Elena was glued to the sofa, back pressed against it. A heavy pillow still clutched in her hand, she had remained in that position when the knocking came again, just as sharp, just as confident as before. That sound was the sound of certainty; to ignore it meant to ignore the rising tide. He would not tire, nor would he leave. Partly in fear, partly in defiance, Elena surged with adrenaline, pushed on the tiled floor, and went to the door; she would not let herself be a frightened mouse hiding in her own home.
When she peered through the peephole, there he was. Gone was the serious, intimidating suit from the night before. Dressed simply in a dark cashmere sweater that clung low on his torso and tailored black trousers, his casual attire was more menacing in some way. The kind of intimacy he offered now was far removing from that of corporate warfare; it was almost personal, almost predatory. Golden eyes seemed to stare directly through the lens, through the door, and into her.
With unsteady hands, she pulled back the deadbolt but left the chain intact, thereby opening the door, just a few inches allowed by the chain. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice taut.
His enormous figure loomed upon a much-trodden welcome mat, out in full glare of the sun. He did not seem surprised, nor did he seem annoyed at the sight of the chain; it was simply his look that lay unreadable. "I told you I would see you," he said in a low rumble of calm determination, which seemed to vibrate through the door itself. "May I come in, Elena?"
That sounded almost like a request-or-so he thought; she felt it more like a kind of command. For a heartbeat, she considered slamming the door on him. But she knew it was rather useless and childish. Feeling crushed, she gave in, closed the door again, unlatched the chain, and opened it for him.
He walked across the threshold, and her reality shifted. Her small, cramped apartment felt larger now, crushed under the weight of his large figure. With him came the outside world: the bright, crisp air; the intoxicating yet scomfiing tang of wealth; his unique, almost feral scent, which immediately overpowered the smells of her apartment. Having invaded her sanctuary, he had, with his presence, made it no longer hers. His gaze swept around the room to take in the lumpy sofa, stacks of books, and tiny kitchenette. There was no hint of judgment in that steady gaze, only a disquieting appraisal.
His eyes finally stopped on the closed bedroom door, and for the briefest moment, a change clicked over his face. "Your mother," he said, not so much asking as commanding. "Her health is failing. Dilated cardiomyopathy. The doctors in the city clinic gave her two years, at best."
Color washed out of Elena's face. It was one thing for him to know her name, but this... this was a violation of the highest and most terrifying order. He had not just followed her; he had traced her. He had stripped her life bare and exposed its deepest, most vulnerable, hurtful parts for examination.
"How dare you," she whispered, voice suddenly shaking with rage, an anger so foreign to her. "You have no right to know that. You have no right to be here. Get out."
He looked back at her again. Her fury did not move him. "I have every right," he said quietly. "The world is full of dangers, Elena. Sickness is one. There are others. Men from your past, for example. Men you ran from."
Panic, cold and complete, gripped her. He knew. He knew everything.
"Now I have the ability to make everything disappear," he said, taking a slow step toward her. She stood her ground, refusing to yield. "I can offer your mother medical care that is unavailable publicly. I can arrange for doctors that will do more than just oversee her decline. I can give her a chance for a real future."
Elena stared at him, her mind whirling. That was the reason behind his visit. No mere possessive whim; it was calculated and strategic. He had taken aim at her most vulnerable spot.
"Why?" she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you are going to come with me," he answered, the softness gone from his voice, replaced now by quiet, implacable authority. "You will leave this life behind. You will have safety, comfort, anything you could ever desire. In return, your mother will live. That is the offer."
Elena felt a surge of bitter, hysterical laughter erupt in her throat. "That is not an offer. That is a threat. You are trying to buy me."
"I am not trying to do anything," he countered, his golden eyes piercing and unwavering. "I'm telling you what is going to happen. I'm just going to give you the courtesy of a choice in how we get there." He pulled out a slim, black card from his pocket, made of metal, impossibly sleek and heavy. He placed it on the tiny cluttered side table.
"You have until sundown to decide. On that card lies access to a world of resources you cannot imagine. It can be the key to your mother's survival. Or it can be a coaster for your coffee."
He reached for the door but turned back for one last look at her before stepping through. "For her sake, Elena, I hope you've chosen wisely."
And then he was gone. She stood like bronze in the centre of the living room, now a crime scene. Unbarred, unshut, he caged her, not with bars and iron locks but with falsified love and desperation; that, she knew, with a frightening certainty, was the most imprisoned stomach.