Elena's POV
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Elena alone in the lavish bedroom. The silence was absolute, thicker than in the main room. She stood there, heart hammering, for a full minute before she moved.
Her first instinct was to try the door. The handle turned smoothly, and the door opened. A small, ridiculous flare of hope ignited in her chest. Maybe he was just trying to scare her. Maybe she could just… walk out.
She stepped into the hallway. It was wide, softly lit, and led back to the main living area. She took three silent steps before a man seemed to materialize from a shadowed alcove she hadn't noticed. It wasn't Ivan or the men from the car. This was a new one, younger, with a closely shaved head and watchful eyes. He didn't block her path, but he stood at a perfect angle to observe her, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.
"Can I help you, Miss Petrov?" he asked, his tone neutral.
"I… I was just looking for the kitchen," she stammered, the lie thin and obvious.
"The kitchen is to your left, past the dining area. Shall I show you?" He took a half-step forward.
"No. No, thank you," she said quickly, retreating back into the bedroom and closing the door. So that was how it was. She wasn't locked in, but she was watched. Every move noted. The gilded cage had invisible bars.
The room was beautiful and cold. A huge bed with a silvery-grey duvet. A sitting area by the window. A door led to a bathroom larger than her entire kitchen, with a shower that had a dozen jets and a freestanding tub. A walk-in closet held beautiful, expensive clothes in her size. Dresses, sweaters, trousers, all with tags still on. The intimacy of it, the quiet presumption that she would be here long enough to need a wardrobe, made her skin crawl.
She was too wound up to sit. Too terrified to lie on the plush bed. She paced, her sneakers silent on the thick rug. Anger began to simmer beneath the fear, a hot, clean emotion. How dare he? How dare he drag her into his war and then decide her fate with such cold, arrogant certainty?
A soft chime echoed in the room. She jumped. It came from a small, sleek intercom panel by the bed. A light was blinking green. She stared at it, unsure. It chimed again.
Tentatively, she pressed the button. "Yes?"
"Dinner is served, Miss Petrov." It was a woman's voice, polite and efficient.
"I'm not hungry."
A pause. "Mr. Volkov requests your presence in the dining room."
There it was again. Requests. The velvet glove over the iron fist. She could refuse. She could sit in this room and starve. But what would that accomplish? She needed information. She needed to see his face when she asked her questions. She needed to find a crack in his icy control.
"Fine," she said, and released the button.
She didn't change. She walked out in her own clothes, simple jeans, boots, and a soft sweater that still smelled faintly of her clinic. It was a tiny act of defiance. The guard was gone from the hall. She followed the sound of quiet clinking to find a formal dining room. A table that could seat twenty. Two places were set at the far end, directly across from each other, a vast expanse of polished wood between them.
Nikolai was already seated. He had changed into a dark grey shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing powerful forearms and a heavy, platinum watch. He looked up as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her, noting her unchanged clothes. He said nothing, simply gestured to the chair opposite him.
A silent woman in a black uniform appeared from a hidden door, placing a bowl of fragrant soup before each of them. She vanished as quietly as she came.
Elena sat. She didn't touch her spoon. She stared at him across the cavernous table. The opulence, the silence, the sheer unreality of it all pressed down on her.
"How long?" she asked, her voice loud in the quiet.
He finished a spoonful of soup before answering. "As long as necessary."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only answer I have." He met her stare. "The Orlov family is not a minor inconvenience. They are a cancer. Removing them requires… precision. And time."
"So I'm just supposed to sit here in this… this museum until you've finished your gang war?" The anger leaked out, hot and sharp.
He put his spoon down. "You are supposed to be alive when it is over." His tone was flint. "Would you prefer the alternative? A knock on your apartment door from men who do not ask polite questions? Who would not provide you with soup before they hurt you?"
The image was so visceral, so brutally painted, that she flinched. He saw it and pressed on, his voice dropping, becoming almost confidential, which was somehow worse.
"You think I am the monster, Elena. I am the one who keeps the other monsters from your door. The sketch on the news is just the beginning. They have people everywhere. Cops on the payroll, informants in hospitals. If you walked out of this building tonight, you would be in their hands before dawn. And then you would pray for the quick death I almost found in your alley."
He was trying to frighten her into submission. And it was working. But the anger still burned. "You don't get to play the hero. You're the reason I'm in danger!"
"Yes," he admitted without hesitation, shocking her. "I am. And this," he gestured around the room, "is my responsibility. My penance. You can hate me for it. I would not blame you. But you will be safe while you do."
The servant returned, clearing the soup bowls and replacing them with plates of seared fish and delicate vegetables. The normality of the meal service against the backdrop of their conversation was surreal.
Elena picked up her fork, not out of hunger, but to have something to do with her hands. "The police sketch… how can you be sure it's them?"
"Because I know their methods," he said simply. He reached for a tablet that lay beside his water glass. A few taps, and he slid it across the vast table toward her.
It was a security camera still. A different angle from the one on the news. It showed the alley behind her clinic, timestamped from the night he was injured. It was a wider shot. In it, she could clearly see herself, a small figure in scrubs, dragging his larger, unconscious form toward the door. The quality was poor, but recognizable.
But that wasn't what he wanted her to see. He leaned forward, pointing a finger at the edge of the frame. "Here."
She squinted. In the deep shadows at the mouth of the alley, almost out of frame, was the vague outline of a vehicle. A dark SUV. And standing beside it, a man, his face a blur, but he appeared to be holding something up to his face. Binoculars? A camera.
"They had a watcher," Nikolai said, his voice cold. "They saw you take me in. They did not intervene because they believed I was already dead, or because they feared police response. But they saw. They documented. The sketch is based on what that man reported."
The food turned to ash in her mouth. It was one thing to hear him say it. It was another thing to see the proof, a grainy, digital witness to the moment her old life ended.
"Why show me this?" she whispered, pushing the tablet away as if it were poison.
"So you understand I am not lying to control you. I am showing you the truth to keep you alive." He retrieved the tablet. "The danger is not a theory. It is a man in an SUV with a camera. It is a phone number that rings in an Orlov-owned warehouse. It is real."
She had no more arguments. The fight drained out of her, leaving only a weary, hollow fear. She was trapped, and the walls of her trap were the only things standing between her and a world that wanted to use her as bait.
Dinner continued in heavy silence. When the servant brought small glasses of espresso, Nikolai spoke again.
"There is a library. A media room. A gym. You are free to use any of it. The intercom connects to the main kitchen and to my study. If you need anything, ask."
"I need to go home," she said, but the words had no strength left.
He didn't reply. He just looked at her, and in his stormy eyes, she saw no cruelty, but a grim, unshakable resolve. He would keep her here, safe and miserable, for as long as he deemed necessary. And she was powerless to stop him.
As she stood to leave, feeling defeated, he spoke once more. "Your clinic. The animals. A trusted associate will oversee it. A vet from a nearby practice will cover emergencies. Your financial obligations will be met. Your life… will be kept on hold, undamaged, for your return."
It was meant to be a comfort. But it only emphasized the totality of his control. He wasn't just holding her; he was holding her entire world in suspended animation.
She walked back to her room on numb legs. This time, the guard didn't appear. The door to her gilded cage was open, but the entire penthouse was the cage. She went inside and closed the door, leaning back against it.
She was safe. She was a prisoner. They were the same thing.
And somewhere out there in the glittering city, men she had never met were looking for her face.
A photo appears on screen, it's a blurry image of HER dragging him inside her clinic.