Chapter 14
ELLIE
The house changed after the dinner.
I can’t point to the exact moment. It wasn’t a sound or a conversation. Not a single event I can circle on a calendar. It was more of a shift in barometric pressure. The house was always tense, but now, it’s reverberating through the walls.
The guards doubled. I noticed it the first morning after.
Men I hadn’t seen before, positioned at intervals I couldn’t map, wearing the same tactical vests and the same flat expressions, but with an energy that was sharper.
More alert. The perimeter patrols that used to pass by my window every thirty minutes now pass every fifteen.
The front gate, which used to open and close, is now permanently shut.
Nobody told me why. Nobody tells me anything in this house. Information moves through walls and closed doors and conversations in Russian that stop when I enter a room.
That was almost a month ago.
The tension hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s calcified, hardened into a permanence, a new baseline that everyone in the house has adjusted to except me.
Angelina smiles the same but moves faster.
Mikhail’s thermostat-warmth has dropped a degree.
Dmitri, who was never friendly, has become a concrete wall, not only silent but sealed.
Rolan has disappeared.
Not the way he disappeared during my first week when he was on a business trip. He’s in the house. I know because I hear him sometimes.
His footsteps in the corridor below. A door opening and closing in the restricted wing.
Mikhail confirmed it casually when I asked with a “Mr. Belov is working from his office this week.” That means he’s been here the entire time.
Sixty feet from my room. Behind the door I’ve never been invited through.
He’s here, and he’s avoiding me. I don’t know if it’s because of the dinner, the kitchen, or a reason I’m not privy to, and not knowing is worse than any answer would be.
Anya is fine. Better than fine, actually. She bounced back from the fever within two days, her body forgetting the illness faster than her mind forgot the nights I spent beside her bed.
We’ve settled into a rhythm now. Mornings are lessons with reading, math, and science wrapped in stories and art. Afternoons are freer: painting, drawing, walking in the garden when the weather allows it.
Today is Sunday, and it’s my day off. I’ve been in this house for almost six weeks without leaving, and the walls are starting to close in.
I text Maren:
Coffee today? Our usual spot? I need civilization and a cappuccino that costs too much.
She responds immediately.
MARE
YES. 11? I have gossip that cannot be delivered via text.
11 works. See you there.
I shower and get dressed. Nothing special, just jeans, a sweater, and boots I haven’t worn since I moved in.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and notice my skin is better. My eyes are clearer, too, and my hair is shinier.
I grab my coat, making sure I have my phone and wallet. The emergency cash is still in the lining. I checked last week. I head downstairs, through the foyer, out the front door, and down the gravel drive toward the gate.
It’s a beautiful morning. Cold but bright. A day where the sun is low and the light is golden. The bare trees look like sculptures. I breathe in, and the air tastes different outside.
The gate is ahead, where two guards are posted instead of one. A new configuration, post-dinner. I approach with what I hope is a casual smile.
“Good morning. I’m heading out for a few hours. Day off.”
The guard on the left — the one I’ve seen before, with the broad face, crew cut — glances at his colleague.
“Miss Calloway,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have authorization to leave the premises.”
The words don’t register immediately.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“You don’t have authorization to leave the premises at this time.”
“There must be a misunderstanding. Today is my day off. I’m meeting a friend.”
“I understand, ma’am, but we have standing orders. No exit without direct authorization from Mr. Belov. ”
I scan the garden. Same trees, same guards with dead eyes, but now it seems that everything has taken on a new shape.
The shape of a cage.
“Since when?” I ask.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details, ma’am. You’re welcome to speak with Mr. Belov directly.”
I stand at the gate.
Entry and exit. Biometrics are required for entry and exit. The guard said that on my first day, and I filed it under things that are probably fine but feel like warnings , and now the warning has grown teeth.
“Thank you,” I say.
And I turn and walk back up the drive with the golden light on my face and a cold weight spreading in my chest.
His office is on the first floor of the east wing behind a door I’ve passed dozens of times without knocking. I’ve never had a reason to knock. I’ve never had a reason to be on the other side of that door, in the room where Rolan Belov is doing whatever Rolan Belov does.
I have a reason now.
I knock, delivering three sharp raps. My knuckles are louder than I intend.
“Come in.”
I open the door.
The office is large, with dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the massive desk I remember from — wait, no, I’ve never been in this room.
I saw a different office during the interview with Mikhail.
This one is his. And it looks like him — controlled, precise, every object placed with intention. Nothing decorative, nothing soft.
And behind the desk, in a shaft of sunlight that comes through the tall windows and falls across him, a spotlight designed by God specifically to ruin my composure, is Rolan Belov.
The daylight is not forgiving. It’s precise and honest, showing me every detail I could have missed.
His jaw is sharper than I thought, cut at an angle that catches the light and creates shadows beneath his cheekbones.
His skin is clear, golden in the sun. The dark hair pushed back from his forehead reveals a scar.
He’s wearing a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and the beginning of his collarbone. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms.
Focus . I’m here because I’m locked in a house.
“Mr. Belov. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
He leans back in his chair. The motion is minimal, an inch, maybe two, but it changes the geometry of his body in a way that draws attention to the width of his shoulders and the way the shirt pulls across his chest.
“Miss Calloway. How so?”
“Today is my day off. I was planning to meet a friend for coffee, but the guards at the gate told me I don’t have authorization to leave.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t have authorization to leave the estate.”
He says it the same way he’d say, The meeting is at three or The weather is cold. Flat and informational. As if the confinement of a human being is a scheduling matter.
“There must be a mistake,” I say. “I wasn’t told about any change in policy. Mikhail didn’t mention?—”
“It’s not a mistake.”
The words sit in the air between us. Clean. Final.
“Mr. Belov, I understand that security is important here. I’ve respected every rule since I arrived — the restricted areas, the curfew, the monitored Wi-Fi. But I need to be able to leave the property on my days off. I need to see my friend. I need?—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You cannot leave the estate. Not today. Not until I determine it’s safe to do so.”
“Can I ask why?”
He holds my gaze. Three seconds. Five. The silence stretches with tension.
“Your actions in this house have consequences, Miss Calloway. The incident at the dinner created a security situation that I’m still managing. Until that situation is resolved, I can’t allow anyone in this household to move freely outside the perimeter. It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”
Where the hell is this coming from? I thought things were fine after our conversation in the hall. Apparently, I was wrong.
“The dinner?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I went downstairs because your daughter had a fever. I couldn’t find medicine, and the call system wasn’t working. I was doing my job.”
“You were told to stay on the upper floor.”
“Your child was burning up.”
“And your decision to disregard instructions has had consequences that extend beyond this house.” His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. The temperature drops on its own. “I don’t expect you to understand the specifics. I expect you to follow the rules of your employment.”
The rules of my employment. The words land with a thud, designed to remind me of my position. Not a resident. Not a guest. An employee. A function. A line item in someone’s operational budget.
“Mr. Belov,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice holds steady, “you can’t keep me locked in a house. That’s not employment. That’s?— ”
“It’s in your contract.”
The sentence stops me cold.
“What?”
“Section four, clause seven. The employer reserves the right to restrict the contractor’s movement to and from the premises when deemed necessary for security purposes.
” He recites it from memory. Without looking at a document.
Without hesitation. “You signed the contract, Miss Calloway. I suggest you read it.”
I stare at him. He looks back at me with those impossible eyes, and there is nothing in them I can argue with. Nothing that acknowledges the fundamental insanity of what he’s telling me.
He’s not angry. He’s not apologetic. He’s not even particularly interested. He’s a man stating terms, and the terms are non-negotiable.
“Is that all?” he asks.
The dismissal is so clean it barely registers as an insult. He’s already turning his attention back to his laptop, his eyes leaving mine with the ease of someone who has concluded a conversation that was never a negotiation.
I leave.