Page 76 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Giving up, I get out of the tub, wrap a towel around my body and another around my hair, and head back into the bedroom.

I stop short when I realize a new outfit has been placed on my bed. A black cashmere blouse with an elegant V neckline and an ivory midi skirt that complements it perfectly. At the foot of the bed awaits a pair of Louis Vuitton heels.

Just like with last night’s clothes, everything is in my size.

That’s a little unnerving. To be fair, all of this is a little unnerving.

But what choice do I have?

I put on the clothes because I have nothing else to wear and turn to check my reflection in the mirror that’s been set into one of the doors of the wardrobe.

And again, just like last night, the effect is flawless.

The outfit definitely flatters my figure. I look chic, elegant.

But mostly, I’m relieved to see that my pregnancy isn’t evident at all. My hips seem a little wider, and perhaps my belly isn’t as flat as it normally is, but those are small details that only I’m able to notice, and that’s because I’m looking close for any sign of change.

With any luck, it’ll be a long time before I have to figure out how to hide a growing baby bump.

When I walk out of my room, I come face to face with the same two guards from the night before standing on alert at the corner.

They both turn blank eyes to me. Neither one says a thing.

Does anyone around here know how to use their words?

“Where’s Artem?” I ask.

“Breakfast is waiting in the dining room,” the taller of the two guards says instead of answering my question. He has light brown eyes and a crew cut that makes him look older than he probably is. “Your car will be here in twenty minutes.”

I scowl in irritation and turn left to a huge kitchen with—yet again—an exceptional view of downtown Los Angeles.

A table off to the side has already been laid with an assortment of different breakfast foods. Sausages, croissants, bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon, jams—the works.

My stomach rumbles. But it’s not this food I crave.

It’s the memory of breakfasts I haven’t had for years.

I miss those quiet summer mornings with Cesar. When he’d wake me before anyone else in the house was up and persuade one of the more lenient security guards into taking us into town.

We’d hide in a corner booth and eat hot tortillas, freshly caught fish, eggs that had been laid that very morning.

Life was simple then.

It’s not so simple anymore.

Truthfully, it hasn’t been simple for a long time.

I take a quick glance around, but there’s no one else in the kitchen. Fine by me.

I sit down and help myself to a blueberry muffin that’s softer than a cloud. When I finish that one, I grab another.

I eat until I’m full—crumbling all the empty muffin wrappers together so I can lie to myself about what an embarrassing amount of food I just took down.

I’m drinking juice when the guard with the crew cut walks in.

“Your car is here.”

I sigh and get to my feet. “And where the hell am I going?” I demand. “Or am I not permitted to know that either?”

---