Page 117 of Porcelain Lies

She has your baby in her belly, mudak!

I lean back, forcing myself to think strategically. Harsh punishment could cause stress, endangering the pregnancy. Physical discipline is out of the question. Emotional manipulation risks pushing her toward desperate measures.

But I can’t have her snooping around Bobik.

I watch her fingers trace the panel’s edge, fighting my instinct to storm down there immediately. Something about her determined expression holds me back. The way her brow furrows in concentration, those green eyes sharp with intelligence — it reminds me of Bobik analyzing a new puzzle.

“Chert.” I mutter, recognizing the unfamiliar sensation in my chest. This hesitation to punish her isn’t just about protecting the pregnancy.

Bullshit.

Of course it is.

The security feed shows her pressing gently against different sections, testing for weak points. Smart. Methodical. If she wasn’t investigating my most closely guarded secret, I might actually admire her approach.

Suddenly, she freezes. Sasha’s heavy footsteps echo through the corridor feed. Stella’s head snaps up, her vitals spiking higher. She moves quickly, smoothly away from the door, her retreat well-executed despite her obvious tension.

I lean forward, studying her face as she passes the camera. No guilt, just calculation. She’s already planning her next attempt.

“Der’mo.” I pull up the monitoring protocols, adding extra motion sensors around the medical bay.

Neposlushnaya lisa.

My clever little fox, testing the boundaries of her cage. It should anger me, but instead, there’s something about it that feels like a game. An interesting one. There might be more to this little arrangement than I’d anticipated.

For some reason, I like it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Stella

My stomach growls as I stare at the precisely portioned meal Imelda has left.

Steamed fish, quinoa, and a careful arrangement of vegetables. No sauce, no seasoning beyond a hint of lemon. The same as yesterday.

I pick at the fish with my fork, remembering the comforting warmth of my mother’s borscht, the way food used to mean love and connection rather than calculated nutrition. The biomarker device on my wrist blinks, reminding me it’s tracking every bite, every movement.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to the empty room. “I’m not some prized mare being bred for racing.”

The sound of my own voice startles me. How long has it been since I’ve had a real conversation? Even Imelda’s broken English would be welcome now, but she appears and disappears like a ghost, leaving these sterile meals in her wake.

I push away from the table, my half-eaten dinner forgotten as I pace the room. The walls seem to close in despite the luxury surrounding me. The monitored laptop sits untouched — what’s the point when every keystroke is tracked? The iPhone might as well be a paperweight for all the freedom it offers.

“What would you do, Boyana?” I whisper, imagining my sister’s presence.

“Do you really need to ask that? I’d get out of here.”

Right. Fat chance of that. I saw how quickly the security guys arrived when I found that hidden doorway. I’m lucky I got back to my room before they spotted me. Since then, I’ve stayed under the radar. But my self-proclaimed jailer hasn’t shown his face, and I’m bored to tears.

The biomarker device mocks me with another cheerful blink. I tap the screen, checking my daily stats — heart rate, steps, sleep quality. All meticulously tracked and reported to my captor.

“Screw this!” I startle myself with the sound of my voice.

I press the intercom button that connects to Imelda. “Could you please tell Mr. Tarasov I need to speak with him? It’s… personal.”

Twenty minutes later, Aleksei strides in, filling the doorway with his presence. “What is it?”

I gnaw on my lip, avoiding eye contact. “I need some… feminine supplies. And pregnancy-specific items.” I watch his expression shift from annoyance to discomfort. “Things I’d rather not have your staff purchase.”

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