This is not the fairytale palace Gerald promised—it is the gilded cage I feared. But without even the meager resources I had at home. Friends, my mother, a better understanding of the system and resources. Our own space, away from Gerald.
Even with Luchenko nipping at our heels over there, it seemed more palatable.
They say better the devil you know, and now I'm beginning to think that's true.
I reach the heavy oak door of Yara's bedroom and slip inside, immediately comforted by the sight of my daughter sleeping soundly, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
I perch on the edge of the four-poster bed and gently brush a strand of hair from her face.
A fierce protectiveness wells up inside me.
"I won't let him hurt you," I whisper into the quiet room. "I'll find a way out of this, I swear it."
She stirs slightly in her sleep but doesn't wake.
I watch her for a moment longer, then head back out into the hallway, newly invigorated.
I won't accept defeat.
My love for my daughter outweighs any fear or doubt.
As I descend the grand staircase, the mansion almost seems to mock me with its extravagance—the crystal chandeliers, the antique vases, the original oil paintings.
I was tricked, and worst of all I fell for it hook, line and sinker because I wanted to believe that something, anything, good could happen to us.
But it's all a façade. This place is a prison and Gerald holds the keys.
However dire it seems, though, I'm determined to pick the lock and get us out of here. I won't be intimidated or manipulated any longer.
A fire has been lit within me, fueled by my fierce desire to protect my child. I refuse to let another powerful man try to destroy us.
I will find a way out.
For Yara's sake, I have to.
Chapter 17
Alina
The golden light filtering through the massive windows does nothing to warm the ice in Gerald’s eyes.
The kindness and warmth that once seemed to pour from them is gone, leaving me wondering if I ever imagined them in the first place.
My heart slams against my ribs as he prowls towards me, backing me into the corner of the room.
The antique chaise longue digs into the backs of my knees, trapping me.
“The way the system works, Alina,” he rasps, “is that I have complete control.”
His hand curls around my throat, just firm enough to remind me of his strength.
Of my helplessness.
“I have the option to rescind your immigration paperwork at any time.”
No. This can’t be happening.
We were happy, weren’t we?