Page 52 of Cruel Submission

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until Gavriil mobilizes his entire network and turns it against Ashwater Heights. Against Mirabel. Against everything.

I dial Stefan. The call connects before the first ring finishes.

“Double security,” I say without preamble. “No one enters or leaves without my direct approval. And I want Mirabel and Debra under constant surveillance. Especially Mirabel—she still has access to the outside world. Every movement, every phone call, every text message. All of it.”

Static crackles on the line. When Stefan speaks, his voice is careful. Measured. “I get it, but she’s not going to like it.”

“I don’t care.”

“Mirabel won’t—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” I spin away from the monitors and move to the window. Outside, winter sunlight cuts across the grounds in hard geometric slices. No warmth in it. “Install additional cameras in the areas she frequents. The garden, her bedroom. And monitor her internet activity, everything that goes in or out of this house digitally.”

A long beat of silence. Stefan’s breathing fills my ear, and I know what he’s thinking: this is how it starts. The slow descent into the same paranoid control that defines Gavriil’s empire.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks finally.

“Do it, Stefan.”

I end the call and let the phone drop onto the windowsill. My hands are shaking. Not from fear—from the adrenaline that comes with crossing a line I swore I’d never touch. Mirabel will hate me when she finds out. She’ll look at me the way she looked at those security feeds the day she realized I keep files on everyone who works in this house.

But she’ll be alive.

That’s what matters. She’ll be alive to hate me, and Debra won’t go back to that cellar, and when my father comes, I’ll put him in the ground next to Sergei and finally be done with this fucking bloodline.

My phone buzzes against the window. Text from Yanis: I’m here. Where are you?

Chert. I forgot we were meeting.

I find him in the main hallway, pacing the length of the marble runner. He’s traded his usual suit for dark jeans and a gray sweater that makes him look younger—less like Gavriil’s eldest son and more like the brother who used to sneak me extra dessert when Father put me to bed without dinner. But there’s nothing soft about his posture now. His shoulders are rigid, spine locked, hands curled into loose fists at his sides.

“We need to talk,” I say.

He stops mid-stride and turns. “About Father?”

“Da. He called.”

Something shifts behind Yanis’s eyes—not surprise, but resignation. He’s been waiting for this hammer to drop since the night we raided the cellar. “And?”

“He gave me one week to return Debra and the girls.” I close the distance between us. “He’s mobilizing, Yanis. This isn’t posturing.”

“Fuck.” Yanis drags both hands through his hair. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. He didn’t wait for a response.”

“Of course he didn’t.” Yanis’s laugh is bitter. Hollow. “What’s the plan?”

“Fortress protocol. Double security. Lockdown until we figure out our next move.” I watch his face, reading the micro-expressions that most people miss. “That includes Debra.”

The temperature in the hallway drops ten degrees.

“What about Debra?” Each word comes out clipped. Precise.

“She stays in the east wing and doesn’t go out. No access to anyone except the doctor.”

Yanis takes a step toward me. Then another. “She needs fresh air, Arkady. Sunlight. She’s been locked in this house for—”

“She’s recovering from the trauma.” I keep my voice level. Controlled. “Dr. Harrison was very clear about maintaining a controlled environment during the stabilization phase.”