Page 5 of Cruel Submission

The world that almost swallowed me whole yesterday.

When I pull away, Diane’s eyes are wet. “Be careful.”

“Always am.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it.

The Uber driver doesn’t speak. Just glances at me in the rearview mirror occasionally, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m running toward something or away from it.

Both, I think. Neither.

The city slides past the window as we travel without speaking. My phone sits heavy in my lap. I open my messages for the fourth time since getting in the car.

Still nothing from Arkady.

Where is he?

The question circles, but I shove it down. I shouldn’t care. Should be relieved he’s not demanding explanations for where I’ve been. But my chest feels tight anyway, this low hum of anxiety that won’t quit.

When the gates of Ashwater Heights finally come into view, my shoulders drop slightly. Home. Except it’s not my home. It’s his. I’m just borrowing space in it, hiding secrets in the walls.

The driver drops me at the front entrance. I tip him and watch his car disappear down the long drive before I turn to face the house.

It’s early, the sun barely up. The house should feel alive, staff moving through rooms, coffee brewing in the kitchen. Arkady’s voice carrying from somewhere, all gravel and command.

But it doesn’t.

The silence when I step inside is immediate and wrong. Not the comfortable quiet of a sleeping house. This is different. Emptier.

“Hello?”

My voice echoes. No answer.

I move through the entrance hall toward the kitchen. Maybe Arkady’s in his office, ignoring his phone like he does when he’s working.

But the kitchen is empty. The coffee maker cold. No sounds from upstairs.

I pull out my phone and type out a message before I can talk myself out of it.

I am back.

Send.

Nothing.

I stare at the screen until my vision blurs.

Fine.

I shove the phone in my pocket and head upstairs to Arkady’s bedroom. If he’s going to ghost me, I might as well clean his room while he does it. At least I can pretend I’m not obsessing over where he is.

If he’s safe.

The thought catches in my throat, and I hate how much it matters. Hate that even after yesterday—after nearly being dragged to Dubai—I’m still here worrying about him instead of myself.

His bedroom door is ajar. I push it open and step inside.

His scent hits me first. It wraps around me, and my body responds before my brain catches up, my pulse kicking faster, skin warming, that low pull in my belly I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks.