’t engage. But it still makes me furious to hear him speak like this in Eli’s presence. All the effort I put into raising my boy away from such nonsense, teaching him to be respectful of women, of everybody—all of it is going up into smoke.

But it’s just temporary. There’ll be time to fix it.

Once we’re out of here, I’ll fix everything.

If that ever happens.

“Okay!” I force another smile and clear away the plates. “Time for school, munchkin.”

“I still don’t get why you insist on sending him to that nonsense school,” Brad grumbles as soon as Eli’s out of earshot. “I could have him enrolled into Riverdale with a snap of my fingers.”

“Well, he’s already made friends there,” I say, trying to dance around the heart of the subject: that Eli’s got special needs and Brad needs to get that into his thick fucking head. “And the year’s paid out.”

“Hmph. Well, we’ll have to reevaluate next year.”

We won’t be here that long, sucker.

“Sure. We can do that.”

He gives a pleased hum. “See? Housewife life’s agreeing with you. Leave all the big decisions to me, sweet thing. No need to worry your pretty little head with the hard stuff.”

“Of course. Whatever you say.”

He doesn’t like that answer. I can tell he knows I’m not being genuine—that I’m just playing the game. But pride is pride, and Brad’s never been the type to question when things are going his way.

If he can have his cake and eat it too, he’ll never look closely enough to see if there’s rat poison in the batter.

After a few minutes of forks scraping plates and me idly imagining Brad’s face going gray as he choked to death on his undercooked pancakes, he clears his throat and stands.

“C’mon, bud. The driver’s waiting,” Brad says.

Driver. Eli’s eyes dim at that word, like they always do.

I decide to risk it. “Why don’t you take him today? Just to see the place.”

Brad fixes me with a stare that says, Are you stupid? “I’ve got work. I don’t have time for that bullshit.”

Which Eli immediately translates into his head into, I don’t have time for you.

Fucking hell. He wanted his son so badly, and now, he can’t even be bothered to drive him to school?

I open my mouth to argue, but Eli cuts me off. “It’s fine, Dad. Let’s just go.”

“See?” Brad ogles me. “He gets it. Why can’t you?”

Deep breaths, Mia.

You can’t whack your child’s father in front of him, Mia.

Think of the therapy bills, Mia.

I smooth the creases out of my face. “Bye, munchkin,” I whisper sweetly. “Have a wonderful day at school.”

I try to kiss him on the head, but he ducks away.

My heart cracks just a little bit more.

I wait for the car to leave the driveway. Wait for the engine’s rumble to fade into traffic.

Then I dart to Brad’s computer.

“Okay,” I breathe, sticking in my trusty thumb drive. “Time to get to work.”

Brad isn’t stupid. He takes his laptop with him every day. His home computer is linked to his cloud, but it’s password-protected.

What he doesn’t know is that I still remember it.

Perhaps not that smart, then.

This is what I do every day: log in, look for dirt, save every file I can. There are five terabytes of data on here—only so much I can go through in a single day. But I still do it.

Because this is how we get out.

Dirt . That’s what I need. Information, shady deals, sensitive data I can trade for my freedom. Baldwin Construction’s activities have never been completely above-board, not even when Brad’s dad was in charge.

If I look hard enough, I’ll find what I need.

Then I’ll take my son far away from here, and we’ll be a family again.

Family. That word stirs uncomfortable memories inside me. Memories of him.

Yulian.

For four weeks, I’ve been searching for proof of Brad’s claims that they were in on it together. So far, I haven’t managed to find anything.

But that doesn’t mean I can trust him. He still lied to me, after all. And I’m sure as fuck not going to trust Brad.

Which leaves only one person left to trust.

Myself.

My stomach churns. It’s been doing that a lot lately. I put my hand over it, try to calm down the wave of nausea.

That night, I didn’t tell Yulian the truth, either.

“I’m pregnant. With Brad’s child.”

It was supposed to be a lie. An eye for an eye, just to get him to leave.

Turns out, I was only lying about half of it. Two pink lines on a plastic stick confirmed it last week.

Only, this time, the baby isn’t Brad’s.

It’s Yulian’s.

TO BE CONTINUED

WICKED PROPOSAL is Book 1 of the Lozhkin Bratva duet. Yulian and Mia’s story continues in Book 2, WICKED REFUSAL .