I find his shirt tossed over a nearby chair and pull it over my head, the fabric swimming on my smaller frame. It smells like him, sandalwood and smoke and sex. I breathe it in, committing it to memory.
My heels are by the edge of the bed. I step into them quietly, casting one last look at the man in the bed.
He's beautiful. Kind and patient and everything I never knew I wanted. I'm walking away because that's what I do. If I stay, I'll start to hope, and hope is the most dangerous thing of all. My father would kill it the second he scented it on me.
At least I don't have to worry about consequences. I've been on the pill for years, my one act of rebellion against my father's obsession with controlling my fertility.
One night of freedom. One memory to keep me warm in the cage I'm returning to.
It will have to be enough.
I slip through the door and let it close softly behind me, leaving the woman called jungle flower and her stolen Dante behind.
Four
Ilona, eight heartaching weeks later
Eight weeks since I walked out of that glass room wearing nothing but a stranger's shirt and a stupid amount of hope. Eight weeks since I crawled back into my gilded cage and pretended that one perfect night never happened. Eight weeks of reaching for a body that isn't there.
Eight weeks, and somehow everything has fallen apart.
I stand at my kitchen sink, staring out the window at the gray Chicago morning, my hand pressed flat against my stomach. Rain streaks down the glass in silver rivulets, blurring the city skyline into an impressionist painting of steel and stone. The test sits on the counter behind me, that damning little plus sign burning a hole in my consciousness. Three tests, actually. I bought them in three different pharmacies across the city, paying cash each time, paranoid that somehow my father would find out.
All three positive.
The pill is ninety-nine percent effective, or so the commercials claim. Apparently, I'm the one percent. Lucky fucking me.
A knock at my door makes me jump so hard I nearly knock over my coffee cup. The ceramic rattles against the granite, cold coffee sloshing over the rim. My pulse kicks into a sprint as I cross the apartment, every worst-case scenario playing out in my head. Did someone see me buying the tests? Did my father's bodyguard slash spies report something suspicious? Does he somehow already know?
I ease up to the door and peer through the peephole and my blood turns to ice.
My father stands in the hallway, flanked by Gino and another guard I don't recognize. His silver hair is perfectly coiffed, his charcoal suit immaculate, and his expression carries that particular brand of cold displeasure that has haunted my nightmares since childhood. Even through the distorted lens of the peephole, his pale eyes seem to bore straight through the door and into my guilty soul.
My hand trembles as I unlock the door. There's no point in pretending I'm not home. He knows. He always knows.
"Father." I step aside to let him in, careful to keep my voice neutral, my face blank. "I wasn't expecting you."
He strides past me without so much as a greeting, bringing with him the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke that has always meant danger in my world. His sharp eyes catalog every detail of my apartment, sweeping over the dishes in the sink, the throw blanket rumpled on the couch, the half-empty coffee cup I abandoned. Looking for signs of disobedience. Looking for cracks in the perfect daughter facade.
"You look well, Ilona." He turns to face me, and for a moment his expression softens into something almost paternal. His headtilts slightly, those pale eyes roaming over my face with an attention that makes my skin prickle with unease. "There's a glow about you."
My stomach drops. My fingers go numb. Does he know? Can he somehow see through my skin to the secret growing inside me?
"I've been doing a cleanse." The lie slides out smoothly, born of years of practice. I force a small smile, the kind of demure, pleasant expression he's always approved of. "Lots of green juice and early mornings. It's really agreeing with me."
He considers me for a long moment, those calculating eyes searching my face for any hint of deception. One finger taps slowly against his thigh, a habit I've learned to associate with his mind working through possibilities. I hold my breath, willing my expression to remain serene, my body language relaxed, even as my pulse thunders in my ears.
Finally, he nods and the knots in my chest stop trying to kill me. "I expect you at the house this evening. There's to be a dinner party. Governor Harrison will be attending with his wife and son." His tone makes it clear this is not a request. "Come dressed appropriately."
"Yes, Father."
The words taste like bile rising in my throat, and my stomach churns in violent protest. Acid bubbles beneath my ribs, hot and insistent, and I press my hand discreetly against my abdomen to quell the sudden wave of nausea. Whether it's morning sickness or the familiar dread of bending to his will, I can't tell anymore. Maybe both. Two things can be true.
What else does an obedient daughter say? What else can she do but kiss the king's ring and wait for the axe to fall?
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, his signet ring catching the gray morning light. His fingers drum once against the wood, a slow, deliberate tap that echoes like a warning. When he turns to look at me over his shoulder, his pale eyes narrow slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening into something that isn't quite a smile.
"Don't be late, Ilona. This evening is... important."