Chapter 6 Six
- I barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea hits. Kneeling on the cold tile, I grip the toilet bowl and retch, bringing up the toast and tea I managed for breakfast.
- Morning sickness, they call it, though it lasts all day. Two weeks since the implantation, one week since Dr. Whitman confirmed that at least one of the embryos had implanted successfully.
- I'm pregnant with Dante Romano's baby. A baby that isn't mine. A baby I'm being paid to grow and deliver, like some sort of human greenhouse.
- I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth. My reflection in the mirror looks pale and drawn. Dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. I've lost weight despite the pregnancy, the constant nausea making it hard to keep anything down.
- The doorbell rings. I check my watch. Right on time. Dante visits every day at exactly 10 AM to check on my condition.
- I splash water on my face and try to look less miserable before opening the door.
- "Good morning, Ms. Thompson." He stands on the doorstep in another perfect suit, tablet in hand.
- "Morning," I mumble, stepping aside to let him in.
- He walks past me, his cologne briefly overwhelming my sensitive nose. I swallow hard against another wave of nausea.
- "How are you feeling today?" He gestures for me to sit on the couch while he takes the armchair opposite.
- "Sick. Tired. The usual."
- He nods, typing something on his tablet. "Have you been taking your vitamins?"
- "Yes."
- "And your meals? Are you eating according to the nutrition plan?"
- I sigh. "I'm trying. It's hard to keep food down."
- "Dr. Whitman can prescribe anti-nausea medication."
- "She already did. It doesn't help much."
- He frowns, making another note. "Sleep patterns?"
- "Broken. I wake up to use the bathroom constantly."
- "Physical activity?"
- "The short walks your staff allows me to take around the garden."
- The questions continue, detailed and impersonal. How many times have I vomited today? Any cramping? Spotting? Breast tenderness? Each answer dutifully recorded in his digital file.
- I watch his fingers move across the screen, documenting every detail of my physical state. It's unsettling how much information he collects, how closely he monitors me.
- "Why do you need to know all this?" I ask suddenly. "Doesn't Dr. Whitman keep medical records?"
- "I like to be thorough," he says without looking up. "This pregnancy is important to me."
- "The baby is important to you," I correct him. "Not me."
- His eyes meet mine. "Your wellbeing directly impacts the child's. Therefore, it's important."
- I stand up too quickly. The room spins. Black spots dance in my vision.
- "Ava?" Dante's voice sounds distant.
- My knees buckle. I feel myself falling, but before I hit the floor, strong arms catch me.
- The world goes sideways as Dante effortlessly lifts me up and carries me to the couch. He lays me down very gently and slowly.
- "I'm fine," I mumble. "Just stood up too fast."
- His face hovers above mine, his expression tight with concern. "You're not fine. How often does this happen?"
- "It's normal. Pregnancy causes low blood pressure."
- "You could have injured yourself." His voice is sharp. "If I hadn't been here—"
- "I would have sat down before I fell," I interrupt. "I'm not helpless."
- He straightens, pulling out his phone. "This arrangement isn't working."
- "What do you mean?"
- "This property isn't suitable. The medical staff only visits twice daily. There's no one to monitor you between visits."
- A chill runs down my spine. "I don't need constant monitoring."
- "Evidence suggests otherwise." He dials a number. "Claire, prepare the east wing at the main house. Ms. Thompson will be moving in today."
- "Wait—what?" I push myself up to sitting position. "Moving where?"
- He ends the call and turns to me. "To my house. The medical facilities are superior, and staff is available around the clock."
- "I don't want to move again."
- "It's not up for discussion." His tone is final. "Pack what you need. A car will be here in an hour."
- I stand carefully, anger giving me strength. "You can't just order me around like this."
- "I can and I am. It's for your safety and the baby's. I can provide better protection and care for you at my house."
- "Protection from what? I'm perfectly safe here."
- His eyes narrow. "You nearly collapsed just now. What if you had hit your head? What if you had been in the shower? What if—"
- "Those are a lot of what-ifs."
- "I don't take chances with things that matter to me."
- There it is again. I only matter because of what I'm carrying.
- "The contract says—"
- "The contract says you will reside at a location of my choosing," he interrupts. "I'm choosing my house."
- I close my eyes briefly, knowing I've lost this battle before it even began. "Fine. Give me time to pack."
- "One hour."
- He walks around the guest house while I gather my few belongings. I don't have much: some clothes, toiletries, a couple of books. My life packed into one small suitcase.
- "You'll have everything you need at the house," Dante says, watching me zip the bag closed. "A full wardrobe will be provided. Books, movies, anything you request."
- "A gilded cage is still a cage."
- His mouth tightens. "You misunderstand. My house is not a prison. It's a sanctuary."
- "With armed guards and surveillance cameras?"
- "With the best security money can buy. Twenty-four-hour protection. State-of-the-art monitoring systems. Impenetrable walls." There's almost a hint of pride in his voice as he lists these features. "Nothing and no one gets in or out without my approval."
- The way he says it sends a chill through me. Not like a promise of safety, but a threat of confinement.
- "Sounds cozy," I mutter.
- "You'll be comfortable there."
- The car arrives exactly on time. A sleek black SUV with tinted windows. The driver takes my suitcase and holds the door for me.
- Dante walks me to the car, his hand hovering near the small of my back without actually touching me. "I'll join you this evening. I have meetings until then."
- I slide into the backseat, feeling like I'm being transported between prisons. "Can't wait."
- He leans down, his face level with mine. For a moment, something softens in his expression. "This is for the best, Ava. Trust me."
- Before I can respond, he closes the door. The car pulls away smoothly, carrying me toward my new home for the next eight or nine months.
- I watch through the window as we pass through massive iron gates and wind up a long driveway. Dante's house comes into view: a modern mansion of glass and stone perched on a hillside, overlooking the city below.
- My new cage. More luxurious than the last, but a cage nonetheless.