Page 8 of Split

I don’t want to be his good girl.

I don’t want to be his wife.

I don’t want to behisanything.

My only way out is to run, and if I want to make a clean escape, I’ll have to form a solid plan. It won’t do me any good to be impulsive about this and risk getting caught. If Roman knows I’m trying to get away from him, I have no doubt he’ll put measures in place to prevent it from happening.

No, if this is going to work, I’ll only have one chance at it, so I’ll need to play it smart.

A gentle knock on the bedroom door interrupts my tangled mess of thoughts, the sound of a key turning in the lock prompting me to sit up in bed as I cast a wary glance toward it. The door creaks open on its antique hinges as Clara lets herself in, balancing a tray in her hands.

“Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” she greets in a clipped tone, stepping into the room and carrying the tray over to a small table near the windows. She places it on top, then moves aside to sweep the curtains open, flooding the room with light.

I slap a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, groaning in protest, but she just continues onto the next window, not stopping until all the curtains are thrown wide.

“I’ve brought your breakfast,” she says as she walks back over to the table and uncovers the tray.

I toss the covers off my body, twisting to set my feet on the floor. “I’m not hungry.”

“Mr. Volkov instructed me to make sure you eat.”

“Did he also tell you to hold me down and feed me if I refuse?” I mumble bitterly.

Clara lifts her head to glance in my direction, a strange expression crossing her face that I can’t quite read. Then she drops her gaze back to the tray without a word, picking up a carafe of coffee and pouring the steaming dark liquid into a mug.

I shove up from the bed with a sigh, stretching my arms over my head. The silk pajama set I’m wearing was waiting for me on my bed when I returned from dinner last night, the comforter peeled back invitingly and the pillows fluffed. I have no doubt it was Clara’s doing while I endured my dinner with the devil.

“Mr. Volkov is a good man,” she mumbles, sliding a plate from the tray onto the table and placing a set of silverware neatly beside it. “He’s just trying to take care of you.”

“He’s a monster,” I scoff. “You have to know that. Whatever he’s paying you, surely it can’t be worth…”

“Excuse my boldness,ma’am, but you have no idea what Mr. Volkov has done for me,” Clara interjects, snapping her head in my direction and narrowing her dark eyes. “He’s offered you a good life here. The least you could do is show a little bit of gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” I ask incredulously, mouth falling agape. “You think I should begratefulfor being sold off into a marriage I never wanted with a complete stranger?”

Clara just shakes her head, dropping her gaze to unload the rest of the tray. I watch her for a moment, folding my arms over my chest and rubbing my hands against my bare biceps for warmth. I was plenty warm last night in bed beneath the blankets, but the thin silk shorts and camisole I’m wearing do little to fend off the morning chill now that I’ve climbed out from underneath them.

“I can’t imagine why you’d actuallywantto work here,” I grumble, venturing closer to the table.

“My own husband is quite ill,” Clara murmurs absently as she arranges small baskets of fruit and pastries. “There came a time last year when we didn’t think he would make it, but then Mr. Volkov stepped in to offer the best care money can buy. He’ll continue to do so, providing I remain in his employ.” She steps back from the table, smoothing her apron as she looks over at me. “I understand my duty to my husband well, and working here means a great deal to me because it’s my way of taking care of him. I don’t believe you’ve judged your own husband fairly at all. Say what you will about the man, but Mr. Volkov takes care of what’s his.”

“And nowI’mhis,” I mutter under my breath, picking up on her insinuation.

“You should count yourself lucky for it. Excuse me.” Clara turns on a heel, heading for my closet and disappearing inside.

So I guess I shouldn’t start making the two of us matching friendship bracelets anytime soon. Apparently Clara only sees me as an ungrateful brat, not an unwilling captive.

I approach the small table where she’s laid out my breakfast, glancing down at the food resentfully. In addition to the fruit and pastries, there’s a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon, the sight of it so enticing that my stomach immediately growls.

I never ate breakfast back at home. My father made enough comments about my food intake during our other meals throughout the day that it just seemed easier to skip one altogether. Coffee is something that I always indulged in, though, so I reach for the steaming mug, eager to get my morning dose of caffeine.

Clara emerges from the closet with a stack of folded clothing in her hands, her black Mary Janes clipping against the hardwood floor as she strides past me to place it at the foot of the bed.

“Should I run you a bath?” she asks, moving around to the rumpled side of the bed I just climbed out of.

“No thanks,” I mumble as I sink down into the chair at the table with the coffee cup still clasped in my hands. I take a hesitant sip from it, pleasantly surprised to find the coffee has cooled to the perfect temperature. As Clara fusses with making the bed, I pick at a piece of the bacon on the plate, unable to resist a taste.

Once she’s finished, Clara rounds the bed and moves toward the door, lingering there like a shadow rather than exiting through it. I can still feel the weight of her judgment hanging over me like a dark cloud.

---