Page 62 of Silken Chains
I let myself fall into one of the couches, and it’s like landing on a cloud—if clouds were made of the most expensive materials on earth.
I flash back to Victor’s stone-cold business face as he slides the contract across to me. “Read it, understand it.”
“Sure thing, jerk,” I mutter, not like he is here to spank me.
Good God, Laur, you shouldn’t wish for that.
Stress is written all over me; I can feel it in the weight of my chest. I rub my temples, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, looking at the contract still clutched in my hand, its stark black letters spelling my new destiny.
Labeling me officially as “Contractual Spouse of Victor Morozov under Morozov Bratva Terms.”
I scoff. “Contractual spouse or glorified hostage?”
But it’s not just about me.
Serena’s safety is the real contract here, the one that’s written in blood, not ink.
“Fuckers!” I spit out.
The way Misha talked about Serena… his words were chillingly precise. He knew their Friday routine, down to the damn hour they’d be at Target picking up whatever for little Lucas.
This isn’t a joke, not some scare tactic. They know. They actually know where she is, and they’re not above dragging her into this hell.
I have to do this. For Serena, for her family. Because if I don’t…
The contract crumples in my fist, knuckles blanching. Just thinking about the risk to Serena and her family amps up my anxiety.
“God, I really messed up,” I mutter, feeling like my chest is trapped in a tight grip, making it hard to breathe without letting tears escape. “If they get hurt because of me… I don’t even know how I’d live with that.”
Every fiber of my being is jittery, teetering on the edge of a breakdown.
“Just get through it, Laura,” I mumble, pressing a hand against my chest, trying to quell the rising panic before I flip through the contract, determined to grasp every rule set to dominate my life.
I recline, the couch’s cushions a small comfort as I stretch the contract before me, the tiny print blurring into lines of my impending reality.
Seriously?
“Okay, listen to this one,” I announce to the empty room. “The clause here states that I am granted the liberty of leaving the house for a maximum duration of not more than five hours at a time.”
How generous of them!
“Great, I feel like Cinderella, if Cinderella was trapped in a mafia tale with no fairy godmother in sight,” I grumble, chewing on my nail.
Sitting up straighter, I continue to read out loud, “Furthermore, such outings are subject to prior approval and shall be accompanied at all times by no less than one (1) designated security personnel.
“Because, you know, heaven forbid I try to enjoy a latte in peace.” I snort.
Letting out a long, slow breath, I feel my shoulders drop as the tension drains away.
I thought I’d be locked up in a dungeon; instead, I’m allowed to see my friends and family?
Should I be grateful?
I turn the page, and for a moment, my thoughts can’t keep pace with what I’m seeing. Printed clearly, a condition so outrageous, it sends my mind spinning.
My gaze snaps back to the words, sure I’ve misread.
But no, the numbers glare back at me, bold and unyielding.
