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So, after he is gone a few minutes, I slip to the side of the bed, wrap the sheet around my body, and pad into the hallway to see if there was some kind of diaper explosion that is holding him up.
I stop outside the partially opened door to Milaya’s room. The lights are off in her room except for a small cloud nightlight in the corner, and Luka is talking quietly.
“Everyone gets scared sometimes,” he whispers. “When you get scared, you can just cry out for Mommy and Daddy, and we’ll always come check on you.”
I press my hand to my heart, afraid it might actually melt and drip down my rib cage.
“We love you so much, Milaya. More than we can say,” Luka says. “Which is why I will do anything I can to ensure you are happy and safe.”
Tears burn at the back of my eyes, and I swallow back a lump in my throat.
Luka isn’t putting on a show for anyone. He isn’t trying to impress anyone or prove that he is a good father.
He is simply being a good father.
Even when he thinks no one is looking, he loves our daughter so fiercely, and I have never felt so lucky in my entire life.
Still, flowing underneath the love and admiration, there is a touch of jealousy.
Not of Milaya or her close relationship with Luka, but a jealousy that stems from the fact that I never had that kind of relationship with my own father.
Before Luka, I never had a man look at me and swear to protect me. I never had a father figure who would have done anything to make sure I was safe.
Instead, I had a father who thought I was no good to anyone unless I was cooking and cleaning and popping out babies.
I had a father who tried to whore me out on multiple occasions and was willing to put my life at risk to reach his own ends.
I try to push the thought away, but I remember sitting in the chair at the warehouse where my father was holding me. I can see people standing around me, watching me like I’m a new exhibit at the zoo and they want to be entertained. I can practically feel their eyes on me, watching my every move, waiting for a sign of weakness.
* * *
Unlike the first time I woke up—dazed and unsure—I start awake this time.
I know where I am. Or, rather, where I’m not.
I’m not at home.
I’m not with Luka.
I’m not with my daughter.
My body jerks forward, and pain cuts into my wrists and ankles. I look down and see that my legs are zip-tied to the legs of a wooden kitchen chair. My hands, too, are secured to the armrests. I pull against the restraints, but the chair is sturdy, and I feel weak.
I look around the room and am surprised to see that I’m not in a dingy warehouse or a basement, but rather, an extravagant dining room.
A solid wood table runs the length of the room, plush carpet beneath it, and a large glass-fronted china cabinet runs the length of the right wall. Fine dinnerware and teacups line the shelves.
The left wall is all windows that look out over a rolling green lawn. I see a tree line and the sky beyond, but no sign of another house. No road with cars passing by. No visible connection to the outside world.
There is a swinging door to my right that looks like it could lead into a kitchen and a set of French double doors straight ahead. They are opened wide onto a sitting room. The furniture is modern—a blue, tufted velvet—with massive framed oil paintings covering the wall I can see.
And I recognize it.
The artwork, the décor, the grandeur.
I’ve seen all of it before, though it takes me a minute to remember where from.
Then, it hits me.
