Page 29 of Cruel Submission

Blyad.

I kill that thought. Shove it down where it can’t touch me.

Fanny slides in beside the carrier. She’s young, maybe twenty-six, with that professional polish that comes from working for rich families who treat their children like accessories. Her hands move over the blanket, tucking it tighter around Aleks’s legs, and she does it without hesitation, without needing to be told.

I hired her through an agency that specializes in discretion. Background check came back so clean it was almost suspicious—no debt, no criminal record, no messy ex-boyfriends or addiction history. Just a girl who takes care of other people’s kids for money and doesn’t ask questions when the offer is generous enough.

The sum I’m paying her is astronomical. One year. Full-time. Live-in.

She took it without blinking.

I take the front passenger seat. Stefan merges into traffic, smooth enough that Aleks doesn’t stir.

The city slides past my window—gray buildings, grayer sky, people hunched against the cold. I watch them without really seeing them, my mind already at Ashwater Heights, already calculating what needs to happen next.

“The nursery’s finished?” I ask.

“Yanis handled it this morning.” Stefan’s eyes stay on the road. “East wing. Next to the guest suite.”

Next to the Secret Room. He doesn’t say it, but we both know.

“Good.”

Silence fills the car. Just the engine’s hum and occasional traffic noise filtering through the windows. I let it sit. Don’t need to fill every quiet space with talking.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out—text from Yanis.

Debra’s awake. Ate breakfast. Dr. Harrison just left.

I type back: Home in 20. Don’t speak to Mirabel.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Then: Your funeral.

I pocket the phone.

“Fanny.” I don’t turn around. “You read the contract?”

“Yes, Mr. Laurov.” Her voice is soft, northern accent smoothing the edges. “Twelve-month term. Live-in care for Aleks. Confidentiality regarding his presence in the household.”

“Say it back to me. The confidentiality clause.”

A pause. Then: “I agree not to disclose any information about the child, his parentage, his presence in your home, or any details of my employment to any third parties. Violation results in immediate termination and legal action.”

“And the movement restriction?”

“I’m confined to the east wing unless explicitly instructed otherwise. I won’t engage with other household staff or guests. If I encounter anyone, I’m to excuse myself immediately.”

“Good.” I watch the city thin out through the window. Trees start appearing between buildings. “No one knows Aleks exists. Not the cleaning staff. Not the cook. Not the woman who lives in the main house.” I let that land. “You keep him content and quiet. You keep him out of sight. If someone hears crying, you handle it before it becomes a problem.”

“Understood.”

“You’ll have everything you need. Make a list—formula, diapers, whatever. Stefan handles procurement. You don’t leave the property.”

“Yes, Mr. Laurov.”

I catch her reflection in the side mirror. She’s looking down at Aleks, one hand resting on the carrier’s edge. Her expression is neutral, professional. No maternal warmth. No sentimental attachment.

Perfect.