A week has passed since I left the estate, and I’m still heartbroken over what feels like the end of everything I’d started to believe in. Jessie returned to the apartment the same night I did, taking one look at my tear-stained face before dropping her bags and marching straight to the kitchen.
“We need ice cream.” She’d said, opening the freezer and emerging with an armload of ice cream containers and two spoons, settling beside me on the couch like she was preparing for battle. “Okay, start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what that lying bastard did, and then we’ll figure out how to make him pay.”
That first night blurred together in a haze of tears, ice cream, and Jessie’s increasingly creative suggestions for revenge. She’s spent the past seven days alternating between bringing me comfort food and devising outrageous plans to get back at Nikandr.
“We could put itching powder in his holster,” she suggests from her position sprawled across the living room floor, surrounded by takeout containers and crumpled tissues. She’s polished and ready to report to work in a little while, but she’s still hanging out with me. “Or better yet, we could replace all his expensive suits with knock-offs from that discount store on Fifth Street.”
The mental image of Nikandr discovering his custom-tailored wardrobe has been swapped for polyester blend makes me laugh despite the hollow ache in my chest. “You’re terrible.”
She grins and tosses a piece of popcorn at me. “I’m creative. There’s a difference.” She stands in her high heels and counts off on her fingers. “We could also sign him up for every spam mailing list on the internet, order pizza deliveries to his house every hour on the hour or hire a mariachi band to serenade him at inappropriate times.”
“A mariachi band?”
“Picture it,” she says, gesturing dramatically. “He’s in the middle of some serious crime boss meeting, and suddenly, there’s a full mariachi band outside his window playing ‘La Cucaracha’ at maximum volume.”
I catch the popcorn she threw and eat it, grateful for her presence even though nothing she does can fill the space Nikandr left behind. The apartment feels smaller somehow, like I’ve outgrown it during my time at the estate. Everything here belongs to the version of me who thought her biggest problems involved choosing between Thai food and pizza for dinner.
“You know what we should really do?” Jessie continues, warming to her theme. “We should send him anonymous letters written in ransom-note style. Cut letters out of magazines and spell out messages like ‘Your lies have consequences’ and ‘Honesty is sexy, but you wouldn’t know.’”
I smile. “That might actually scare him.”
She nods, and her coiffed updo doesn’t move. “Good. He should be scared. He should wake up every morning wondering if today’s the day his deception catches up with him.”
I miss him in ways that surprise me with their intensity. I miss the safety of his arms when I couldn’t sleep, the way he made my coffee in the mornings with exactly the right amount of cream, and those quiet moments when he’d rest his hand on my belly to feel the baby kick. I miss the way he’d read news articles aloud to me while I got ready in the morning, commenting on political developments with insights that made me understand how intelligent he really is.
Most of all, I miss the version of our future we planned together. The house with the garden, the nursery we were designing, and the life we were going to build away from violence and secrets all feel impossibly distant now, like ephemeral dreams ripped to shreds.
Nikandr has respected my request for space, which somehow makes everything worse. He’s made no forced visits, issued no command to return, or made angry phone calls demanding I come to my senses. Instead, there’s just silence punctuated by daily deliveries that arrive without explanation or accompanying notes.
Yesterday, it was a baby mobile with delicate wooden birds painted in soft pastels, making me think of the soft elephant mobile hanging in the nursery in his home. The craftmanship was exquisite, with tiny details carved into each bird’s feathers, and a musical mechanism that plays a lullaby. The day before, it was a cashmere blanket so soft it felt like holding a cloud, in the exact shade of cream I’d mentioned wanting for the nursery.
Today’s delivery was a box of pregnancy-safe tea blends and a book about preparing for natural childbirth. The tea selection included every flavor I’d tried and enjoyed during my time with him, plus several new ones with handwritten notes about their benefits for pregnancy symptoms. The book was a first edition, signed by the author, with several passages already highlighted in a color that matched the pen he always used for important documents.
Each gift makes my heart clench with longing and fury in equal measure. He’s trying to take care of me from a distance, showing me he remembers every small detail about my preferences and needs. It would be sweet if he hadn’t destroyed my trust by lying about something so fundamental to our relationship.
“Maybe I should send them back,” I say now, several hours after the latest delivery, while running my fingers over the spine of the childbirth book. The leather binding is soft and expensive, and I can smell the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the pages.
Jessie shakes her head. “Are you crazy? Keep the gifts and sell them online. Use the money to buy baby stuff from someone who doesn’t lie to you about secret military operations.”
I chuckle softly. “They weren’t military operations.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. The point is, he went behind your back to do something dangerous after promising he wouldn’t.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Besides, selling his guilt gifts would be perfect revenge. He spent all that time picking out meaningful presents, and you turn around and hawk them on eBay to strangers. It’s diabolical.”
I set aside the book and shift on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t put pressure on my lower back. At twenty-four weeks, without that amazing bed and super comfortable furniture at the Belov estate, everything hurts in new and creative ways, and the stress of the past week hasn’t helped with the discomfort. My ankles are swollen, my hips ache constantly, and I’ve developed a new appreciation for how difficult it is to get comfortable when there’s a tiny person using my ribcage as a jungle gym.
“I keep wondering if I overreacted,” I say quietly.
Jessie walks closer, hands on her hips as she stares at me with an expression that could freeze water. “You did not overreact. You set a very reasonable boundary about honesty in your relationship, and he trampled all over it the first chance he got.”
I sigh. “But what if he really was trying to protect me?”
“From what? From being worried about someone you love? From having a say in decisions that affect your future?” She stamps her foot, and the heel of her shoe clicking echoes through the quiet apartment. “Babe, protection that comes at the cost of your autonomy isn’t protection. It’s control dressed up in pretty words.”
Her bluntness cuts through the fog of confusion that’s been clouding my judgment for days. She’s right, and I know she’s right, but knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two different things entirely. “I still love him,” I whisper.
“I know you do. That’s what makes this so hard.” Jessie moves to sit beside me on the couch, careful not to wrinkle her dress, since she has to work tonight. She turns to face me fully. “Loving someone doesn’t mean accepting behavior that makes you feel unsafe or unheard.”
“What if I’m making a mistake? What if I’m throwing away something real because I’m too scared to trust him?” I blink back tears, not wanting to cry yet again. It feels like that’s all I’ve done for days.
“What if you’re protecting yourself and your daughter from a pattern of behavior that will only get worse over time?” She takes my hand and squeezes gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. You’re allowed to take as much time as you need to figure out what you want.”
The permission to be uncertain feels like a relief. I’ve been pressuring myself to have answers I don’t possess, so it feels nice to have a sort of permission to take a respite and just breathe. The baby chooses that moment to deliver a particularly strong kick to my ribs, making me wince and press my hand to my side. “My daughter has opinions about this conversation.”
“She’s probably telling you to dump his ass and move on with your life.”
I laugh, and it sounds a bit watery from the tears I’m suppressing, but I’m amused. “Or she’s telling me I’m being stubborn and should call him.”
“Babies don’t have that kind of judgment yet. She’s definitely on team ‘dump his ass.’”
I laugh again despite everything, grateful for Jessie’s ability to make me smile even when I want to cry. “I think I’ll take a bath. My back is killing me.”
“Want me to run it for you before I leave for work? I bought some of those fancy bath salts that are supposed to help with pregnancy aches.” She’s already standing before I can answer, heading toward the bathroom with purpose. “ I’ll light those candles you like, the ones that smell like vanilla and sandalwood.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m soaking in lavender-scented water that’s just hot enough to ease the constant ache in my lower back. Before she rushed off to work, Jessie added Epsom salts and a few drops of essential oil that makes the whole bathroom smell like a spa. The water laps gently against the sides of the tub.
This apartment feels simultaneously like home and like a place I’ve outgrown. The walls are covered with photos from college and pictures of Jessie and me at various bars and restaurants around the city. There’s a stack of romance novels on the bathroom counter that I used to read religiously, back when my biggest relationship problems involved men who didn’t text back fast enough or who forgot to call when they said they would.
Now I’m pregnant with the child of a man who runs a criminal organization, hiding from threats I don’t fully understand, and trying to decide whether love is enough to build a future when that future might include more lies and more midnight disappearances.
I lean back, letting the water slowly cool as my thoughts wander. About forty minutes later, my phone buzzes on the counter beside the tub, and I lean over to check the caller ID. Eli’s name appears on the screen, which is unusual enough to make me immediately concerned. Why would the bartender be calling me when I don’t work there anymore?
I answer on the third ring. “Hey, Eli. What’s up?”
His voice is panicked and rushed, barely recognizable as the laid-back guy I’ve known for years. “Sabrina, thank God. Something happened to Jessie at work tonight. There was an accident with some broken glass, and she had to be rushed to the emergency room.”
The bottom drops out of my world as I scramble to sit up in the tub, water sloshing everywhere and soaking the bathmat. “What? Is she okay? Which hospital?”
“She’s conscious but they’re still working on her. She lost a lot of blood from cuts on her arms and needed stitches. The ambulance took her a while ago, and I thought you should know.”
My chest tightens with panic as worst-case scenarios flood my mind. “Which hospital, Eli.”
“Jurgen Medical Center on Industrial Boulevard. The EMT said it was the closest Level Two Trauma Center near us. She kept asking for you before they took her in the ambulance.”
I’m not familiar with Jurgen Medical Center, so I repeat the name in my mind while reaching for a towel, already planning the fastest route to Industrial Boulevard from my apartment. “I’m leaving in a few minutes. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Just get there as soon as you can. The doctors said the next few hours are critical.” He sounds shaky. “I saw a shard of glass protruding from her thigh. Maybe her femoral artery…” He trails off before speaking again. “I have to get back to work but keep us updated.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone with wet hands and a heart that’s beating so fast it makes me dizzy. The thought of Jessie seriously injured, rushed to the nearest emergency room while asking for me, makes my stomach clench with dread. I need to get to her immediately.
I climb out of the tub and dry off as quickly as possible, pulling on the first clothes I can find. I’ve chosen non-maternity jeans that barely fit over my growing belly, a sweater that’s soft enough to be comforting, and shoes I can slip on without bending over too far.
The apartment feels too quiet as I grab my keys and wallet, checking my phone one more time to make sure I didn’t miss any additional calls from Eli. There’s a moment where I consider calling Nikandr. He’d want to know what happened, and part of me craves the comfort of his voice during a crisis like this.
No, it’s late, and every second feels heavier than the last. I don’t want to waste time arguing about security protocols or having him insist on sending a team to escort me. Jessie needs me now, and I can handle a drive to the hospital by myself.
I lock the apartment behind me and hurry toward the parking lot, my mind already focused on navigating traffic. It’s only as I reach my car that I remember the guards who have been discreetly following me everywhere since I left the estate.
They’re parked across the street in a black SUV, trying to look inconspicuous and failing spectacularly. When they see me heading for my car at this hour, one of them gets out and starts walking toward me with purpose. “Ma’am, if you’re going somewhere, we’d prefer to drive you.”
I shake my head and unlock my car door. “I’m going to the hospital. My best friend was injured, and I don’t have time to explain the situation or wait for you to clear it with whoever you need to clear it with.”
He looks unhappy but doesn’t try to stop me. “Then we’ll follow behind you. For safety.”
I shrug. “Fine. Whatever. Just don’t slow me down.”
I climb into my car and start the engine, pulling out of the parking lot with the SUV following. The streets are mostly empty at this hour, which makes it easier to navigate toward Industrial Boulevard and the hospital where Jessie is fighting for her life.
It’s only when I’ve been driving for twenty minutes through increasingly industrial areas that doubt begins to creep in. I haven’t seen any signs for Jurgen Medical Center, which I’ve never heard of, and the neighborhoods I’m passing don’t look like places where a major hospital would be located. The buildings are mostly warehouses and manufacturing facilities, with very few streetlights and no foot traffic.
Maybe I took a wrong turn. Maybe Eli gave me the wrong address in his panic. Maybe I misheard him because I was in the bathtub and the sound was distorted.
I slow down and pull into an empty parking lot beside a warehouse, intending to call Eli back and get better directions. The guards’ SUV pulls in behind me, and I see them talking on their radio, probably checking in with whoever is monitoring my movements.
My phone shows no missed calls and no text messages with additional information. I’m about to dial Eli’s number when I see headlights approaching fast from the direction I just came.
Too fast.
A black van speeds toward the guards’ SUV and slams into the side with enough force to send it spinning across the asphalt. The sound of metal crushing metal fills the air, followed by the hiss of steam from a damaged radiator.
Before I can process what I’m seeing, another van races toward my car from the opposite direction.
The realization crashes over me with crystal clarity. This isn’t an accident or a coincidence. I’ve been lured here deliberately, led away from safety and witnesses to a location where no one will hear me scream.
It’s a trap.
