Page 133 of Porcelain Lies

I click through my other folders, desperate for any connection to the outside world. Spam, old newsletters, expired coupons — anything to fill the void.

A strange sound from outside makes me pause, finger hovering over the mouse.

There it is again — I tilt my head, straining to listen. The rhythmic noise continues — definitely some sort of movement outside.

The sound stops abruptly, replaced by a child’s muffled laughter.

What the hell?

I sit up straighter. That’s definitely a child’s voice. But who would…?

Another thud, followed by what sounds like an adult’s deeper voice responding.

I creep to the window, drawn by the sounds of play and laughter. Through a gap in the trees, I catch glimpses of movement in what must be a secluded part of the garden.

My breath catches. Aleksei is there, still in his workout clothes, holding what looks like a racquet. But it’s his companion that makes my heart skip — a young boy in a wheelchair, maybe ten or eleven years old, wielding his own modified racquet with enthusiasm.

The boy’s delighted laugh rings out as he manages to return Aleksei’s gentle serve. The sound transforms Aleksei’s usually stern features into something I barely recognize — pride, joy, and… love?

I press closer to the glass, studying the scene with dawning understanding. The medical supplies in the kitchen. The wheelchair equipment. The hidden staircase. The nurse in blue scrubs.

It all makes sense now.

Holy shit!

The boy must be… his son. Aleksei has a son! A disabled son he keeps hidden away in the Left Wing’s upper floor. The revelation leaves me dizzy.

I watch them play, mesmerized by this other side of my captor — patient, encouraging, completely focused on his son’s enjoyment. The boy’s face glows with happiness, his disability forgotten in the joy of the game.

The pieces click together in my mind: the strict security, the segregated wings, the secrecy. He’s protecting his son. But from what? Or whom?

My hand drifts to my own stomach, where his second child grows. The weight of this discovery settles over me as I observe father and son sharing this precious moment of normalcy.

I sink onto the window seat, still watching Aleksei and the boy play their adapted version of badminton. The tenderness in his interactions with him stands in stark contrast to his usual cold demeanor.

“He’s terrified of something happening to his children,”Boyana whispers. For once, her voice holds no mockery.

All those rules about my diet, the constant monitoring, the medical supplies — they’re not just about control. They’re about protection. About preventing anything from going wrong with this pregnancy.

The boy executes a particularly good shot, and Aleksei’s face lights up. My throat tightens as I realize how much pain he must have endured, watching his child struggle with disability. No wonder he’s so obsessive about my prenatal care.

I touch my stomach again, understanding flooding through me. The realization doesn’t excuse everything, but ithelps me understand. His cold exterior masks a father’s deep love and even deeper fears.

I need to clear my head, so I change into one of the designer swimsuits Aleksei provided and head to the pool. The water feels amazing against my skin as I do lazy laps, my thoughts still circling around what I witnessed in the garden.

After swimming, I stretch out on a lounger, letting the late afternoon sun warm me. The peaceful moment shatters when Imelda appears with a covered tray.

“Dinner, Miss.” Her voice wavers slightly as she sets down the tray.

I study her face, but she won’t meet my eyes. Her hands tremble as she removes the cover, revealing some kind of fish dish with vegetables.

“Thank you,” I say carefully, watching her reaction.

Imelda nods jerkily, still avoiding eye contact. She hovers nearby, wringing her hands in her apron — the same apron where she stashed Sofia’s money earlier.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Yes, yes. All good.” She backs away a step. “Must eat. Very important.”

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