Page 91 of Cruel Submission

“When can we see him?” she finally asks.

“As soon as—”

“Now.” She’s standing. “We’ve wasted too much time already. These might be the last days I have with him.”

“Okay. You’re right.” I nod, wishing I hadn’t taken this decision from her. “We see him now.”

So, I text Arkady.

His reply comes almost instantly: Volodya will drive. Armed security already in place at the hospital.

Already in place. Which means he probably deployed men the moment I asked, maybe the second I hung up. That’s Arkady Laurov. Always three moves ahead, always building fortifications around the people he loves before they know they need them. I think of his hands last night, the way he’d pressed his mouth to my temple after we’d made love, held me there in the dark like he was memorizing the shape of my skull. The tenderness of it. And then this morning—armed security, tactical drivers, a man who shows his love in bulletproof glass and concealed weapons.

Thank you, I type back.

No argument. Not today.

Debra is waiting in the foyer when I come downstairs. She’s dressed carefully—blue cardigan, the soft one Yanis brought her. Her hair is brushed. She’s even put on a little mascara, the first time I’ve seen her wear makeup since she came back.

She looks like herself. Or a version of herself she’s building from scratch, assembling what she can remember and discarding what Gavriil tried to make her.

“You look lovely,” I tell her.

She grips the hem of her sleeve, twisting the fabric between her fingers.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” she admits.

“We’ll figure it out in the car.”

Volodya meets us at the front entrance, quiet and efficient. He opens the rear door of the black SUV without small talk, which I appreciate. There’s no version of this morning that needs pleasantries. But I notice the bulge beneath his jacket—left side, shoulder holster—and the way his eyes sweep the driveway before he shuts our door. Like we’re cargo to be secured, not women visiting their father.

I slide in first, then Debra. She moves close to the window, tipping her head to watch the grounds disappear behind us as the car pulls down the long gravel drive.

Neither of us speaks until Ashwater Heights is out of sight. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It’s loaded. Full of all the things we haven’t planned yet.

“We need to figure out what we tell him about you,” I finally say. “About where you’ve been.”

Debra’s hand goes back to her sleeve, gripping the hem, twisting. “He’s going to ask.”

“Of course he’s going to ask.”

“I can’t tell him the truth. Not the real truth.” Her voice is flat. Not emotionless—controlled. Like she’s holding the feelings at arm’s length so she can function. “If he finds out what happened to me… What Gavriil—” She shakes her head. “I can’t talk about that with him, Mira.”

“So we keep it vague,” I say. “You were taken. You were held against your will. You’ve been freed, you’re safe, and you’re getting help.”

“That’s still a lot.”

“It’s the bones of it without the…” I search for the word. “Without the horror.”

Debra turns from the window. Gives me that long, measuring look she used to deploy when we were kids sharing a bedroom and I was trying to convince her I hadn’t eaten the last biscuit.

We’ve left the countryside, and now the car rolls through traffic. Outside, the city carries on—buses, pedestrians, a cyclist weaving between lanes. Normal life happening around us while we rehearse how to deliver a miracle without it becoming a catastrophe.

“Dad’s going to cry,” Debra says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to cry.”