Page 37 of Cruel Submission

“Not hard enough.”

The accusation cuts deep. I reach for her, but she steps back, fading into shadows I can’t penetrate. And then she’s gone, and I’m alone again, drowning in guilt and grief and the terrible certainty that I failed her.

I wake gasping, sweat cooling on my skin. The clock on my nightstand reads 2:47 AM. Too early to get up, too late to fall back asleep.

My concern about Arkady—his health, his distance, the burden he’s carrying—gnaws at me in the dark. During the day, I can rationalize it. Tell myself he’s just busy, just stressed, just dealing with things I don’t understand.

But at night, the worry becomes something sharper. More insistent. The certainty that he’s hiding something critical won’t leave me alone.

I push the covers back and stand. Fresh air. That’s what I need. Just a few minutes in the garden to clear my head, to shake off the remnants of the dream still clinging to my skin.

The house is silent as I make my way downstairs. No guards patrol the interior halls at this hour—they’re all stationed outside, watching the perimeter. I slip through the back door and into the cool night air.

The garden stretches before me, silvered by moonlight. I breathe in the scent of jasmine and earth, letting the cold ground my spiraling thoughts.

And then I see it.

A light in the east wing. High up, in one of the windows. Not Arkady’s bedroom—I know where that is. This is different. Smaller. The window I’ve noticed before but never really paid attention to.

A woman’s silhouette moves across the glass.

I freeze.

The silhouette is slight, feminine, unmistakable. She passes the window once, then again, pacing. Or maybe just moving around the room. It’s too far to see details, but the shape is clear enough.

A woman. In Arkady’s house. At three in the morning.

The realization is a cold slap in the face.

He has a girlfriend.

Of course he does. Of course. Why wouldn’t he? A man like Arkady Laurov—powerful, dangerous, beautiful in that harsh, unforgiving way—of course he has women. Probably dozens of them. And I’ve been stupid enough to think that what happened between us meant something. That the nights we spent tangled together in his bed were anything more than convenience.

But how could it have been more? He’s remained a closed book to me. Taken me when he’s wanted me, and treated me like an employee all the times between. That’s all I am to him. Staff. An object to use and then lock away when it suits him. And now there’s this. Her. The woman in the window.

Jealousy rises hot and sharp in my chest, mixing with something that feels dangerously close to betrayal. I have no right to feel this way. No claim on him. We never promised each other anything.

But it doesn’t stop the hurt.

Is he with her right now?

The thought makes my stomach twist. Is that why he’s been so distant? Why he keeps taking calls in private, disappearing at odd hours, avoiding me whenever possible?

Stupid, I tell myself. You were worrying about his health when all along he just has someone else.

I should go back inside. Should pretend I never saw anything. Should remember that I’m just the housekeeper, just an employee, just—

I can’t.

My feet carry me back into the house before I fully register the decision. Through the corridors, up the stairs, toward his private suite.

His door is closed but not locked. I push it open slowly, quietly, holding my breath.

And there he is, lying on his bed, still fully dressed in the clothes he wore earlier. His chest rises and falls with the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. One arm is flung across his face, the other rests on his stomach. He looks younger like this. Vulnerable in a way he never is when he’s awake.

Relief floods through me so suddenly that it makes me dizzy.

He’s here. Not with her. Alone.