Page 67 of Cruel Submission

This was my home. For four months, these walls have been my entire world—this bedroom with the forest view, the kitchen where I learned Arkady takes his coffee scalding hot, the library with its leather-bound books and designer furniture. The bed where Arkady’s weight pinned me down and made me forget, for a few hours at least, that I was supposed to be afraid of him.

My hand drops to my stomach. I feel the changes more lately. The swell when I lie down. The way my jeans won’t button. Four months pregnant—which means it happened early, back when I thought this was just sex and survival, nothing more complicated than bodies in the dark.

I’ll miss him.

The admission hurts worse than it should. Miss the pressure of his fingers digging into my hips. The rare moments when his face softens, and he looks at me like I’m something more than an employee he fucks when the mood strikes.

But I can’t stay. Not when he locks rooms and hides secrets. Not when I imagine him touching someone else the way he touches me, making promises to her while I’m trapped in the housekeeper’s quarters like a shameful secret.

And even if I could swallow all of that—the secrets, the jealousy, the feeling of being owned—there’s the matter of what he is.

A dangerous man. A man who keeps guns in locked drawers and has armed guards patrolling the perimeter. A man who might love me or might just be obsessed with possession, and I’m too tangled up in him to know the difference.

My baby deserves safety. Walls that protect instead of trap. A father who doesn’t rule through violence.

I grab the duffel bag. It’s heavier than expected; the weight digs into my shoulder as I sling it over. One last look at the room. The bed. The window overlooking the forest.

I pull the door open. The hallway stretches ahead, silent and watchful. Cameras in the corners—I’ve memorized which angles they cover, which blind spots exist. My boots make no sound on the stairs. I’ve learned which steps creak, which paths keep me invisible from his office windows.

The foyer opens below, marble gleaming, fresh flowers on the console table, everything arranged with infinite care. The front door waits thirty feet away.

I count my steps. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

My palm hits solid oak, brass hardware cold against my skin. I push through into afternoon light that feels too bright, too exposed after the controlled dimness inside.

Late autumn air bites at my face. Sharp enough to sting. Leaves scatter across the garden path, red and gold against manicured green. Everything here is controlled, manufactured, beautiful in the way museums are beautiful. Meant to be admired from a distance, not touched.

The duffel bag strap cuts into my shoulder. I shift it, feeling the weight of everything I own pressing against my spine.

Volodya’s car idles at the gate. Black sedan, tinted windows, engine purring low. Professional. Efficient. Exactly what Arkady demands from his men.

The garden path stretches ahead—flagstones laid in perfect symmetry, hedges trimmed to geometric precision. Rose bushes still blooming, even though it’s too late in the season. Nothing here follows natural rules.

I’m halfway down the path when movement catches my eye.

A woman. Baby stroller. Her back is to me, but something about her posture, the way she holds her shoulders—

The duffel bag slides down my arm. Hits the flagstones with a thud that I feel through my feet.

She’s wearing jeans and a soft gray cardigan. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, brown with gold where sunlight catches it. And her shape, her height, the way she moves her hands on the stroller handle…

She turns slightly, and I see her face in profile.

My lungs forget how to work.

“Debra?”

The name tears out of me. Raw. Desperate. A sound that doesn’t feel like my voice at all.

She freezes. Every muscle locks. The stroller rocks gently on the flagstones. Her hand tightens on the handle.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—she turns to face me.

And the world stops turning.

My sister. My twin. My ghost made flesh.

Debra McLeod stands in front of me, alive and breathing and pushing a baby stroller in Arkady Laurov’s garden.