Page 33 of Cruel Submission

Not with the guard listening.

Not with Arkady’s child growing inside me.

Not with my entire life balanced on the edge of a blade I feel but cannot see.

Dad settles back into his pillows, too exhausted to argue. I reach for the mystery novel on his bedside table—the one he’s been working through for weeks—and open it to the dog-eared page. My voice fills the space between monitor beeps and the shuffle of nurses in the hallway. Dad’s eyes drift closed, but his fingers stay wrapped around mine.

When he wakes an hour later, we talk about small things. Safe things. The hospital gardens and how the roses are starting to bloom. A documentary he watched about deep-sea fish. We don’t talk about his prognosis or my situation or the truth that neither of us wants to face.

But the guard never moves from his post. When I help Dad to the bathroom, the guard waits outside the door. When a nurse comes to check vitals, he watches from the corner. When I lean in close to whisper something meant only for Dad’s ears, I feel those eyes tracking my every movement.

My phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

Arkady.

I pull it out. Three messages, each one shorter and sharper than the last.

Everything okay?

Answer me.

Mirabel.

I shove the phone back into my pocket without responding. This is supposed to be my time with Dad. Arkady can wait.

The guard’s eyes narrow a fraction. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

Dad reaches for the water cup on his bedside table. I help guide the straw to his lips, but his hands shake so badly that water dribbles down his chin. I grab a tissue and dab it away, trying not to see how much smaller he’s gotten since last week.

“Tell me about work,” he says. “What’s your boss like?”

Dangerous. Possessive. The kind of man who makes you forget where you end and he begins.

“He’s… demanding.” I fold the tissue into smaller and smaller squares. “But fair.”

Dad studies my face. Whatever he sees there makes him sigh—a sound I feel in my chest. “Just be careful, sweetheart. Men who need guards… they usually have reasons.”

“I know, Dad.”

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a call.

My hand hovers over the answer button, then I send it to voicemail without blinking. Control freak. He can also call his thug if he wants to.

The afternoon bleeds into evening. I read more. We watch whatever’s playing on the mounted TV—some cooking competition neither of us cares about. I sneak him contraband chocolate from the vending machine, breaking off pieces small enough that he won’t choke. Every time I glance at the doorway, the guard is there. Silent. Watching. A reminder that even on my day off, I belong to Arkady Laurov.

My phone continues its assault. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I ignore them all.

Damn Arkady Laurov, fucking control freak!

I’ve done everything he’s asked since we made this arrangement. The least he can do is let me have this short time with my father.

By the time the nurse announces visiting hours are over, my face aches from holding the smile in place. I kiss Dad’s forehead one last time. His skin still burns under my lips.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Mira.”