35. Chapter 35

thirty-five

Clara

I jolt, Elijah’s voice still ringing in my ears.

“Mommy, Mommy?”

Shit. For a second, I actually thought he was here. But nope, just my brain playing tricks on me. Again.

I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my room. And Elijah is definitely not here.

“Fuck,” I mutter, sitting up. Reality hits me like a sledgehammer. I’m trapped in this fancy-ass room, courtesy of Leonid fucking Kuznetsov.

My chest tightens. Elijah.

I’ve never been away from him for more than 24 hours. Not once in his entire life. And now? Who knows when I’ll see him again.

“Get it together, Clara,” I tell myself, but it’s useless. The tears come anyway.

I’ve always been there for him. Every damn day. And now what? He’s probably wondering where the hell I am.

Is he scared? Does he think I left him?

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me. “Mommy’s gonna get back to you. I swear.”

My mind’s going a mile a minute. Is he okay? Did he eat? Did Pam remind him to brush his teeth? God, I hope he’s not too freaked out.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. Falling apart won’t help Elijah. It sure as hell won’t get me out of here.

Taking a deep sigh, I slide off the bed. Time to scope out this place.

I start poking around, opening drawers, and checking the closet. But they’re all empty. Not a single piece of clothing, not even a speck of dust. It’s weird. I was kinda expecting to find a bunch of women’s stuff, you know? Like maybe this was where he stashed his side chicks or something.

As I’m about to give up my little search party, my foot catches on something under the bed.

“What the hell?” I mutter, sliding off the bed.

I crouch down, fishing out a sleek black box from under the bed. It’s heavier than it looks, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I pop the lid open and immediately wish I hadn’t.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, my face burning hotter than a furnace.

Inside is an array of… let’s call them adult playthings. There’s a pair of handcuffs that look like they were bedazzled by a drunk unicorn. Four leather straps that I’m pretty sure are meant to turn someone into a human pretzel. And the lubes… Jesus. Who comes up with these names? “Peach-gasm Delight”? “Chocolate Thunder Down Under”? I’m torn between laughing and cringing.

But the pièce de résistance in this box of horrors? A neon green monstrosity that defies logic and probably several laws of physics. It’s all curves and ridges, with strange protrusions that look more alien than human. And because apparently regular sex toys aren’t enough, this one’s got built-in LED lights. A glow-in-the-dark disco dildo. Because nothing says “sexy” like looking like you’re waving around a lightsaber in the bedroom.

I stare at it, torn between laughing and throwing up. This thing belongs in a modern art museum, not a bedroom. Or maybe a sci-fi movie prop closet.

“Christ,” I mutter, tossing it back in the box like it might bite me.

“Is this his idea of a starter kit for ‘Depraved 101’?”

I shake my head, trying to erase the image from my mind. Of course the Russian Adonis has a personal sex toy collection that would make a porn star blush.

I haven’t so much as kissed a guy since Elijah was born, and here’s Mr. Grey with his personal sex toy emporium. The unfairness of it all hits me like a truck.

For four years, my idea of a wild night has been successfully getting Elijah to bed before 9 PM and maybe, just maybe, having time to shave both legs in one shower. Meanwhile, Leonid’s been living out some kind of “Fifty Shades” fantasy.

Fuck this.

I grab the box, ready to chuck it in the bathtub. As I turn, a shadow in the doorway makes me freeze.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, nearly dropping the box.

There’s a woman standing there, small enough that I almost missed her. She’s tiny, probably a foot shorter than me, with silver hair pulled back so tight it looks painful. Her face is a map of wrinkles, eyes sharp and curious.

“Uh… hi?” I say, suddenly very aware of the box of sex toys in my hands.

The woman’s eyes flick to the box, then back to my face.

“ Buenos días, se?orita ,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “I am Kayla.”

“Cl—Victoria,” I stammer, catching myself at the last second. “I mean, I’m Victoria. I was just, uh…”

Shit. That was close. Real smooth, Clara. Nearly blew your cover in two seconds flat.

Kayla doesn’t wait for my explanation. She walks in, placing a crisp white shirt on the bed. “ Para ti. From Se?or Leonid.”

“ Gracias ,” I manage.

Fuck, why am I being so polite?

I should knock her out and bolt. But my feet stay planted.

Calm down, Clara.

Maybe I can talk my way out of this.

I drop the box on the floor with a thud, then kick it hard. It skids across the hardwood and disappears under the bed like it’s radioactive waste I can’t get rid of fast enough. Kayla’s eyes follow the box’s journey, then snap back to me.

“Umm…” I start, racking my brain. “?Trabajas aquí para Leonid?”

Thank God for all those run-ins with the Mexican mafia. Who knew it’d come in handy for small talk?

Kayla nods slowly. “ Sí, many years.”

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Listen, Kayla. I’m not supposed to be here. I need help. Can you—”

She cuts me off with a sharp look, eyes darting to the camera in the corner. Right. We’re being watched.

I try a different approach. “How about we go for a walk? Get some fresh air?”

Kayla shakes her head. “No salir . No leaving.”

“Please?” I’m not above begging at this point.

I step closer, lowering my voice. “I have… someone waiting for me at home.”

For a moment, Kayla’s face softens. She looks at me, really looks at me, and I see a flicker of sympathy. But then it’s gone, replaced by professionalism.

“ Lo siento, se?orita ,” she says quietly. “Cannot help.”

I’m about to give up when Kayla adds, loud enough for the cameras, “ Se?or Leonid, he not home now. But return soon.”

Her eyes, though, tell a different story. They flick to the door, then back to me.

“I understand,” I say, matching her volume. “Guess I’ll just wait here then.”

Kayla nods, moving toward the exit. “I go now. Much work.” She pauses at the threshold, speaking to the air. “Door must stay locked. For safety.”

But as she turns, I swear I see her hand hesitate on the lock.

The door closes. I hold my breath, listening. No click.

Holy shit. Did she just…?

I wait a beat, then creep to the door. My hand hovers over the knob.

I glance up at the camera, my heart pounding. They’ll see me, no doubt about it. But screw it. I’ve got one shot at this.

I take a deep breath, wrap my hand around the doorknob, and twist. It turns. No resistance.

Holy shit.