Page 42 of Cruel Submission
For now, I hold her close and pretend we have time.
Pretend this won’t end the only way it can.
In betrayal. In pain.
In the inevitable destruction of the one good thing I’ve let myself have in my entire fucked up world.
Chapter Fourteen
Mirabel
I wake to cold sheets.
My hand reaches across the mattress before I’m fully conscious, fingers searching for warmth that isn’t there. The space beside me is empty. Wrinkled where his body pressed through the night, but long abandoned.
He’s gone.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds it takes for disappointment to calcify into something harder. Resignation, maybe. Or the dull ache of knowing exactly who Arkady Laurov is and wanting him anyway.
My stomach churns—morning sickness or emotional nausea, I can’t tell anymore. I roll out of bed and pad barefoot to his bathroom, the marble cold enough to make me flinch.
That’s when I see it.
His phone. Black glass and sharp edges, sitting on the windowsill above the sink.
I freeze, toothbrush halfway to my mouth. He never forgets his phone. Never. It’s practically grafted to his palm, buzzing with messages from men whose names I don’t ask about and calls he takes in Russian behind closed doors.
Did he leave it on purpose?
My eyes dart to the corners of the bathroom, searching for the telltale glint of camera lenses. He has them everywhere else in this house—watching, recording, cataloging. Does he have them here, too? Is he testing me right now, waiting to see if I’ll prove myself trustworthy or just another person who betrays him?
I turn my back on the phone and brush my teeth. Foam fills my mouth, drips down my chin. I spit, rinse, grip the sink as I fight the impulse to pick it up.
Don’t touch it.
Whatever secrets that phone holds aren’t worth destroying the fragile thing building between us.
The phone rings.
The sound is sharp and insistent. I whip around, toothpaste foam still on my lips, and watch the screen light up.
Dr. Harrison
My pulse kicks up a beat. A doctor. Calling Arkady this early.
The ringing drills into my skull. Five rings. Six. Then it stops.
Dammit, walk away, Mirabel!
I know I should respect his privacy. Be the person I want to believe I am.
A notification chimes. Soft. Almost apologetic.
Text message.
My hand moves before my brain catches up. I reach for the shower knob, twist it. Water cascades into the tub—white noise, cover, plausible deniability.
Then I’m crossing to the phone, thumb hovering over the screen that will certainly demand an access code or biometric. The text preview glows there for seconds before the screen goes dark:
