For the next three days, I watch her from the study with the camera feeds muted, filled with frustration I can’t quite name. The ice in my glass melts while I sit motionless, tracking her movements across multiple screens like she’s a target instead of the woman carrying my child.
She walks through the halls like she’s trying not to exist. Her shoulders draw in, her movements become careful and deliberate, and her gaze always lowers to avoid meeting anyone else’s. When Eugenie approaches to offer her tea, Sabrina’s smile is distant and forced. When the gardener nods politely as she passes the windows, she flinches slightly before returning the greeting. The sight bothers me.
I saved her from that attack at the club. I brought her to the safest place I know and ensured her protection with the best security money can buy. I’ve stationed men who would die before letting harm come to her, so why doesn’t she feel safe? Why does she move through my house like she’s walking through a minefield, waiting for something terrible to happen?
The monitor shows her now, sitting curled on the edge of her bed in the massive suite I had prepared specifically for her comfort. She’s wearing one of the maternity dresses Eugenie ordered from the most expensive boutique in San Francisco. The soft blue fabric drapes elegantly over the subtle curve of her belly, but she might as well be wearing prison stripes for all the comfort it seems to bring her. She shifts position frequently, as though she can’t get comfortable in the luxury that surrounds her.
I’ve barely spoken to her beyond polite inquiries about her health and whether she needs anything after that night when I made her a BLT. Every conversation feels stilted and formal, like we’re strangers conducting business instead of two people who created a life together during four days that transformed everything.
Every time I approach her, she tenses. Not obviously, because she’s too well-mannered for that, but I see it in the way her spine straightens, and her hands clasp together in front of her like she’s bracing for some kind of impact. Yesterday, when I asked about her doctor’s appointment, her knuckles went white.
This morning, when I inquired about breakfast, she stammered through her response like I was interrogating her instead of showing concern. It’s the same defensive posture she adopted at the safe house when she first arrived, except this time, she’s not drugged or confused about her circumstances.
This time, she’s simply afraid of me.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach, growing heavier each day that passes without improvement. I’ve given her everything I thought she needed to feel comfortable and secure—luxury, comfort, and protection from every conceivable threat—but none of it matters if she can’t relax enough to appreciate any of it.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years learning how to intimidate, control, and make people bend to my will through fear and force. Now I need to do the opposite, and I have no idea where to start.
Maksim walks into the study drops a manila file on my desk with more force than seems strictly necessary. The sound makes me flinch, which irritates me further. My nerves have been on edge since bringing Sabrina here, though I can’t pinpoint exactly why. He nods toward the bank of monitors showing various angles of the estate grounds and security checkpoints and offers his unsolicited opinion. “She doesn’t trust you yet.”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I drain what’s left of the vodka in my glass and continue staring at the monitor, watching the woman carrying my child look utterly miserable in lavish surroundings. The alcohol burns, but it doesn’t ease the tight knot of frustration in my chest. If anything, it makes the image on the screen sharper and more painful to watch.
Maksim sighs, and the sound carries the weight of disapproval and long experience dealing with my particular brand of stubbornness. “If you want her to stop flinching every time you speak, you have to build trust. I mean emotional safety, not just physical protection.”
“She is safe,” I say sharply, turning away from the screen to meet his steady gaze. “She’s safer than she’s ever been in her life.”
He arches a brow. “She’s safe from outside threats, absolutely, but she’s not safe from you.”
The words make me jerk like he hit me. “I’ve never hurt her.”
“Haven’t you?” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk, clearly preparing for a longer conversation than I want to have. “You’ve uprooted her entire life and brought her to a place where she knows no one and understands nothing about how things work. You’ve made her completely dependent on you for everything from food to safety to basic human contact. That’s a different kind of violence, Nikandr.”
I want to argue with him, to point out everything I’ve done has been necessary for her protection. The cameras in her apartment, the attack at the club, and the surveillance equipment we found all prove she needed someone to take care of her whether she wanted it or not. Her independence was an illusion that nearly got her and my child killed.
The image on the screen makes the argument die in my throat before I can voice it. She looks so small sitting there on the edge of that enormous bed, so lost and alone despite being surrounded by every luxury I could think to provide. Her hand rests on her stomach in that protective gesture I’ve learned to recognize, and something about the motion looks unconscious or instinctive, like she’s offering comfort to the life growing inside her because no one else is around to offer comfort to her.
As I watch, she turns toward the window, and even through the grainy security feed, I can see the longing in her posture. She wants to be anywhere but here.
“What do you suggest I do?” The question comes out rougher than I intended, scraped raw by the admission that I’m failing but desperately need to succeed.
“Talk to her. Not about security measures or prenatal vitamins or whether she’s comfortable in her suite.” He leans forward, his expression serious. “Talk to her like she’s a person whose thoughts and feelings matter to you.”
I scowl. “They do matter.”
“Then show her that, especially if you want civil co-parenting down the road.” He pauses, studying my expression with a calculating look that tells me he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “Or closer than that.”
Something flickers in my chest at his words, dangerous and warm and completely unwelcome. Something closer. The possibility of more than just shared custody and formal arrangements moves me. The thought of Sabrina choosing to stay, choosing me, not because she has to but because she wants to, causes a blinding surge of hope.
I push away the thought before it can take root. That kind of thinking leads to weakness, compromised judgment, and emotional vulnerability that gets people killed in my world. I’ve seen what happens to men who care too much about women who don’t belong in this life. They make mistakes. They hesitate at crucial moments. They end up dead, and the women they tried to protect end up worse than dead.
“This isn’t about romance, Maksim. This is about protecting my child and the woman carrying him.”
“Is it?” He raises an eyebrow. “To me, it looks like you’re trying to protect someone you care about more than you’re willing to admit.”
I hesitate buying myself time to formulate a response that doesn’t reveal more than I intend. “I care about her safety and the child’s welfare. Everything else is secondary.”
“If you say so.” His tone suggests he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Caring about someone’s safety means caring about their emotional well-being too. You can’t protect someone’s body while destroying their spirit and expect them to be grateful for it.”
The words sting because they’re true. I’ve been so focused on eliminating external threats that I haven’t considered what my methods might be doing to Sabrina herself. I thought bringing her here would make her feel secure, but instead, I’ve just traded one kind of danger for another.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I say quietly, the confession tasting like failure. “I know how to eliminate threats and neutralize enemies, to make people fear me enough to leave the things I care about alone, but I don’t know how to make someone feel safe instead of trapped.”
Maksim nods like this admission doesn’t surprise him. “Emotional safety isn’t about control, Nikandr. It’s about trust, and trust requires vulnerability from both parties.”
I instinctively protest. “Vulnerability gets people killed.”
“So does isolation.” He stands and moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. “You asked me what I suggest you do. Here’s my advice—stop watching her through cameras and start spending time with her as a person. Learn what she needs beyond physical security. Give her some agency in her own life, even if it’s just small choices.”
“And if that puts her at risk?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Life is risk. You’ll deal with those risks as they arise. Right now, the biggest risk to her emotional stability is you.”
After he leaves, I sit alone in the study, staring at the monitor where Sabrina remains curled on her bed like a beautiful, wounded bird in a gilded cage. I’ve clipped her wings in the name of protecting her, but protection without choice is just another form of captivity.
I think about what Maksim said about vulnerability and trust. The concepts feel foreign and dangerous in my world. Everything I’ve learned about survival has been built on the foundation that showing weakness invites attack, control equals safety, and the only way to protect what matters is to eliminate every possible threat before it can materialize.
Sabrina isn’t a business asset or a strategic advantage. She’s a woman carrying my child, and she deserves better than to feel like a prisoner in what should be her refuge.
I close the laptop and push back from the desk, decision crystallizing in my mind. Maybe I can’t undo the circumstances that brought her here, but I can try to make her time here less miserable. I can start treating her like a person instead of a problem to be managed. The leather chair creaks as I lean back, and I catch my reflection in the dark window, seeing a man who looks older than his years, wearing exhaustion like an expensive suit. I’ve aged in the days since the attack.
I can make her feel safer and wanted here. I just have to figure out how to do that without compromising her safety or revealing more of myself than I’m prepared to share.
The file Maksim left catches my attention, and I flip it open to distract myself from thoughts that lead nowhere productive. Inside are surveillance photos and intelligence reports about recent activity in the city, updates on various business operations, and background checks on several individuals who’ve been flagged as potential security concerns.
“Any update on Morozov?” I ask when Maksim returns an hour later, not looking up from the reports.
“We’re keeping an eye out,” he says, settling back into his chair. “His people might be watching too, but there’s been no movement near the estate so far that we’ve detected.”
That comes as a relief, though I know better than to assume it will stay that way indefinitely. Vadim Morozov is patient and methodical, the kind of enemy who prefers to study his targets thoroughly before making his move. That he hasn’t acted yet doesn’t mean he won’t act eventually.
“What about the club? Any developments with the investigation into the attack?”
“Local police are treating it as a random assault. The man—Carl Morrison—claims he doesn’t remember anything about that afternoon, which is convenient for us. That leaves no connection to larger criminal activity.”
“Good. And the roommate?”
“Jessica Witman is secure in the safe house downtown. She’s asking questions about when she can return to her normal life, but she’s cooperating with the protection detail.”
I nod, satisfied the immediate loose ends are being handled properly, but as I close the file and look back at the monitor, the larger problem remains unchanged. Sabrina sits alone in her beautiful room, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. She shouldn’t feel alone here with me.
The thought comes unbidden, followed immediately by the uncomfortable recognition that I want her to be happy here. Not just safe or comfortable, but genuinely content in a way that has nothing to do with luxury or security measures. I want her to choose to stay, even when the immediate danger has passed.
The admission scares me more than any physical threat I’ve ever faced, because it means I’m already more invested in this woman than I ever intended to be. She’s become more than just the mother of my child or a person under my protection. She’s become someone whose happiness matters to me in ways I don’t fully understand.
That level of emotional investment is exactly the kind of weakness I’ve spent my entire adult life learning to avoid, but as I watch her on the screen, curled alone on that enormous bed with one hand resting protectively over our child, I realize some kinds of weakness might be worth the risk, especially if the alternative is watching the mother of my child slowly wither away in a prison of my making.
