Mile High Daddy: Chapter 12

I stare at the phone in my hands, my fingers tracing the edges, my heartbeat pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears.

I press the power button, and the screen lights up. The interface is simple, almost bare—no apps, no messages, nothing except one saved contact under Mom.

A lump forms in my throat as I hover my thumb over the call button. It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since I was taken from everything I knew, since I last heard her voice.

What if she’s angry that I didn’t call sooner? What if she’s been trying to reach me and thought I abandoned her?

I swallow hard and take a shaky breath before pressing the button.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Then—

“Hello?”

The moment I hear her voice, everything inside me shatters.

A sob wrenches from my throat before I can stop it, and suddenly I can’t breathe. Tears blur my vision, spilling down my cheeks as I clutch the phone like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice sharpens, confused. “Lila? Sweetheart, is that you?”

I cover my mouth, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s useless. I’m crying so hard my shoulders shake, my body curling in on itself as I press the phone tighter against my ear.

“Lila?” she repeats, her voice rising in concern. “What’s wrong? Where are you? Baby, talk to me!”

I try to speak, but my throat is too tight, my words tangled in the sobs wracking my chest.

I hear rustling on the other end, and then my mother’s voice turns frantic. “Lila, sweetheart, please! Are you safe? Are you hurt?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to take a deep breath, but the words still come out broken. “M-Mom…”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks! Your father said—he said you were safe, but he wouldn’t tell me where you were. I’ve been losing my mind, Lila. What’s going on?”

“I—I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “I just—I miss you.”

“Oh, baby,” she says, her voice cracking. “I miss you too. Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you. Just tell me where.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against my knee. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” she demands, frustration and worry thick in her voice. “Lila, tell me what’s happening. Did your father do this?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want to tell her the truth—because what would that accomplish? She can’t save me from this.

“I don’t know what to do, Mom,” I whisper.

Her voice softens instantly. “Oh, sweetheart.” There’s a pause, and when she speaks again, it’s more determined. “Tell me, Lila. Are you safe?”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the phone. Safe? I don’t know anymore.

“I—” My voice catches, and I shake my head. “I think so.”

“Lila,” she says firmly. “Are you with someone?”

I bite my lip. “Yes.”

“Who?”

I hesitate, staring at the bedroom door as if Mikhail might walk back in at any second. My chest tightens.

“My husband.”

The words taste foreign on my tongue, and the silence on the other end of the line stretches so long that I think she’s hung up.

Then—

“What?”

I flinch at the sheer disbelief in her voice.

“Lila,” she says slowly, like she can’t believe she’s even saying the words, “what do you mean your husband?”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I clutch the phone tighter, my body shaking. “Mom…I got married.”

The silence is deafening.

Then my mother’s voice drops, and I hear the raw edge of fury behind it.

“Tell me everything. Now.”

“Mom—” I start. I don’t want to cause unnecessary distress. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” she says. “You’re twenty-four. You were not married two weeks ago. What the hell happened?”

I wipe at my face, trying to breathe, but my chest is tight. I knew she would react like this. I knew she would be angry, confused. I just don’t know how to explain something that doesn’t even make sense to me.

“I—I didn’t have a choice,” I say finally.

My mother inhales sharply, and I can almost feel her fury through the phone.

“Your father did this, didn’t he?” she spits, her voice turning sharp. “I swear to God, if he⁠—”

“Mom, stop,” I plead, my fingers gripping the phone. “Please. It’s done.”

“Done?” she echoes, like I just told her I decided to jump off a cliff. “Lila, this isn’t done. You’re my daughter! If he forced you into this, I’ll⁠—”

“He didn’t force me,” I lie, though my voice trembles too much to be convincing.

There’s a pause. “So you chose this?”

I shut my eyes, my stomach twisting painfully.

I don’t answer.

“Lila,” my mother presses, her voice cracking. “Tell me the truth.”

I grip the sheets beneath me, trying to steady myself, but the words just won’t come. Because what truth am I supposed to tell her? That my father sold me like a bargaining chip? That I was tricked into thinking I was getting on a plane, only to wake up in this world where I no longer have control over my own life? That the man I married is both my captor and the only person who’s shown me any kindness in weeks?

That despite everything, I still feel something every time he touches me?

No. I can’t tell her any of that.

“Lila.” My mother’s voice wavers, but there’s a steel edge to it. “Tell me his name.”

I stare at the door, as if saying it out loud will make him appear. I swallow hard.

“Mikhail Ivanov.”

The line goes deathly quiet.

Then, in a voice so full of horror that it makes my blood run cold, she whispers, “No.”

A chill races down my spine. My fingers tighten around the phone. “Mom?”

“No, no, no,” she mutters, her voice breaking. “Not him. Lila, listen to me. You need to get out of there. Do you hear me? You need to leave.”

Her panic is instant, visceral, like she’s just heard I married the devil himself.

My heart pounds against my ribs. “Mom, what⁠—”

“No!” she shouts now, desperation rising. “He’s dangerous, Lila! You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

My entire body tenses. “How do you know who he is?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching too long.

“It’s…complicated,” my mother finally says, her voice careful.

Complicated.

The word doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t answer anything. If anything, it makes my stomach knot tighter.

“Mom,” I press, my voice thin with desperation. “Please, just tell me. What aren’t you saying?”

Another pause. A sharp inhale.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” she says softly. “Just trust me when I tell you—Mikhail Ivanov is dangerous, Lila. You need to be careful.”

A lump rises in my throat.

Careful.

Because she knows I can’t leave.

I swallow hard, pressing a hand to my forehead as nausea creeps back in. My stomach has been a mess for days, and I feel exhaustion weighing down on me like I haven’t truly rested since I was brought here.

My mother must hear something in my breathing because her voice shifts, laced with concern. “Lila, are you okay?”

I hesitate, my fingers gripping the sheets beneath me. “I don’t know. I’ve been sick.”

“Sick?” she repeats. “What do you mean sick?”

I sigh, my body curling in on itself as I press my palm against my unsettled stomach. “I don’t know, I’ve just felt…off. I keep feeling nauseous, and earlier today, I threw up.”

She’s silent for half a second too long.

“When was your last period?” she asks.

My breath catches. “What?”

“Your last period, Lila,” she repeats, firmer this time. “When was it?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My brain scrambles for an answer, for a memory, but I come up blank. The last time I remember tracking it was before…before the plane. Before my whole world changed.

The realization makes my chest tighten.

“Lila,” my mother says, softer now. “Did something happen? Between you and him?”

A wave of heat crawls up my neck.

I don’t answer.

But the silence speaks for me.

My mother inhales sharply. “Oh my God.”

I close my eyes, gripping the phone tighter.

“Lila,” she says, “tell me he used protection.”

I press my lips together, a lump forming in my throat.

Another silence. Then⁠—

“Oh, baby,” she breathes, the words full of so much sadness that my chest cracks open. “Lila, you need to get a test. Right away.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, my whole body trembling.

My mother exhales shakily on the other end.

“I do. You find a way out of there before it’s too late. I have an idea.”

I sit up straighter, my grip on the phone tightening. “What? What idea?”

“I have a friend,” she says quickly. “Someone who—who helps people in situations like this. People who need to disappear.”

My breath catches. Disappear?

A sick feeling swirls in my stomach.

“You don’t have to stay, Lila,” she presses. “You don’t have to be trapped there. If you can get out, even for a few minutes, I can get you out of the city. Out of the country if that’s what it takes.”

A cold sweat breaks out over my skin. I should be relieved. I should be grateful she’s offering me a way out, an escape.

But something inside me twists.

I think of Mikhail. Of the way he watches me. Of how he gave me this phone so I could talk to her. Of how, despite everything, he hasn’t hurt me.

Yet.

The word whispers through my mind like a warning.

“Lila,” my mother pleads. “Say something.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. “Mom, I—” I hesitate, panic gripping my throat. “I don’t even know if I can leave the house.”

“Then find a way,” she says fiercely. “I don’t care what it takes. Make up an excuse. Say you need fresh air. Say you’re sick and need a doctor. Anything.”

I shut my eyes, my free hand gripping the blanket beneath me.

“You don’t understand,” I murmur. “It’s not that simple.”

Her voice wavers. “Then tell me why. Why are you hesitating?”

I don’t have an answer.

Because the truth is, I don’t know.

I should want to run. I should be desperate to escape.

So why does my chest feel tight at the thought of leaving? Why does my mind immediately picture him—and the thought of him going away makes my stomach squeeze.

“I need to think,” I say.

My mother exhales, frustrated but trying to be patient. “I don’t know how much time we have, baby. Listen…I have an idea.”

The air outside is crisp, the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the sprawling gardens. It’s quiet here, away from the heavy walls of the house, and for a moment, I can almost pretend that my life is normal. That I’m just a woman standing in a beautiful garden, admiring the way the flowers sway gently in the breeze.

My fingers trail over the petals of a small, delicate bloom—tiny and pale, but somehow striking among the richer, more vibrant colors surrounding it. It’s unassuming, yet beautiful in its own way. I crouch down, brushing the soft petals, feeling an odd sense of comfort in something so small, so untouched by the world I’ve been thrust into.

“That’s narcissus.”

A deep voice behind me shatters my quiet moment.

I freeze. My pulse jumps, and I know before I even turn around who it is.

Slowly, I lift my gaze, and there he is. Mikhail stands a few feet away, his sharp gray eyes locked onto me, unreadable as ever. There’s something mesmerizing about him—his perfectly tailored suit, the crisp collar, the streaks of silver in his hair… and the undeniable, feral edge lurking beneath it all. My heart stutters in my chest.

He steps closer, and before I can react, he reaches down and plucks the tiny white flower from the soil, twirling it between his fingers.

“Persephone was plucking these when the God of Death rose from the Underworld to claim her,” he murmurs, holding the flower out to me.

A shiver runs down my spine.

I look at the delicate bloom between his fingers, then up at him.

It’s eerie, how similar the story is to mine. An innocent girl, oblivious to the fact that she’s about to be taken away from everything she knows. Claimed.

I hesitate.

Mikhail watches me, his gaze unwavering, waiting.

Finally, I reach out, my fingers brushing against his as I take the flower. Another jolt of heat shoots through me, just like it did when he handed me the phone last night.

I close my fingers around the bloom, my throat dry. “And what happened to her after that?”

His lips curve slightly, though it’s not quite a smile. “She became his queen.”

A breath gets caught in my throat. I don’t know what to say to that. I swallow hard, glancing down at the fragile flower in my palm. The petals feel like silk beneath my touch.

Persephone never had a choice.

Neither did I. I start to walk and he falls into step beside me.

I twirl the narcissus between my fingers, watching its delicate petals shift under the light breeze. The wind carries the scent of earth and blooming roses. I should keep quiet. I should let the moment pass. But my mother’s words echo in my head, pressing against the walls of my mind like a whispered command.

Find a way to get out of his estate.

I swallow, gripping the flower tighter before looking at him fully. “I want to leave the house.”

His expression doesn’t shift, but I see the slightest flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe.

“I’m bored,” I continue, forcing my voice to stay casual, even as my pulse hammers against my ribs. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, stuck inside all day with nowhere to go.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“I just…I need a change of scenery,” I add, rolling the fragile stem between my fingers. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Silence stretches between us.

My stomach twists. Does he buy it?

Does he think I just want some fresh air, some semblance of normalcy? Or does he see right through me?

Mikhail tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m something to be dissected. His gaze flicks to my hands, noting how I’m gripping the flower a little too tightly.

“I can’t keep sitting in that house like some caged bird,” I murmur, my throat dry. “It’s suffocating me.”

His jaw tenses.

I can’t tell if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

But Mikhail is dangerous. He’s calculating. If he suspects anything, I’ll lose whatever sliver of freedom I have left.

He exhales slowly, crossing his arms. “Where do you want to go?”

My pulse jumps.

That’s…not a no.

I wet my lips, trying not to sound too eager. “Anywhere. Just out. A drive, a walk—something.”

He watches me for another long moment, his gaze piercing through every layer of my skin.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally says.

I nod, forcing myself to look frustrated instead of relieved. As he turns away, my fingers tighten around the narcissus.

It’s not a guarantee.

But it’s a chance.

Now, I just have to figure out what to do with it.