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Planting myself on the window seat, I decide to do the only thing that always makes me feel safe. Sketching.

I grab my sketchbook and pencils, find a fresh page and let my hands and my imagination take over.

I’m not surprised when everything that pours from my mind is dark and dreary and desolate.

A heaviness settles over me that makes me stop shading, then my hand trembles and a teardrop falls onto the paper.

Oh God no. Please don’t tell me I’m crying.

Another tear slides down my cheek and falls onto the page. Even then I refuse to accept it. Instead, I wipe my cheeks and draw in some slow breaths.

Everything is so fucked up. I always feel like I’m walking backwards, even when I think I’m pushing ahead and doing what I can to survive.

Though, I’d hardly call having feelings for my husband survival. It sounds like the kind of stupid shit I was trying to avoid.

He’s probably still with that woman now. Why wouldn’t he be?

The woman had a Jessica Rabbit body, and she looked like the sort of woman who would know how to please a man and give him a good time.

Unlike me—the virgin.

I close my eyes, hoping to steady my thoughts, but my mind drags me back to that horrible day when Mama and I caught Papa in bed with the maid.

It was a few months after my parents got me back. Mama had accompanied me to a therapy session. We came back early because the session didn’t go so great.

Mama offered to give me some of her special chocolates my aunts had sent from Italy. That’s why she took me to her room.

We didn’t know Papa was inside. We didn’t even know he was home.

Mama opened the door, and there he was, in their bed, screwing the maid.

The worst thing was, when he saw us, he yelled at us, telling us to get out. He didn’t even have the decency to stop. And he didn’t leave that room until he was finished with the maid. We heard them. Heard him with his dirty talk, not giving a shit about his wife and daughter.

To this day, I’m still disgusted. I came to understand it wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.

That maid still works at the house. She’s one of many who sleep with my father.

My father is only with my mother because of inheritance. That’s also why he keeps her alive.

Under the terms of her inheritance, if Mama dies, the shares pass to me. Not Papa.

Before Lev assumed financial control, Papa had access to all my mother’s assets. I assume he’s still looking for a way to regain that control. Allowing Mama to die now would guarantee he never gets it back.

Money and power. That’s all the men in my world know.

And the only escape is death.

A floorboard creaks on the landing, making me open my eyes. Heavy footsteps follow, then the handle on the bedroom door turns. The door swings open and Lev stands on the other side, fury sharpening every angle of his face.

He’s taken off his suit jacket, leaving him in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his thick, tattooed forearms. Anger has intensified his usual sternness, hardening his features to what I imagine the ruthless Pakhan would look like before he killed.

I blink several times.

“You left,” he grates out. A vein pulses at his temple.

“So, what?” Normally I’d be a little more careful with my tone, but tonight I don’t care. I’m pissed and so damn tired of him and all the shit that keeps happening to me.

“Why did you leave?”