Page 130 of Porcelain Lies

“That’s five points for me,Papa!” He pumps his small fist in the air, racket dangling forgotten in his other hand. “Ya vyigrayu!I’m winning!”

“Only because I let you.” I wink, retrieving the shuttlecock from a rose bush. The thorns snag my sleeve, but I barely notice. My focus is entirely on my son’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

This is what normal fathers do, isn’t it? Play games with their children in the backyard, pretend to lose, celebrate their victories. For a moment, I can almost forget about the armed guards patrolling the perimeter, the security cameras tracking our every move, the weight of the Glock pressed against my back.

“Ready?” I hold up the shuttlecock.

Bobik adjusts his grip on the racket just as I showed him, his face pinched in concentration. The expression is pure Olga — the mother he lost so recently.

“Da,Papa! Serve it high!”

I comply, sending the shuttlecock in a gentle arc. Bobik wheels himself into position with growing confidence, hismovements more fluid after a little practice. The racket connects again.

“Did you see that?” His eyes shine with pride. “Right over the net!”

“Molodets,syn.” I return the shot. “Your aim is getting better.”

He catches the shuttlecock without hitting it back.“Papa?”He looks a little anxious. “Can we do this again tomorrow?”

A lump forms in my throat, and then I find myself nodding. “Of course,malysh. It’s a date.” I wink and then laugh out loud as he lobs a shot at me.

Another rally begins, our movements falling into an easy rhythm. No Bratva politics here. No medical equipment or hidden doors. Just a father and son playing a game in the afternoon sun, sharing something pure and uncomplicated.

For these precious moments, we’re just us.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Stella

My stomach growls as I check my phone again — 2:45 PM.

Imelda has never been late with lunch before. Her clockwork precision with meals has been one of the few constants in this gilded prison.

I pace the length of my room, one hand absently rubbing my barely-there bump. The morning sickness has passed, leaving me ravenous. Even the strict portions Aleksei mandates would be welcome right now.

“Something’s wrong,” I mutter to Boyana. My imaginary sister has always been good at validating my instincts.

The silence from the usually busy kitchen down the hall is deafening. No clattering of pots, no sizzling sounds, no quiet humming as Imelda works.

I press my ear against my door. Nothing. The wing feels deserted.

My hand hesitates on the doorknob. Aleksei’s rules about staying in my room flash through my mind… and my body… but hunger and concern override caution. The door opens silently.

The hallway stretches empty before me. I tiptoe silently, half-expecting Aleksei to step out from the shadows at any moment.

Oh, get a grip, Stels.

What’s he going to do?

Spank you again?

That should bother me more than it does… But it’s been a day since it happened, and the shock has worn off. Almost.

I’ll just tell him I was looking for my lunch. The baby needs nourishment, after all. Not to mention the handful of prenatal vitamins that invariably accompanies my meals.

The kitchen door stands ajar, and I stop when I reach it. Voices filter from within.

I freeze at the kitchen entrance, pressing myself against the wall. A distinctive perfume wafts through the gap, along with more murmured words. Through the crack of the doorway, I catch sight of an impeccably groomed woman leaning in toward Imelda’s ear.

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