Page 77 of Bratva Daddy
"Albright," I corrected, that one word clearer than the rest. "My name is Albright."
"She refuses to use my name," Viktor said sadly. "Another symptom of her illness—rejecting family connections, creating distance from those who love her."
The room spun slightly, whether from drugs or rage I couldn't tell. They'd turned everything into symptoms. My mother's maiden name became rejection. The truth became delusion. Love became sickness.
"Mr. Petrov," the doctor said, turning to my father with deference that said money had definitely changed hands, "your daughter is very ill. But with proper medication and therapy, we can help her recover from this trauma."
"Whatever she needs," Viktor replied, still holding my hand despite my weak attempts to pull away. "Cost is no object. I just want my little girl back."
His little girl.
Like I'd ever been that.
Like he'd ever seen me as anything more than an obligation or an asset.
"She'll need to stay here for extended treatment," the doctor continued. "Given the severity of her condition and the danger she poses to herself, I'm recommending a minimum of six months inpatient care."
Six months. Six months of drugs and restraints and being told my reality was wrong. Six months of my father controlling everything while I was locked away.
They were going to brainwash me.
"Of course," Viktor agreed immediately. "I've already started the paperwork for a conservatorship. Until she's well, I'll manage her affairs. It's the least I can do after failing to protect her from that monster."
Conservatorship.
The word cut through the chemical fog like ice water. He'd have complete control—medical decisions, financial decisions, every choice about my life would be his. I'd be legally incompetent, unable to sign contracts, unable to testify, unable to do anything without his permission.
"No," I whispered, but it came out more like a moan.
"Don't worry, darling," Viktor said, patting my hand with mock tenderness. "I'll take care of everything. Including your inheritance."
"There's . . . no money." The confusion must have shown because his smile turned predatory for just a moment before resuming its concerned facade.
"Oh, darling. You didn't know?" He leaned closer, and I smelled his cologne—Tom Ford, the same one he'd worn to Mom's funeral. "Your mother's trust fund has been waiting for you to turn twenty-five. Nearly three million dollars that she set aside before she died. I've been protecting it for you all these years."
Three million. My mother had left me three million dollars, and he'd never said a word. Never mentioned it during all thoseyears I'd worried about money, about college, about the future. He'd kept it secret, waiting for the perfect moment to steal it.
"She never told you?" the doctor asked, making more notes. "Memory gaps are common with trauma. She may have repressed significant information."
"Mom's . . . money?" I managed, needing to understand the full scope of his betrayal.
"She wanted to make sure you'd be taken care of," Viktor said, voice syrupy with false emotion. "She knew she was dying and set it all up—iron-clad trust, excellent lawyers. It's been growing for years. You were going to be a very wealthy woman."
Were. Past tense. Because now he'd make sure I never saw a penny of it.
"But don't worry about any of that," he continued, standing now, preparing to leave me here in this medical prison. "Focus on getting well. The money will be there when you're better."
No, it wouldn't. We both knew it wouldn't. By the time I got out—if I got out—he'd have found ways to drain it, invest it badly, lose it in mysterious fees and treatments and whatever else he could invent.
"The Kozlovs," I tried one more time, forcing the words past uncooperative lips. "You're working with them."
"Doctor, you see?" Viktor sighed dramatically. "The fixation on these imaginary crimes. It breaks my heart."
"We'll put her on some antipsychotics," the doctor assured him. "The delusions should fade as the medication takes effect."
They were going to bury me in chemicals until I couldn't think, couldn't remember, couldn't fight. Until I became the broken daughter Viktor had always wanted—silent, compliant, profitable.
"Rest now, darling," Viktor said, heading for the door. "I'll be back tomorrow. You’ve got all the time in the world to heal."
