Chapter 2
ELENA
Olga's fingers work the laces at my back, pulling them tighter with each tug. The corset presses against my lungs, forcing shallow breaths. The edges of the room blur slightly, like I'm looking through water.
My pulse is slow, and everything feels heavy. My arms hang at my sides like dead weight, and when I try to lift my hand to brush the hair out of my face, it takes three full seconds for my brain to send the command.
I took the pill forty minutes ago, and the relief is starting. My mind is entering the disconnected state I wait for every day.
Olga mutters something in Russian, and Anya, my personal helper as Maxim calls her, steps forward with a pin. She slides it through the seam of the dress, and the sharp point catches my skin.
Anya's hands tremble as she pulls back. "Oh, so sorry, Mrs. Volkov." She only cares because he's watching.
I slowly turn to see the drop of blood on my skin in the reflection of the mirror. It's bright red against the white dress.
I stare at it and know I should feel some type of pain. I should flinch, do something, but I don't. I just watch it like it's happening to someone else.
Anya continues apologizing, her voice frantic, as she wipes it away with a cloth, but the words don't land right. They float around me in the air, my brain unable or unwilling to process them.
"Enough."
Maxim's voice cuts through my fog.
He sits in his velvet chair near the window, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and his cigar in the other.
He's watching me. He's always watching me.
Olga and Anya step back immediately, their hands folded in front of them.
Maxim takes a slow sip of his drink as his pale eyes slide over me, analyzing.
"The necklace," he says, gesturing with the glass. "Change it. Bring the one with emeralds."
Anya scurries to the jewelry box, her hands shaking as she pulls out the heavy emerald collar. They take off the one I'm wearing and fasten it around my throat. It feels heavier than the previous one.
Maxim nods. "Better. Fix her hair. I don't want a single strand out of place."
Olga moves behind me again, her fingers rough as she pins my hair back into an intricate updo. She's rough, but I don't care.
I'm good at this now. The not reacting part. Granted, the pills help. The beatings, I took those, but the pills. That's something that helps make this hell bearable.
Maxim sets his glass down and stands. He adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket and takes a big drag of his cigar.
He looks like a man who owns the world, and given everything, maybe he does.
"This is how I want her to look at the event.
Just like this," he says, his voice firm.
He then looks at me in the mirror. "We leave for the ambassador summit next week.
You will wear this and the other two dresses you tried on when I tell you to.
You will wear your hair just like this, and you will be on your best behavior. Do you understand?"
I nod.
"With words."
"Yes, I will be on my best behavior," I say.
"Good. You've been there before, so you'll know what to expect. Though this time you'll be upstairs," he says with a smirk.
It takes me a second, but I remember what he told me the other day. We are going to the Swiss Alps soon.
The chateau.
Not just any, I know now by his comment. He's referring to where they brought me after the crate. After the needle. After everything went dark.
That's where the nightmare started.
My heart slams against my ribs, the drug fighting to keep it under control. My vision sharpens for just a moment, the room coming into too-sharp focus.
The mirror. The dress. Maxim's cold smile.
And then the pill wins. My pulse slows, and the panic flattens. My brain fog rolls back in, thick and suffocating.
I exhale as Maxim steps closer, his hand reaching out to adjust the emerald collar. His fingers are like ice on my skin.
"Perfect," he says. "You'll make quite the impression."
I don't respond.
I can't.
The room blurs again.
And then I'm gone.
The courtyard is cold.
Not the biting, cruel cold of Moscow, but the crisp, alive cold of autumn in Romania. The kind that makes your cheeks flush and your breath visible in the air.
I'm running.
My boots pound against the cobblestones, and my lungs burn in the best way. The kind of burn that comes from laughter, from freedom, from being young and carefree.
"Adi!"
I yell his name, my voice echoing off the stone walls of the old school.
He turns around. His dark hair is tousled from the wind, and his dark eyes are focused.
He smiles, that stupid, reckless smile that always makes my stomach flip.
"Te-am prins!" he yells back. "I caught you!"
I collide with him, and he catches me, spinning me around until I'm dizzy and breathless.
"You never run fast enough,” he says, laughing.
"Maybe I want you to catch me,” I say.
He frowns. "What?"
I roll my eyes. “Boys are ridiculous," I say, laughing.
He thinks we are practicing English. I am telling him how I feel.
He picks me up, and I hit him playfully, and he spins me around.
I close my eyes from laughing too hard, and when I open them, he's gone, and I'm back in that van.
There's a needle piercing my skin, and I feel the cold metal floor beneath my cheek. I try to move, but the zip ties won't let me.
I scream his name because it's the only name that means safety.
"Adrian! Adrian!"
I scream it until my voice breaks. Until the drug pulls me under.
And he never comes.
I cry his name into the darkness of the cell they keep me in and into the floor here in Moscow for the first three months.
I call for him, over and over, but he never answers.
He used to drop everything when I called his name. He used to catch me. He used to spin me around and make me feel like nothing in the world could touch me.
Eighteen months have passed, and he never comes.
He must have realized I wasn't worth looking for.
A sharp snap echoes through the room.
My eyes fly open, and I'm back in this cold room and suffocating dress. Maxim stands in front of me, his fingers snapping again to get my attention.
"Are you listening?" he asks, his tone sharp.
I blink at him, my mind scrambling to catch up.
"Da," I say, and then correct myself. "Yes."
He narrows his eyes but seems satisfied. He steps back, gesturing to the maids.
"Finish getting her ready," he says, then walks toward the door.
Olga and Anya move around me again, and I swallow my tears and memories and hope the pill numbs me enough to take them away.