Page 77 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

I can’t abandon this child. But…

I’m not ready to be a mother. God. My life is… Well, I’ve done a pretty good job putting my life into some semblance of order, but it’s so I can achieve my dreams. So I can be more than my druggie parents’ forgotten child. More than a girl who’s been out on her own since fifteen scrapping to survive. So that I can be someone who did something with herself. Achieve her dreams.

My stomach is hollow then, with utter despair.

There are two reasons I’m a virgin.

The first is that it feels like defiance of my circumstances.

The one thing I could keep men from using against me. Something I had a choice in.

But the other one is and always has been pregnancy. I started taking the pill when I managed to get myself on some state health care so that I could get it for free. Because I don’t trust men. Because I don’t trust life. And I also don’t trust even a birth control pill to be completely infallible when it comes to protecting me from changing my life in ways that I don’t want. Control. That’s it. And then I went ahead and agreed to do this. To be a surrogate. And now it feels like letting the child go would be abuse of the highest order.

You can give the baby up for adoption. Get him to agree that he doesn’t want it, and maybe it would even be safer. You can keep his name off the birth certificate.

That’s an idea. And one that should be discussed, even though it makes me feel like my heart is full of tiny shards of glass, but every time it beats it’s getting dangerously close to breaking into pieces.

But still, I think it might be the right thing. And I know that I need to do the right thing. Nobody ever did it for me. The people who made me, birthed me, didn’t give me a single thought. I don’t want a child brought into a situation where the people involved don’t want them. That was me. And I was so…so responsible.

If I ever find Vittoria I’m going to kill her myself. With my bare hands.

The way that she manipulated me, took advantage of me, was absolutely unacceptable. And I just feel violated. I didn’t consent to this. What I really don’t want is to be trapped in this room. But also, I don’t want to give him what he wants. Physical warfare is going to be impossible.

Psychological warfare, on the other hand?

He thinks he’s smarter than me.

He thinks he’s harder than me.

And I have no doubt that he’s been through terrible things. But people look at him and they see a weapon. There’s no question. When I walked into my apartment and saw him sitting there I was sure that I was facing down the very angel of death. People don’t look at me and see the same thing. I’ve had to use my wits, my strength, the element of surprise, all my life to keep myself safe.

I’ll do it with him too. I just need to figure him out. Which means, possibly, not antagonizing him for the time being. But I want to.

One thing I do believe is that I should figure out ways to fashion a weapon. The truth of the matter is, I don’t actually know what he intends to do. And as he mentioned before, there are fates worse than death. I don’t know what he and his men intend to do to me. So, the smart thing would be to figure out every weapon in this room.

So I busy myself by doing just that. I go into the closet, where there are some hangers, but they are regrettably of such good quality that I’m never going to be able to bend the metal part, or break it apart with my hands to turn it into a stabbing implement.

That would be nice. Exceedingly so.

I give up on that, and go into the bathroom. I open up the cabinets in there, and begin to search. Nothing. Then I look up at the towel bar. I take the plush towels off of it, and discover that it is the kind that slots into its holder easily.

I take it out, and examine it.

I can definitely use it to batter someone if need be.

I take it out of the bathroom and secret it beneath my pillow. And I spend the next hour planting things like that anywhere I think I might need something at arm’s reach. Anything that I can dismember, sharpen or otherwise manipulate to my advantage, I find. Because that’s plan B. In case I can’t figure out a way to manipulate him. In case I can’t find a way to make this comfortable or reasonable. I don’t ever want to be caught off guard. I hate feeling helpless. In fact, one thing I’ve never accepted in all my life is helplessness.

I’ve been given a difficult hand. But I don’t waste time complaining about it, and I don’t waste time mourning feeling stuck. Feeling disenfranchised. There’s no point. This has me. This really has me, because it’s a situation that has layers. I’m a prisoner. But getting out of here isn’t going to solve the other problem.

One thing at a time.

I’m getting hungry. I’ve lost track of what time it is. It was evening in Rome when I got home, I slept on the plane, but I haven’t eaten since he took me. I don’t know quite how long the flight was. I’m not certain of anything. I try to orient myself. It was daylight when we got here. I look and see curtains, open them up, and I’m looking at a window that isn’t like a normal window. The panes of glass look impossibly thick, and it seems like there are several layers pressed together. I touch it, and realize that it isn’t even glass. Some other material.

I’m really in danger. From every corner.

I fight against the rising despair again. I don’t want to be left in here by myself. I don’t want to be trapped with only my thoughts for company. It’s not good. I can’t succumb to this.

The door bursts open, and I whirl around, my breath catching in my throat, my body automatically going into a fighting stance.