Page 47 of Cruel Submission

Something flashes across her face—hurt, maybe, or frustration—before she masks it with that professional distance she uses when she remembers I’m her employer and not the man who had her crying his name six hours ago.

“Of course.” She turns on her heel and slips back through the door, closing it behind her with more force than necessary.

I wait until her footsteps fade down the corridor.

“Talk.”

“Your father knows it was you who took the girls.” Stefan’s breathing is harsh, like he’s been running. “He’s found out about Debra, too. He knows she’s in your house.”

My free hand curls into a fist on the desk. We knew this was coming. Planned for it. But knowing and having it arrive are two different animals.

“How did he guess?”

“Are you serious?” Stefan’s laugh is bitter. “It’s a no-brainer, Arkady. Who else could’ve pulled this off? You’re the only one with the resources, the intel, the balls to raid his estate and walk out with his favorite plaything. He’s mobilizing. Called in the Georgians. And he’s not fucking around this time.”

Gavriil wants war.

Fine. I’ll give him war.

“It’s alright, Stefan.” My voice drops into that cold, controlled register that makes grown men step back. “We were expecting this. I can handle my old man.”

“Can you?” There’s doubt bleeding through his words. “He’s coming for blood. Yours. And he’ll go through anyone in his way to get it.”

“Let him try.”

I end the call and pull open my office door, already running through protocols. Defense plans. Evacuation routes. Mirabel needs increased security. Debra needs to be moved somewhere more secure. Aleks—fuck, the baby is vulnerable.

But the hallway stretches empty.

Mirabel is gone.

Chapter Sixteen

Mirabel

I don’t go far.

Just down the hallway, around the corner, where I can press my back against the wall and listen to the muffled sound of Arkady’s voice through his office door. The Russian comes fast, clipped, each word sharp enough to cut. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I understand the tone. Dangerous. Controlled. The voice of a man who’s about to do something violent.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides.

He dragged me into his office. Told me there was something he needed to say. Then, before he could finish a single sentence, his phone rang, and I became invisible. Step outside for a moment. Like I’m furniture. Like I’m nothing.

The humiliation sits in my chest, along with building resentment.

I push off the wall and walk. Not toward my room—I’m too restless for that. Instead, I head down to the ground floor, where my cleaning supplies are, where I can lose myself in work and pretend the last twenty minutes didn’t happen. Pretend I didn’t spend the walk to his office imagining what he might need to speak to me about. Maybe something real. Maybe something that would explain the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m asleep.

Stupid.

I’m so incredibly stupid for hoping.

This man doesn’t toy with me because he’s conflicted and complicated, the way my stupid, romantic heart wants to believe. He does it because he’s a dick. And I’m fucking sick of it.

The marble floors gleam under my feet as I make my way through the main corridor. Everything in this house is pristine, expensive, carefully curated—including me, apparently. A live-in housekeeper who can be summoned and dismissed at will.

Who also happens to warm his bed at night.

The thought makes my throat tight.