Page 113 of Porcelain Lies

“Then you’ll want nothing but the best for him,” he says, then pauses, his eyes narrowing on me. “Don’t you?”

I bristle at how easily he decides that my child will be a boy. But then again, I’m bristling at everything he says right now.

“Of course I want the best forher,” I snap back. “Are you implying that I wouldn’t be a good mother?”

“Of course not. But consider what I will provide.” He eyes me coolly.

“Exactly what do you plan to provide that you think I can’t do for myself?” I jut my jaw out.

He tilts his head. “The best obstetricians in the country will monitor your progress. A chef trained in prenatal nutrition will plan your meals.” He moves closer, his presence dwarfing me. “Your apartment’s air quality is questionable, the building security inadequate. Here, you’ll have everything you need.”

I grip the lounger’s edge. “And everything I want?”

“Want?” His lips curve slightly. “You’ll have a private yoga instructor, massage therapist, access to the pool, an expense account, shopping trips — supervised, of course… What single mother could afford such luxuries?”

The truth in his words stings. On my salary, I’d be lucky to afford basic prenatal vitamins.

“Your schedule will be structured for optimal health.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling through what looks like a detailed calendar.

“What about my phone? My laptop?”

“Both will be monitored. Your internet access will be filtered to prevent unnecessary stress.” His tone suggests this is a gift; I know otherwise. “The house system will track your movements, ensuring quick response if you need assistance. There will always be someone available for you.”

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, even as the idea begins to make sense. The only person I have to turn to is Hannah, and she’s off on assignment most of the time these days.

“You’ll understand soon enough that this is best for both you and the child.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing mystomach in a possessive gesture. “No mother should worry about providing for her baby.”

The worst part is, he’s right. I could never give our child this level of care on my own.

I’ve never struggled financially; I have a decent job. But it’s demanding. Long hours. High stress. And is my income real enough for two?

“Hardly.”Boyana’s voice is mocking.

I wouldn’t be able to afford all the things I’d want to give my baby.

Perhaps taking my silence for agreement, he brushes my arm. “There’s something I need to give you,” he says, not waiting for a reply before moving away in the direction of my rooms.

I follow mutely, trying to take this all in. The sudden upheaval has left my head spinning. And then the woman who claimed he’d left her at the altar. I feel like there’s too much to process.

“I think they call this ‘baby brain,’”says Boyana.

I give my head a shake, trying to focus on where Aleksei just strolled through the French doors to my room. As I walk in after him, I see that the place has been tidied, and there are parcels set about the place.

“These are for you,” he says, nodding at them.

The stack of boxes on my bed looks deceptively innocent. Each pristine Apple product nestled in white packaging, like Christmas came early. But as I lift out each device, the reality of my situation settles deeper.

“The laptop has been configured for your safety,” Aleksei explains. “Only approved websites — pregnancy resources, streaming services, limited social media.”

I open the browser, immediately noting how clinically everything has been set up. Even my email has been filtered to a new monitored account.

The iPhone comes next, already loaded with tracking apps. A calendar filled with my scheduled activities, meal plans, exercise routines. The home screen displays real-time monitoring of my heart rate, sleep patterns, and daily steps.

I give a small start as Aleksei steps up close to me, heat radiating from his powerful frame. I swallow hard and force myself not to squeeze my eyes shut.

“This biomarker tracker must be worn at all times.” He fastens a sleek band around my wrist. It looks like a fancy fitness tracker, but the blinking sensors betray its true purpose. “It monitors your vitals, stress levels, location. If anything seems wrong, security will respond immediately.”

I rotate my wrist, watching the numbers scroll across the tiny screen — pulse, blood pressure, cortisol levels. My entire biological existence reduced to data points for him to analyze.

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