The shattering of glass pierced the silence like a gunshot. Elara flinched, instinctively hugging herself tighter as she sat on the edge of Nikolai's bed. Her fingers trembled slightly, her pulse pounding in her ears. It wasn't fear—not of him, not in the sense people might assume. It was fear of what he would do next. What she would do next. Of the spiral her life was taking, slipping faster and faster into a darkness she didn't know how to navigate.
The silence that followed the crash was even more deafening. Her breath hitched as she wiped the fresh tears that slid down her cheeks, salty and hot against her skin. She hated that she was crying. Hated that she felt so powerless. But most of all, she hated that a decision that should have been hers had been ripped away like she was nothing more than a prisoner.
She wasn't scared.
She was angry.
She pulled the soft, pale blue gown over her head and tossed it onto the floor like it had burned her. The cold air kissed her skin briefly before she slipped into the black jeans and gray hoodie Nikolai had left for her—after dragging her out of that clinic like a criminal. Her hands moved stiffly, mechanically, as she dressed, like she was disconnected from her own body. Like she was just going through the motions because if she stopped to feel, she would collapse again.
Elara sat back down on the edge of the bed, her legs drawn up and her arms hugging her knees to her chest. The sheets still smelled like him. She hated it.
She hated that he always found a way to control the narrative.
She hated that he found her.
He had been watching her. He knew when she bought the pregnancy test. He knew about the clinic. He knew everything. Every move she made had been shadowed by eyes she couldn't see.
Of course. Of course he knew. He was Nikolai fucking Volkov. Bratva prince. Shadow king. He had men crawling through the cracks of the city like rats. Watching. Waiting. Listening. How foolish of her to think she could ever hide something from him.
And now, she was locked in his bedroom like a misbehaving child. Or worse… a possession.
Her stomach turned.
She stood up abruptly and paced across the room, chewing on the inside of her cheek, fists clenched at her sides.
"Think, Elara. Think," she whispered to herself.
She couldn't call anyone. He'd cut the signal to her phone—she was sure of it. Or worse, tapped it. Even if she managed to get a message out, he would intercept it before it reached anyone. The man lived in a constant state of control. That was how he survived. That was how he owned everything and everyone.
The front door would be guarded, no doubt. The penthouse was like a fortress—one she once admired for its sleek design, its panoramic views, its silence.
Now it felt like a golden cage.
Even the windows were no use. Sure, the glass stretched from floor to ceiling in some parts of the penthouse, but they were several stories high. And reinforced. Bulletproof.
She walked to the window, staring out at the cityscape below. People moved like ants—cars, buses, lives happening outside her prison. She pressed her palm against the cool glass. So many people. So many places to disappear into. But unreachable, as if the barrier between her and the outside world was a wall of thick ice. It mocked her.
A sigh escaped her lips. Her breath fogged the glass briefly before fading away.
She turned back to the room. It looked too perfect. Too clean. The sheets still tucked with military precision, the desk neatly arranged, the closet closed. Even the air felt sterile.
And then she saw her reflection in the mirror across the room—eyes red, lips pressed into a tight line, dark circles beneath her lashes. She looked like a ghost of herself. And in that moment, she wondered when exactly she had stopped being Elara—the hopeful, determined interior designer with dreams bigger than her salary—and became his. Nikolai's girl. Nikolai's lover. Nikolai's prisoner.
Now Nikolai's baby mama.
She blinked rapidly, her chest tightening with a wave of nausea that wasn't just physical. The room spun for a second, and she steadied herself with a hand on the bedpost.
What was she going to do?
What could she do?
She sat back down, this time more slowly, like the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders and refused to move. If she couldn't get an abortion—and Nikolai had made it very clear that she couldn't—then the only option left was to run.
But run where?
She had no one she could trust with this secret. Her best friend Maya still believed Nikolai was a sweet, mysterious billionaire boyfriend with a perfect jawline and a God complex. Her parents… God, no. She couldn't drag them into this world. She wouldn't.
Which left only her.
Her, and her ability to disappear.
She would have to be smart. Plan everything down to the second. Money, new ID, transportation, route, cover story. She would have to fake something—fake a breakdown, fake compliance, fake peace. Then strike when he least expected it.
He would never let her go willingly.
So she'd have to make him let her go.
She laid down on the bed slowly, staring up at the ceiling. The crown molding was painted a soft ivory, the dim lights casting shadows that danced gently across it. Her hands rested on her stomach, the weight of her palm more noticeable now. Her chest tightened again.
She hadn't felt anything. No flutters. No morning sickness. No cravings. No evidence that something was growing inside her. But now that she knew, it felt different. He—or she—was there. Silent. Unseen. A tether.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking.
The only answer was silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
She had to escape.
She had to.
She just had to figure out how.
-----------
It was just after noon when the soft click of the door unlocking broke the heavy silence that had swallowed the room whole. Elara didn't flinch. She didn't move. She didn't even blink. She sat on the edge of the bed, knees hugged tightly to her chest, her head resting gently on her folded arms as she stared blankly at the wall across from her. Her eyes were dry now, but not because the tears had stopped of their own accord—she'd simply run out of them. Every drop had been shed, and now only emptiness remained.
Nikolai stepped into the room, the door creaking softly as he closed it behind him. He held a plate of food in one hand, a simple meal of roasted potatoes, grilled chicken, and steamed vegetables. It was warm. The scent drifted through the room, but Elara didn't even glance up. She just stared ahead, as if his presence was as insignificant as the dust floating in the air.
He walked over to the nightstand and placed the plate down gently, as though trying not to startle her, even though nothing could shake her more than what had already happened. Then he sat beside her on the bed, leaving a few careful inches of space between them. Even that distance felt too close.
Elara immediately shifted away from him, turning her body ever so slightly toward the wall. The rejection was subtle but stinging, like a slap to the face delivered with ghostly fingers.
"Elara," he said softly, "you need to eat."
Her eyes didn't move, but her voice came out low and flat. "Leave."
He sighed. He had expected resistance, but it still hit him harder than he wanted to admit. "You need to eat, if not for yourself, at least eat for the baby."
At that, she let out a sharp, bitter huff of air—half scoff, half laugh—and finally turned her head slightly to look at him. Her eyes were hollow, shadowed, no spark of the Elara he'd once known. Only anger and pain lived there now.
"You don't get to tell me how to take care of something inside my body," she said, each word sharpened with steel.
Nikolai's jaw clenched, but he didn't look away. "I know you hate me. I'd hate me too if I were you. But you need to understand something, really understand it, Elara…" His voice lowered, growing gentler, more intimate. "This baby is ours. It's not just yours, and it's not just mine. It's ours. I would never let anything happen to it, or to you."
She sat up straighter now, the storm behind her eyes swirling with venom and disbelief. "Ours?" she repeated, her voice rising just slightly. "You think this is some fairytale now? Like we're some couple in love who planned this together? You dragged me out of a clinic, Nikolai. You chained me to this penthouse with your threats and your men and your locked doors. You've turned this baby into a weapon—a chain you want to use to keep me here."
His hand curled into a fist against his knee. "That's not true."
"Yes, it is," she said, her voice hard, cold, final. "You love control more than you love me. You say you're doing this because you love me, but really—you're doing this because you're afraid I'll leave. And the baby? It's just another excuse to own me."
Nikolai swallowed hard, the words piercing deeper than he thought they would. "I love you," he said softly, almost desperately. "That's why I can't let you go. That's why I won't let you go. I don't know how to lose you, Elara. I don't want to know."
"Then you shouldn't have lied to me," she snapped. "You should've told me the truth from the beginning. You should've given me the choice."
"I thought I was protecting you—"
"You were protecting yourself!" she shouted. "You were protecting your world. Your secrets. Your empire of blood and violence!"
Nikolai stood up slowly, unable to sit still anymore. His breath came in slow, deliberate pulls as he tried to keep himself composed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the world apart. But instead, he looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, he realized she was right.
This wasn't about love anymore.
This was about possession.
He glanced at the untouched plate of food on the nightstand. "You should eat," he said again, quieter this time. "You need your strength."
Elara turned away from him completely now, curling her body toward the pillows. "Go fuck yourself," she muttered, her voice muffled against the cotton.
Nikolai stood there for a long moment, staring down at her. She didn't look at him. Didn't move. And in that moment, he had never felt more powerless.
He didn't say another word. He didn't try to justify himself. He simply turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
And once again, Elara was alone with her thoughts.
Alone with the silence.
Alone with a child growing inside her that she had never asked for, never planned for, and never wanted—at least not under these circumstances.
But most of all, she was alone with the crushing realization that freedom might forever be out of reach.