I straighten. “If you hurt my father,” I say, “Yaromir will not be the only one who comes for you.”
Dmitri is silent. I feel the shift, even through the phone.
“You?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You really think you’re dangerous now?”
My hand settles over my stomach again. This time, I don’t pull it away.
“I think you should be very careful what you force me to become.”
For a moment, there’s only breathing.
His. Mine.
Then Dmitri says, “One hour.”
The call ends.
My hand drops slowly from my ear. The room feels too quiet around me, too still, too safe in a way that suddenly becomes unbearable.
Yaromir is not here.
That’s the only thought that matters.
If he were here, he would never let me leave. If I told him, the gates would close, the guards would multiply, Viktor would start making calls, and by the time they found Dmitri, my father might already be dead.
My father, who sold me.
My father, who used me.
My father, who has never once chosen me without needing something in return.
And still, when I imagine him tied to a chair somewhere, afraid and waiting for death, my chest tightens until I can barely breathe.
I hate him. I don’t want him dead.
The two truths sit inside me together, ugly and inseparable.
Then my other hand moves to my stomach. The test is hidden in the bathroom cabinet, wrapped in tissue and shoved inside a cosmetics pouch like hiding it can make it less real.
Pregnant.
Yaromir’s baby.
A sound almost breaks out of me, half laugh, half sob, but I swallow it. I can’t afford to fall apart now. I can’t afford to think about what Yaromir will do when he finds out I left the estate alone.
He will be furious.
No, worse than furious.
Hurt.
That thought nearly stops me.
I see his face as clearly as if he’s standing in front of me. The stillness. The cold eyes. The silence before he says something controlled enough to cut deeper than shouting.
