The sound of porcelain shattering echoed through the grand dining hall.
Casey flinched, frozen mid-chew, as Ivan hurled his glass across the room.
"Did I not say no salt in the f***ing soup?" he snapped, turning toward the chef, a trembling man in his fifties named Marco.
"I—I followed the instructions, Signore Park—"
Ivan's chair scraped loudly as he stood.
"Instructions don't feed my child, Marco. Obedience does."
Marco bowed his head, mumbling apologies, but Casey couldn't stay silent anymore. She swallowed hard.
"Maybe he made a mistake," she said gently, "it's not like—"
Ivan's eyes darted toward her, cold and sharp like a blade kissed by winter.
"No one asked you, Finch."
She looked down, the fire in her chest threatening to escape her mouth. He made her feel like furniture—expensive, breakable, unnecessary.
But still… alive.
Later, in her room, she paced like a tiger in a cage. Her hand instinctively rested on her belly, just beginning to show a curve.
"Don't worry," she whispered to the baby. "Your dad's just a little emotionally constipated."
A knock interrupted her sarcasm.
This time, it wasn't Ivan.
It was a woman. About thirty. Slender, sharp-eyed, wearing a pantsuit more expensive than most people's rent.
"You must be the infamous Casey," the woman said, stepping inside uninvited.
"Who are you?" Casey asked, her arms folding.
"Sienna Kim. Ivan's personal lawyer… and ex-fiancée."
Casey blinked. "Oh. Cute."
Sienna chuckled. "Relax. I'm not here to scratch your eyes out. I'm here to make sure you understand what you signed. Every clause. Every punishment. Every way your life could end if you try to run."
"You memorized my contract?"
"I wrote your contract, sweetheart."
The way she said it chilled Casey more than Ivan ever had.
"Ivan's letting you stay alive because your uterus is useful. Don't mistake that for mercy."
Before Casey could respond, Sienna left, her perfume lingering like betrayal.
Casey closed her door and leaned against it, breath shallow.
How the hell had she walked into this life?
A week passed.
Ivan barely spoke to her unless it was about food, appointments, or threats. But one night, as she walked through the courtyard garden trying to shake off a bad dream, she saw him.
He sat alone on a bench. Shirt undone, cigarette burning between his fingers.
His eyes looked… lost.
She almost turned around. Almost.
But then—he said her name.
"Finch."
She stopped.
He didn't look at her. "Do you think monsters know they're monsters?"
Casey blinked. "No. I think they call themselves 'men doing what they had to do.'"
He laughed. Bitter. "Touché."
She walked closer, cautious but curious. "Why do you ask?"
He looked at her, truly looked, for the first time in weeks.
"You talk to the baby."
Her heart paused. "How do you—?"
"House has cameras."
Of course it does.
"I like to think someone's listening," she said, sitting across from him.
He stared at her belly, then the stars. "When I was six, my father made me watch him shoot a traitor. Said it would make me strong. Said love weakens the blood."
She stayed quiet. That kind of silence meant more than words.
He flicked the cigarette. "I swore I'd never be like him. But here I am—trapping a woman in a contract. Using her body. Treating her like… product."
Casey let the silence breathe.
"You don't have to be him," she said finally. "You're already worse… because you know better."
He looked at her then—not angry, not cold. Just… haunted.
And then he did the strangest thing.
He apologized.
"I'm sorry," Ivan whispered.
The words didn't fix anything. But they cracked something.
Maybe her anger. Maybe his mask.
Or maybe both.
The next morning, Casey met a new face in the house.
A short, round woman with an apron and eyes like sunshine.
"Hello, my sweet flower!" the woman exclaimed in Italian-accented English. "I'm Mirella, your new maid, and this baby's auntie now."
Casey smiled for the first time in days. "You're hired by Ivan?"
"More like forced," Mirella winked. "He said you need someone to 'babysit the babysitter.' I said I'd cook better than that idiot Marco. He's great with soup, but girl, he burns eggs."
Laughter burst out of Casey unexpectedly. Mirella grinned.
"Oh, good! You do have a laugh. I was beginning to think you were one of those haunted ghosts rich people keep in mansions."
Casey giggled again.
Maybe today would hurt a little less.
That night, as she sat in the nursery being painted pale blue, Ivan walked in.
"No cameras in here," he said. "I'll give you one room of privacy."
Casey raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Should I clap?"
"Don't push it."
He looked around, hands in pockets.
"You chose the colors?"
"Blue calms the mind. Maybe it'll fix yours."
He smirked. "You're getting brave."
She stood, face-to-face with him. "Or maybe I'm just tired of pretending I'm not human."
A pause. A breath. Then he did something no one expected.
He reached out—gently—and touched her stomach.
The moment was still. Intimate. Soft. So soft it didn't belong in this house.
"I hope he doesn't become me," Ivan murmured.
Casey whispered, "He won't."
And for a split second… she almost believed it too.