Page 34 of Cruel Submission
“I love you too, Dad.”
What if this is the last time? What if he doesn’t make it to my next visit? What if the baby inside me never gets to meet its grandfather?
I swallow the questions down and leave before they can show on my face. The guard follows me through the hospital corridors, down the elevator, out into the parking lot. My car—or rather, Arkady’s car—waits under harsh fluorescent lights that make everything look sickly.
“I need to stop somewhere,” I say. The first words I’ve spoken directly to him all day.
His expression doesn’t change. “Where?”
“Shopping center a few blocks from here. I need to pick up some things.”
“What things?”
My jaw clenches. “Clothes. My current ones are getting tight.”
Everything I own feels like it’s strangling me. My jeans won’t button anymore. My shirts pull across my breasts in ways that draw attention I can’t afford. I need bigger sizes before someone notices what’s happening to my body.
Before Arkady notices.
The guard pulls out his phone, scrolling. Probably checking the list of acceptable destinations Arkady provided—his approved locations for his property. Because that’s what I am now. Property to be tracked and managed.
“The boss only gave permission for the hospital visit,” he says.
I stare at him. “I just need to stop at one store. Twenty minutes.”
“No.”
The refusal sets my teeth on edge. All the frustration I’ve been swallowing all day—the lies to Dad, the constant surveillance, the endless buzzing phone—rises up my throat.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“The boss’s orders were clear.”
“I need clothes that fit.”
“Take it up with Mr. Laurov.”
My fingernails dig into my palms. “This is ridiculous. I’m not asking to run away. I just want to buy a few things.”
His face remains impassive. “My orders are to bring you directly back to the estate after the hospital visit. Nothing else.”
“So I’m a prisoner, then.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I have no freedom left. Every movement tracked. Every destination approved or denied. Every moment of my life subject to Arkady’s control.
The guard opens the passenger door, waiting.
I slide into the seat. The door closes with a decisive click—a sound like a cell locking. As we pull out of the parking lot, I watch the shopping center fade in the side mirror. Such a simple thing. Clothes that fit. And I can’t even have that without permission.
My phone buzzes in my lap. Another message from Arkady.
I don’t look at it.
Instead, I press my hand against my stomach, where his child grows whether he knows it yet or not. This baby will be born into Arkady’s world—a world of guards and tracking devices and rules that shift without warning. A world where even my own body isn’t fully mine anymore.
But what scares me more than that realization is this: I’m not sure I remember how to leave.
