Elena's POV
The car moved through the city like a silent, black shark. No bumps. No loud engine noise. Just a faint, powerful hum and the occasional soft click of the turn signal. Elena sat frozen in the center of the vast back seat, her hands clenched into fists on her knees. She stared straight ahead at the dark glass partition, but she saw nothing. Her mind was a white-noise static of terror.
They didn't speak to her. The two men in the front were silent statues. The partition was up, sealing her in a soundproof, luxurious tomb. She had no idea where they were going. The tinted windows turned the vibrant evening city into a muted, greyish dreamscape. She saw the blur of lights, the vague shapes of buildings, but no street signs, no recognizable landmarks. They were taking her off the map.
After what felt like both an eternity and a single heartbeat, the car slid down a smooth ramp into an underground garage. It wasn't a public garage. It was pristine, brightly lit, and empty except for a few other vehicles that looked just as expensive and just as silent. The walls were bare concrete, clean and severe.
The car stopped. The doors unlocked with a quiet, precise thunk-thunk.
The man from her left the speaker got out and opened her door. He stood, waiting. Not grabbing, just… presenting the exit. The message was clear: You walk out on your own, or we assist you. The choice is yours, but you are getting out.
Her legs felt like water. She managed to swing them out and stand on the cold, polished concrete floor. Her knees threatened to buckle. The second man was already at a discreet elevator door set into the wall. It had no buttons, no call panel. He placed his palm on a black screen. A light glowed green, and the door slid open silently.
"This way, Miss Petrov," the first man said, gesturing.
The elevator was all brushed steel and soft, ambient light. It had no controls whatsoever. As soon as they were all inside, the doors closed, and it began to rise. It was fast, and so smooth Elena barely felt the movement, only a slight pressure in her ears. Her stomach churned.
When the doors opened again, she wasn't prepared.
She had expected something opulent, maybe gaudy. Gold, mirrors, things that screamed of ill-gotten money. What she saw stole the breath from her lungs and replaced it with a cold, awe-struck dread.
It was a realm of air, light, and impossible space. The floor was pale marble, veined with grey, stretching into a living area larger than her entire clinic. The furniture was modern, minimal, and looked like art: a long, low sofa in dove grey, a single abstract sculpture in dark metal. But it was the wall, or the lack thereof, that dominated everything.
The entire far side of the penthouse was glass from floor to soaring ceiling. Beyond it, the night-time city lay sprawled like a galaxy of diamonds at their feet. The view was breathtaking, dizzying, and utterly isolating. They were in the sky. There was no one to hear you scream up here.
And there, standing before that staggering view with his back to her, was Nikolai Volkov.
He was a silhouette against the city lights, tall and broad-shouldered. He wore simple, dark trousers and a black sweater that hugged the powerful lines of his torso. He looked completely healed, utterly in command. The wounded, pale man from her clinic floor was gone. In his place was a king in his empty castle.
He turned slowly.
The soft interior light caught the sharp planes of his face. His storm-grey eyes swept over her, and she felt microscopically small, utterly transparent. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. His expression was one of cool, detached assessment.
"Elena," he said. Her name. In this space, it sounded different from how it had in the clinic. Less like a prayer, more like a statement of fact. A possession.
"You," she managed to whisper, her voice thin and reedy in the vast quiet. "Why did you… bring me here?"
"To thank you," he said, taking a few steps toward her. His movements were fluid, controlled, a predator's grace. There was no hint of the injury she'd stitched. "And to ensure your safety."
"My safety?" A disbelieving, hysterical laugh caught in her throat. She gestured wildly around the impossible room. "By kidnapping me? This isn't safety, this is… this is kidnapping!"
"By removing you from a vulnerable position." His voice remained calm, infuriatingly logical. "The men who attacked me are not polite. They are looking for the woman who helped me. They have resources. It is a matter of time, not chance, before they find you."
He walked to a sleek, black desk that seemed to float in the room. With a tap on a keyboard, a large, flat screen emerged from the wall. It glowed to life.
"You doubt the threat?" he asked, his voice low.
The screen showed a paused news broadcast. A local channel. The banner at the bottom read: "POLICE SEEK WITNESS IN WEST END INCIDENT." A too-chipper anchor was frozen mid-sentence.
Nikolai hit a key. The video played.
"...after reports of a disturbance late Tuesday night. Authorities are asking anyone with information, particularly a woman believed to have been in the area and who may have rendered aid, to come forward." The screen split. On one side, the anchor. On the other hand, a police sketch.
It was her. Not a perfect likeness, but unmistakable. The shape of the face, the hair. They'd even guessed her approximate age. A phone number scrolled across the bottom.
Elena's blood turned to ice. She stared at her own face, rendered in an artist's pencil, broadcast to the entire city.
"This is not the police," Nikolai said, freezing the image. His voice was like gravel. "This is my enemy. They put pressure on a contact at the station. This 'public appeal' is a net. They are fishing for you. The phone number leads to them, not to any precinct."
He turned to face her fully. "The moment someone calls that number and says, 'Oh, I think that's the vet on Oak Street,' you become a commodity. A tool to use against me. Do you understand what happens then?"
She did. The cold, logical horror of it seeped into her bones. They wouldn't just ask her questions. They would hurt her. To get to him.
"You are a target now, Elena," he said, the words final. "Because of a kindness you should never have had to give. Here, you are protected. This building has more security than a federal bank. No one gets in or out without my knowledge."
"So I'm a prisoner," she stated, the numbness of shock giving way to a hollow ache.
"You are a guest," he corrected, but the distinction was meaningless. "You will stay here for your own safety. You will have everything you need. Your clinic… your responsibilities there will be managed. You will lack for nothing."
"I don't want anything from you! I want my life back!" The anger finally broke through, hot and desperate.
"And I am trying to preserve it!" For the first time, a flicker of impatience, of raw emotion, cracked through his icy control. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a steely resolve. "This is not a negotiation. The danger is real, and it is at your door. Until the situation with my enemies is resolved, you do not leave this apartment."
He walked past her, toward a hallway that led away from the main living area. He opened a door. "This will be your room. Rest. Anything you need, use the phone by the bed. It connects to the kitchen. Dinner will be served at eight."
Elena stood rooted to the marble floor, shivering violently though the room was perfectly warm. She looked from the terrifyingly powerful man who held all the cards to the beautiful, open doorway of the room that was now her cell. Inside, she could see a lavish bed, more windows, more opulent emptiness.
The view was worth millions. The door had no lock on the inside.
"You will stay here for your own safety," he says. She is a prisoner in a golden cage.