Chapter 5 Nadya
NADYA
The room they give me is bigger than the entire apartment I shared with my kids.
The walls are a soft shade of cream, the ceiling tall and detailed with crown molding so intricate it looks like it belongs in a palace. A massive king-size bed sits at the center, dressed in layers of thick, expensive-looking bedding that probably cost more than three months of my rent back home.
There’s a sitting area near the window, two high-backed chairs angled toward a marble fireplace that isn’t lit, and a huge armoire standing against the far wall like something pulled straight out of an old European estate.
Everything smells faintly of clean linen and new wood polish. Nothing feels lived-in. It’s all too perfect, too controlled.
I set my bag down on the small settee near the bed and sit there for a long time, my hands limp in my lap. I’m not used to this kind of luxury. I don’t belong here, surrounded by things that could buy my freedom ten times over if sold off piece by piece.
I keep telling myself that I’m fine, that this is just a place, just another gilded cage, and I’ll figure out how to survive it like I always do. But the opulence unsettles me. It’s too much. Too soft. I don’t belong here, and every inch of the room makes sure I remember it.
I try to sleep. I really do.
But every time I close my eyes, my mind spins, looping back to the same two things—the faces of my children…and the feel of Konstantin’s mouth on mine.
It keeps replaying in vivid, unwanted detail—the brutal heat of Konstantin’s mouth on mine, the way his hands framed my face, steady and sure, the hard pressure of his body against mine as if he was daring me to push him away.
I should hate him for it. I should hate myself for letting it happen.
Instead, my skin still feels hypersensitive, my lips bruised, my heart pounding every time I so much as blink and the memory rushes back.
I don’t understand it.
I don’t want to understand it.
With a sigh, I dig out my phone from the bottom of my purse, turning it on low brightness so the room stays mostly dark. I pull up my photos first, because it’s easier to look at them than to think about everything else.
There they are. My whole world.
Nikolai with his wild dark hair and serious brown eyes that always seem too old for his tiny face.
Mila with her messy curls and the gap-toothed grin she flashes whenever she knows she’s about to get away with something.
They’re only five years old but already smarter, braver, more stubborn than most adults I know.
I flip through picture after picture—Nikolai wearing his dinosaur pajamas, Mila painting his face with glittery makeup, both of them collapsed on the couch after a long day, arms tangled together in sleep.
I can feel the ache behind my ribs start to build, thick and heavy.
They need me. They need the money I can send from this deal. They need the medicine. The doctors. The future I promised them.
I swipe to another photo—Nikolai and Mira’s birthday party last month—and my thumb stills over the screen.
I’m doing this for them.
But when I finally put the phone down and sink back into the pillows, sleep still doesn’t come. Because even with everything on the line, even with the constant guilt gnawing at me, I can’t stop thinking about the way Konstantin kissed me.
I turn onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut.
But it’s no good. I can still feel the press of his lips on mine, the heat of his hand at the back of my neck, the way my pulse jumped under his thumb like it belonged to him.
And worst of all? I can’t decide if I hate him for it—or hate myself more for wanting it to happen again.
I twist under the covers, punching the pillow into a different shape for the fifth time, but it doesn’t matter.
Sleep isn’t coming. It’s not just the unfamiliar room or the quiet humming of the house around me.
It’s him. It’s the kiss. It’s everything about tonight dragging up memories I’ve spent years trying to bury.
I close my eyes, and despite myself, the past drags me under…
It was six years ago. Barcelona.
I was waitressing at a small restaurant tucked in the side streets of the Gothic Quarter, the kind of place tourists stumble into and locals know to avoid. The air was thick with the smell of garlic and grilled meat, and the fans overhead did little to chase away the heat.
He walked in like he didn’t belong there—because he didn’t. Tall, dangerous-looking even in a black T-shirt and worn jeans. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He carried authority without speaking a word.
I noticed him the second he crossed the threshold, and when our eyes met across the room, it was like being punched in the chest.
He sat at a back table, away from the windows, one arm slung casually over the chair, eyes following me every time I moved. I tried not to look. I told myself not to care. But every time I dared glance his way, he was already watching me, steady and unblinking.
When I finally came to take his order, my hand wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be. I tried to look bored, disinterested. It didn’t work.
“What’s your name?” he asked, voice low, calm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to ask a stranger for something that personal.
“Nadya,” I said, hearing my own voice sound breathless and hating it.
He smiled then—just barely, a slow curve of his lips that made my knees lock to keep from stepping closer.
“Mikhail,” he lied, offering a name that rolled off his tongue easily. He didn’t offer a last name. Didn’t need to.
For a second, neither of us moved.
The tension was so thick, I swear the tiny restaurant faded away, leaving just the two of us, the space between us crackling with heat that had no business being there…
Now, I open my eyes again, blinking up at the ceiling.
He gave me a fake name. He never even trusted me with the real one.
I roll onto my side, facing the window where the sky is just starting to pale. I sit up in bed as the first light of dawn creeps into the room, casting long shadows across the thick carpet and gleaming off the edges of the furniture.
Sleep never came. Not even for a minute.
The terms of the contract keep running through my head.
One year. That’s what I agreed to.
One year of service—though no one defined exactly what service meant.
The language was vague on purpose, crafted by men who don’t want restrictions placed on them.
Technically, the man who buys the contract can do anything he wants—keep the woman as a mistress, parade her as a trophy, use her however he sees fit.
This isn’t a world where women are treated kindly once they’re bought. Here, women are currency. Weapons. Trophies. And once they lose their value, no one blinks when they disappear. Alive, broken, dead—it doesn’t make much difference to men like the ones who were at that auction.
The so-called contract is a joke. A paper shield against men who crush bones for amusement. There’s no guarantee I’ll survive the year, no promise of safety. Only the thin, brutal reality that I belong to a man who paid more than anyone else in the room—and he can do whatever he wants.
I glance at the door, imagining the men still celebrating their trades, drinking and laughing while the women they bought are parceled out like spoils of war.
Konstantin may not have touched me last night, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s still part of this world. He bought me like livestock. He’s no better than the rest. Maybe he hides it better, but he’s still the same at the core.
He’s a bad man.
I don’t care if he didn’t leer at me. I don’t care that he stopped my father from humiliating me further. He bought me. That’s all I need to know.
The worst part is, I know Konstantin didn’t spend fifteen million dollars just to have a concubine tucked away in one of his rooms like some spoiled pet.
He paid too high a price. Too much money. Too much attention. He could have had any woman he wanted for a fraction of the cost.
So what does he want from me?
I hug my knees to my chest, staring at the doorway like I expect answers to come through it. The thought slithers through me, cold and unwanted. Maybe he plans to use you against your father. Maybe he has some score to settle that has nothing to do with you at all.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, but another thought creeps in—darker, more desperate.
Maybe you’ll have to find a way out.
My gut twists at the idea. I’m not stupid. I know what Konstantin is capable of. He didn’t get where he is by being soft. If I defy him too openly, he’ll crush me like a bug under his boot.
Still, the idea takes root.
Defy him. Find a weakness. Escape. Kill him if you have to.
The thought shocks me.
It’s too brutal, and it’s not who I am. Not who I ever wanted to be.
But for Nikolai and Mila? For my kids? There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do.
I shove the thought away when a soft knock sounds at the door.
Before I can answer, it opens and a maid steps in—a small woman in a simple black uniform, her brown hair tied back neatly.
“Good morning,” she says quietly, keeping her eyes respectfully low. “Mr. Buryakov asks that you come downstairs. Breakfast has been prepared.”
I wipe a hand across my face, forcing myself to stand, smoothing the wrinkles out of my jeans as best I can.
My reflection in the mirror catches my eye—my hair tangled from tossing and turning, my mouth set in a hard line. I look like someone I barely recognize.
After the maid leaves, I go into the bathroom attached to the room. The counters are marble, the towels thick and new, the fixtures polished so clean I can see my reflection in them. I brush my teeth quickly, rinsing my mouth and splashing cold water on my face.
There’s a wardrobe full of clothes hanging for me, probably picked out by some personal assistant Konstantin keeps on payroll. I don’t touch any of it. I’m not playing dress-up in whatever silk costume he thinks fits the part.