Victor was shirtless, his muscular, tattooed chest exposed and glistening with sweat. Only his expensive silk tie hung loosely around his neck. Alia, driven by a mix of agony and rage, grabbed that tie with both hands and pulled him close, bringing his face inches from hers.
Alia: (Screaming in a trembling voice) "I know! I know I'm a daughter of Russia! I know my blood is from Bangladesh! But America? Why was it hidden from me that I was born there? Why did Father do this? Why was I made into a pawn, Victor? Answer me!"
Victor didn't flinch. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her shirtless body against him.
Victor: "Because your father knew that one day, the world would be at your feet. Your birth in America wasn't an accident, Alia. It was an 'investment.' Your father wanted the CIA's secrets to reach our drawing room. You weren't just born as a girl; you were born as a sword—sharpened by your father and used by me."
Alia tightened her grip on the tie, as if she wanted to choke him. Her diamond anklets chimed once more in the tense silence.
Victor: "You aren't destroyed, Alia. You are invincible. Now, you can't leave this game even if you want to. Because America is looking for you, and Russia will never let you go."Alia whispered in a voice filled with despair, "CIA? You wiped out that identity too, Victor. After what you did to me tonight... I am a dead person to them. My career, my identity—everything is gone."
Victor remained silent for a moment. Then, with that mysterious, toxic smirk, he spoke. "What if I told you that you aren't dead to them? What if I said your identity is still intact?"
Alia let go of his tie and backed away. "What do you mean? What are you saying?"
Victor stood up, adjusting his tie over his bare chest. "It means... this entire thing was a drama. A script I wrote to break you mentally, to give you the ultimate punishment. I knew about your meeting with Marcos, about that baby—everything. I took this monstrous form today just to crush your confidence and punish your soul."
Alia stood frozen, tears streaming down her face. "Punishment? You stooped this low just to punish me? Victor, you aren't human; you're a beast!"
Victor grabbed a lock of her hair and leaned in close. "I am the King of Russia, Alia. And kings don't just attack; they play psychological games. Now, you are a prisoner to me, but to the CIA, you are still my 'most powerful agent.' This drama is far from over."Alia's sobbing turned into a haunting, manic laughter. She realized Victor wanted to crush her soul. But Victor forgot one thing—Alia was a trained CIA agent.
Alia: (Laughing wildly) "A drama? A punishment? Victor Pritov, you thought I'd be your slave? If you are the King of Russia, remember—I am the sword sharpened to destroy you!"
In an instant, Alia lunged at him. She struck him with her knee, sending him staggering back. When Victor tried to pin her down, she spun around and delivered a brutal elbow strike to his bare back. Her diamond anklets scraped against his legs, drawing blood.
Victor: (Hissing through his teeth) "You dare fight me? I could end you with one hand!"
Alia: "Then do it! Kill me! But today, I'll show you how dangerous a humiliated woman can be!"
She grabbed his tie again not out of love, but to choke him. She yanked him close and landed a punch square on his nose. Blood sprayed across his shirtless chest. Furniture shattered, and mirrors broke as they fought like two predators in a cage. Alia picked up a shard of broken glass from the floor, her eyes reflecting a murderous intent.The shard of broken glass was inches away from Victor's throat when everything came to a haunting standstill. Alia's eyes suddenly glazed over, and her body began to shudder violently. Before she could deliver the final blow, a guttural cough tore through her chest, and she vomited a spray of fresh, crimson blood.
The hot blood splattered across Victor's bare chest and her own white gown. In the next heartbeat, her strength vanished. She went limp, collapsing into Victor's arms as the glass shard fell from her hand, shattering on the floor.
Victor: (Panic-stricken, his voice cracking) "Alia! Alia, open your eyes! What is happening? Stay with me!"
He shook her frantically, but she was unresponsive. Her pulse was fading into a faint, rhythmic throb. Suddenly, the medical monitors hidden behind the curtains began to wail with a high-pitched, piercing alarm. The heavy doors burst open, and a team of private doctors rushed in.
Chief Doctor: (In a state of shock) "Lord Victor, move aside! Her brain activity is plummeting! She is slipping back into the deep Coma!"
Victor stood frozen, his hands stained with her blood. As the doctors strapped an oxygen mask onto Alia's face, the terrifying truth began to settle. Alia hadn't been fully awake. For the past month, she had been lying in this penthouse on life support, trapped in a persistent vegetative state.
Victor, desperate to wake her, had been using a controversial and brutal "Psychological Shock" therapy—feeding her subconscious mind a terrifying narrative of betrayal, pain, and anger to force her brain to jump-start. The drama with Marcos, the child, and the violent confrontation had been a mix of induced hallucinations and a twisted reality orchestrated by Victor.
But the shock was too much for her fragile system.
Victor: (Whispering to his blood-stained hands) "I tried to wake her... I tried to bring her back. But did I just kill her instead?"
Outside, the Russian blizzard turned into a ferocious storm. Alia lay motionless amidst a web of wires and machines, while Victor realized that in his quest to possess her soul again, he might have silenced it forever. Three months later.
The atmosphere was heavy, not with the scent of gunpowder, but with the suffocating weight of shared grief. The setting was a secluded, high-security villa on the outskirts of Russia.
Marcos sat in a plush velvet armchair, looking young than he had three months ago. In one hand, he swirled a glass of vintage red wine, the liquid dark as the secrets they shared. But his focus wasn't on the alcohol. In his other arm, the baby Alia's child was nestled. The infant was tiny, innocent, and oblivious to the monsters surrounding him. The baby reached out with a small, soft hand, grabbing Marcos's finger and making a soft, melodic "Ummm..." sound as he played.
The sound of heavy boots echoed against the marble floor. Victor stepped into the light. He looked haggard, his usual pristine suit slightly disheveled. He stopped a few feet away, watching the child the living evidence of the woman who was currently a ghost in a living body.
Victor: (His voice raspy) "He has her eyes. Even when they are closed in that hospital bed, I see them in him."
Marcos didn't look up. He took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze fixed on the baby.
Marcos: "You destroyed her, Victor. You played God with her mind, and now she's drifting in a void where neither you nor I can reach her. Why are you here? To finish the job?"
Victor walked closer, his shadow falling over Marcos and the child. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted drive the CIA files containing Alia's true medical and birth records from America.
Victor: "The doctors say her brain is stuck in a loop. She's fighting a war inside her head that doesn't exist. She needs a reason to come back. Not a threat, not a 'shock'... but a piece of her truth."
Marcos finally looked up, his eyes cold and sharp. "And you think I'm the one who can give it to her?"
Victor: "I think... she won't wake up for a King. But she might wake up for the father of her child. I am a man of my word, Marcos. For now, the guns are down. Save her, or we both lose everything."
The baby let out another soft "Ummm," pulling at Marcos's hand, as the two most dangerous men in the world stood in a silent pact born of desperation. As these words left Victor's lips, the air inside the villa seemed to turn into ice. Marcos gripped his wine glass so tightly it looked as if it might shatter at any moment. He pulled the baby closer to his chest, lowering his head, his voice cracked and heavy with overwhelming guilt.
Marcos: "I can't do it, Victor. That lifeless body, the sound of those machines... I won't be able to bear it. I won't be able to forgive myself if I see her in that state."
Victor let out a mocking laugh. He stepped toward Marcos slowly, his face etched with a strange mixture of hatred and derision.
Victor: (In a cold, level voice) "Now you see the reality? Alia truly is an unfortunate girl. She spent her entire life wasting her emotions on the wrong men. I thought I could rule her, and you thought you could love her. But when it mattered most, it turns out neither of us was worthy of her."
Victor glanced at the baby in Marcos's arms, then back into Marcos's eyes.
Victor: "She never had a decent boyfriend. Every man who entered her life played nothing but pathetic games with her. I defeated her in a game of agony, and now you're looking for excuses to abandon her in her moment of peril. We all just used her; no one ever truly protected her."
Victor took a step back and turned toward the window. The blizzard outside had grown more violent.
Victor: "Fine, Marcos. If you can't do it, then leave. There is no point in staying for a man who cannot summon a shred of courage for the mother of his child. Alia was born alone, and perhaps she will leave this world alone. Go, take your pathetic 'love' and your fear, and vanish."
Marcos remained silent. Every word from Victor felt like a whip lashing against his back. The baby made a soft "Ummm..." sound again, as if even the infant could sense his father's cowardice.