Page 36 of Cruel Submission

Arkady leans back in his chair. His fingers drum once against the armrest, then still. “Good. He was doing his job.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

The answer is so dismissive, so infuriatingly simple, that I actually laugh. A short, brittle sound. “That’s not good enough.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

I take a step closer to his desk. “I need things, Arkady. Personal things. Women’s things. I can’t keep—” I cut myself off before I say too much. Before I mention the uniform that’s getting too tight around my middle, the way my body is changing in ways I can’t hide much longer.

He studies me, dissecting every inch of my face, looking for something I’m trying hard not to show.

“What things?”

“Clothes,” I say carefully. “Toiletries. And a one-size-bigger uniform. The one I have is… uncomfortable to work in.”

“Why do you need a bigger size?”

Because I’m pregnant with your baby.

The truth sits on my tongue, heavy and impossible. But I swallow it down. Not yet. Not like this.

“It would be more comfortable,” I say instead. “That’s all.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his expression shifts—suspicion flickering across his features before he schools them blank again.

“Order everything online,” he says. “I’ll cover the cost.”

“Arkady—”

“That’s final.”

His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and something in his face changes. Hardens. He stands abruptly, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

“I have to take this.”

He’s already moving toward the door, already leaving before I can protest. Before I can demand a real explanation. Before I can tell him that this isn’t sustainable, that I can’t keep living like this, trapped in his house with guards and rules and secrets piling up between us.

The door closes behind him, and I’m left standing alone in his office, staring at the space where he was.

There are too many calls he doesn’t want me to hear. Too many conversations behind closed doors. Whatever is weighing on him, he won’t share it. Won’t let me in.

And at night, it’s so much worse.

The hours between sunset and dawn have become my enemy. I lie awake counting shadows on the ceiling, my mind circling the same questions over and over until they blur into white noise. Tonight is no different. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between breaths. My hand rests on my stomach—a habit I’ve developed without meaning to. Four months now. Four months of hiding this secret, of wearing loose clothes and praying no one notices the way my body is betraying me.

The dream comes the way it always does—sudden and visceral, pulling me under before I can resist.

Debra.

She’s standing in a room I don’t recognize, wearing the same clothes she wore the day she disappeared. Her face is exactly like mine, but something is wrong. She’s hurting. Haunted.

“Mira,” she says, and her voice cracks. “Why didn’t you find me?”

“I tried,” I tell her. “I’ve been trying for six years.”