Page 98 of Porcelain Lies

“Inside.” Aleksei’s hand on my lower back guides me toward the nearest vehicle. The touch sends electricity through my spine despite my confusion and anger.

I slide into the leather interior, the new car smell mixing with Aleksei’s cologne as he settles into the seat next to me. Through the tinted windows, I watch his security loading my belongings into another SUV.

The driver pulls away from the curb, and I press my hand against the window. My apartment building shrinks in the sidemirror. Years of independence, of building a life, disappearing behind us as we turn off my street.

Aleksei’s phone buzzes constantly beside me, but he ignores it. His presence fills the backseat, making breathing feel like a strenuous effort. I want to demand answers, to assert some control over this situation, but I don’t.

It’s like this man — this force of nature — has just swirled into my world and taken full control.

And I’ve let him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Stella

The leather seat feels cold against my cheek as tears stream down my face.

Through blurred vision, I watch my neighborhood disappear, each turn taking me further from the life I’ve built. My stomach clenches — from pregnancy or panic, I’m not sure anymore.

The rhythmic motion of the car pulls me back to that night ten years ago. I was barely seventeen, cramped in the backseat of a different black car, watching St. Petersburg’s lights fade into darkness. Dad’s jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Mom kept looking over her shoulder, as if expecting pursuit. Nick, Nikolai back then, pressed against me, confusion written across his young face.

Now I’m running again. No — being taken. Aleksei’s presence beside me radiates authority. He’s on his phone now, his in rapid Russian filling the space between us. The words wash over me, familiar yet foreign, like everything else about this situation.

The car slows, tires crunching on gravel. My chest tightens as massive gates swing open, revealing the sprawling mansion.

I wipe my face with my sleeve, a habit Mom always scolded me for. The thought brings fresh tears. She’ll never know she was going to be a grandmother. She’ll never hold this baby or sing lullabies or-

“We’re here.” Aleksei’s voice cuts through my spiral.

I stare in astonishment as the place looms before me. I’ve been here before, but in the cold light of day it seems so much more imposing.

The grand foyer swallows me whole as staff members materialize from nowhere, their faces carefully blank. Aleksei’s voice echoes, each command precise and cold.

“Left wing, third floor. The blue suite has been made up. Stock the kitchen with…” He rattles off a list of specific foods while I wrap my arms around myself, trying to become smaller.

“Your rooms are ready.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, checking something on his phone. “The left wing provides adequate privacy and security. My quarters are in the right wing.”

The physical distance he’s placing between us feels symbolic. Like he’s making sure I understand this is a business arrangement, not a relationship.

Because even though he hasn’t discussed it with me, I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening.

“I have matters to attend to,” Aleksei announces, already striding away from me. “Imelda will take care of you.” His footsteps fade, leaving me with strangers in this massive space.

“This way, Miss Stella.” The petite Filipina woman in front of me dips her head.

I follow the housekeeper through corridors that seem to stretch forever, past priceless artwork and antique furniture that blur together. Everything screams old money and power. The kind of wealth that makes my modest apartment feel like a child’s playhouse.

Imelda’s footsteps echo ahead of me as we climb another sweeping staircase. My legs burn from the effort — or maybe it’s just the morning sickness making everything feel like a marathon.

“You have very nice room, Miss. Best view of gardens.” Imelda’s accent wraps around the words carefully, like she’s handling delicate china. “Mr. Tarasov say make special for you.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The hallway stretches forever, lined with identical dark wood doors. Everything feels too perfect, too polished. Like a museum where I’m not allowed to touch anything.

“Here, Miss.” Imelda produces an old-fashioned key, the brass gleaming in the soft lighting. “Blue Suite very private. Nobody disturb.”

The door swings open, and my breath catches. Sunlight streams through tall windows, shedding gold light across the room. A massive four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped in silvery blue fabric that catches the light like water. Fresh flowers perfume the air from crystal vases.

It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s absolutely suffocating.

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