Chapter 6 Elena
ELENA
Istare at myself in the mirror, at the girl trapped inside the glass.
My hair is swept up in an elaborate twist that pulls at my scalp, and the dress cinches my waist until breathing becomes a conscious effort.
Diamonds glitter at my wrists, cold and too tight, and his stupid emerald collar sits heavy against my throat.
It's day one of a three-day event here at Chateau d'éclipse.
God, I hate this place.
Behind me, Maxim adjusts his cufflinks, and the rustle of his tailored jacket fills the silence of the suite. He moves closer, his reflection joining mine in the mirror, and I force myself not to flinch.
"Perfect," he says, looking at me.
His fingers brush the back of my neck, and my skin crawls. He traces the emerald collar, adjusting it slightly to the left, then back to center.
"You remember the rules?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod.
"Words, Elena."
"Yes," I say, clearing my throat. "I do." My voice comes out flat and lifeless.
"Good." He steps closer, his chest nearly touching my back, and I feel his breath across my bare shoulder as he take a big inhale with his eyes closed.
It’s a weird behavior of his that I've long since ignored because of how disgusting he is.
"So you will keep your eyes down. You will speak only when spoken to. You will smile when I tell you to smile,” he says.
I nod again, but he grips my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes in the mirror.
"And if you embarrass me at any time during this event," he continues, his tone never rising above that terrible calmness it has, "the punishment will be severe. Do you understand?"
The pill I swallowed an hour ago is working through my veins, softening the edges of my terror, but not erasing it. Not completely. The numbness wraps around my thoughts, but underneath, something sharp and feral scratches at the walls of my mind.
I want to scream and claw at his face until he bleeds, but I don't.
Instead, I whisper, "I understand."
"Good girl."
He releases my chin and steps back, smoothing down his jacket. He looks at me one more time, his eyes cold and dead, before he nods toward the door.
"Come," he says, and like always, I follow.
The hallway outside our suite is too fancy and filled with too much gold. Chandeliers hang overhead, and you can almost see their reflection in the marble floors.
Like with all these wealthy places, the walls are lined with oil paintings of men in powdered wigs and women in empire-waist gowns. Famous dead people, frozen in time.
I feel a lot like that last part.
Maxim's hand wraps around my elbow firmly as we descend the grand staircase together. The steps are wide, carpeted in deep crimson, and my heels sink slightly into it with each movement. I keep my eyes on the floor, watching the hem of my dress brush against my ankles.
Below, the sound of the party grows louder.
Classical music from a live band floats up to us, along with the clinking of champagne flutes. It mingles with low laughter and the murmur of a dozen different languages. Russian. French. German. English.
As we get down to the ground floor, I get a whiff of expensive cigars and perfume so thick it feels like it coats the back of my throat.
I breathe through my mouth, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself.
The grand hall is massive. The ceiling soars three stories high, painted with cherubs and clouds and golden sunlight that never existed in this place.
The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy silk curtains.
Outside, snow falls silently over the Swiss Alps, blanketing the world in white.
Men in tailored tuxedos cluster in small groups, drinks in hand, diplomatic pins attached to their lapels. Ambassadors, politicians, billionaires, and monsters hiding in plain sight.
The women are different.
They stand beside their men like accessories. Like trophies. They wear gowns of silk and satin, their hair styled to perfection, their makeup flawless, and their ears and wrists covered in diamonds.
But their eyes are dead, every single one of them.
I recognize that look. I see it in the mirror every morning.
Maxim leads me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my elbow. People turn to look. Some smile, some nod. A few men let their gazes linger too long on the curve of my waist, my breasts, or the bare skin of my shoulders.
I look away and keep my eyes on the floor.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne, and Maxim plucks two glasses.
He hands one to me, and I take it, holding it delicately by the stem.
I don't drink. I can't. Not with the pill still working through my system.
But he cares about appearances. If he sees me drink it, I'll be in trouble, but if I set it down, I'm in trouble too.
"Volkov!"
A man's voice, loud and jovial, cuts through the music.
Maxim turns, and I turn with him, careful to keep my body angled slightly behind his.
The man approaching is older, maybe sixty, with silver hair slicked back and a thick mustache. His suit is perfectly tailored, and a diplomatic pin glitters on his chest, the French flag.
"Ambassador Rousseau," Maxim greets, extending his hand.
They shake, and the Frenchman's eyes slide to me.
"And who is this?" he asks, in his thick accent.
"My companion," Maxim says smoothly. "Elena."
The Frenchman's gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering. He smiles, and it feels perverted.
"She is exquisite."
"Yes," Maxim agrees. His hand moves from my elbow to my hip, fingers digging into me possessively. "She is."
The man takes a sip of his champagne, still staring. "Where are you from?"
I don't answer at first.
"Elena," Maxim says firmly.
"Oh, excuse me," I say. "I'm from Romania."
"Ah. I didn't know they had such beauty there." He chuckles, a low, creepy sound as he looks down at my breasts. "You are a lucky man, Volkov."
Maxim's grip tightens on my hip.
"Very lucky," he says.
I stare at the pattern on the Frenchman's tie. Red with blue patterns. It's intricate and I focus on it as they continue talking.
The conversation continues over my head. Politics. Trade agreements. Something about exports and sanctions. I don't listen, and the words blur together, meaningless, as I focus on the tie, on the way the blue thread seems to have a hint of red coming through.
The man laughs at something Maxim says, and then he's gone, moving on to another cluster of men.
Maxim's hand stays on my hip.
We move through the hall, stopping occasionally for similar interactions. A German industrialist. A British lord. A fellow Russian oligarch. They all look at me the same way. Like I'm something to be appraised.
I just continue to dissociate. I let my mind drift, floating above my body, watching from a distance. The girl alongside him isn't me. She's someone else. A stranger.
The music changes, and couples move onto the floor, spinning in perfect synchronization. The women smile as they're led. The men hold them close.
Thankfully, Maxim doesn't dance. He just watches.
After what feels like hours, he leans down and speaks in my ear. "Come with me."
I blink, pulled back into my body.
He leads me to a spot near the edge of the room, beside a marble column. A safe, out-of-the-way place where I can stand and be forgotten.
"Do not move," he says, his voice low. "Do not speak to anyone. Understood?"
"Yes."
He leaves, weaving through the crowd toward a cluster of men near the far windows. One of them I recognize, another Russian politician. They shake hands, and Maxim leans in, speaking quietly.
I stand by the column, warm champagne glass still in hand, and wait.
A woman walks past me and nods. Her eyes are empty and hollow. I doubt she even really sees me.
Another woman stands across the room, older, maybe thirty, with dark hair, and she stares at the floor, probably told to stay still like me.
The music shifts again to something faster and more upbeat.
I close my eyes and will the pill to have a bigger effect on me than it normally does.
Suddenly, I'm startled as Maxim grabs my elbow and jerks me back to reality.
"We're leaving," he says.
I blink, disoriented. The hall is still full. The party is still going.
"Now," he adds, sharper this time.
He pulls me toward the staircase, moving quickly, his grip firm. I stumble slightly in my heels, but he doesn't slow. We climb the stairs, passing other guests who barely glance our way.
The hallway upstairs is quieter and emptier.
He stops outside our suite, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocking the door. He pushes it open and shoves me inside, making me tumble and fall to my knees.
"You'll stay here," he orders. "Do not open the door, and do not make noise."
I turn to look at him, but he's already stepping back into the hall.
"Maxim."
"Quiet," he says, and slams the door, locking it.
I sit on the floor of the suite, staring at the door, processing what just happened.
I kick off my heels, stand up, and move toward the corner of the room, the darkest one, away from the windows and the light.
I sink down, pulling my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around them. This is one of the few things I still do that started when they took me. I find a corner and sit, holding myself. It's as if I can pretend I'm safe, or that I'm anywhere other than where I am.
I close my eyes.
The pill is just starting to do the thing I hate, wear off.
I can feel it. I can't explain it, but the edges of my thoughts start to sharpen. It's like when you can't remember the name of an actor or band, and it bugs you, and then suddenly it comes to you effortlessly.
Except mine aren't simple or harmless. They're the memories of everything bad, and they claw at me.
Like this chateau, and being here before. Eighteen months ago, in fact.
I woke up on a cold stone floor in the basement. It smelled like dirt and mildew. My wrists were bound, and my mouth was gagged. A man stood over me, speaking Romanian. I was too out of it to understand him at first, but as I came to, I heard:
"De acum, ?i apar?ii lui Maxim Volkov."
I didn't understand. How does someone wake up and be told they belong to someone?
I screamed into whatever was in my mouth and started twisting and trying to move.
They drugged me again.
When I woke up the second time, I was in a different room, and a man stood over me. It was Maxim, and he said, "Welcome home, Elena."
I tried to run, but I didn't make it to the door.
The punishment was severe.
I shake my head, trying to push those thoughts out.
I wrap my arms tighter around my legs and wait.
There's one thing my pill hasn't been able to do, and that's stop the dread from creeping up inside me whenever I'm in these situations.
God, I hope he trips and breaks his neck coming back up the stairs tonight. I'm not ready for what he'll do.
The worst part of all this, and there's been a lot, is that I have to sit here with this dread.
And wait for Maxim's eventual return.