9. Ivan
9
IVAN
T he alarm’s shriek cuts through the stillness like a jagged knife, echoing through the house with a relentless urgency. I rise from my chair, a chill settling over me, a calm rage unfurling beneath my skin.
The sound carries, amplified by the high, arched ceilings and winding hallways, its sharpness bouncing off stone walls and darkened corridors. I make my way toward Cathy’s room, my fury mounting with each step.
The smell of smoke hits me before I reach the door, the faint tendrils drifting under the doorframe, clawing their way into the hall. My fingers clench around the handle, the anticipation of her reckless idiocy fueling the burn in my chest. I twist the key, push the door open, and step inside.
The scene that greets me is one of foolish desperation. Smoke lingers thickly in the air, swirling around a small, stubborn flame dancing over a torn bundle of burning fabric on the floor.
Cathy stands nearby, her face pale yet set in defiance, her eyes flicking between me and the fire with a reckless pride, as if she’s accomplished something. I feel a twisted satisfaction as our eyes meet; her defiance will only make her eventual submission more satisfying.
Without a word, I turn and grab the fire extinguisher from the hall, a heavy, familiar weight in my hands.
I pull the pin, aim at the flames, and squeeze, letting the water coat the fire in thick, suffocating layers until the flames surrender. The smell of charred fabric fills the room, choking out any trace of satisfaction she might have felt.
As the last of the smoke fades, I turn to her, my expression cold, my fury sharp as a blade. Cathy stands there, her clothes soaked from the extinguisher’s spray, but her defiance hasn’t wavered. Instead, she wears a smug, almost triumphant look, a glint of victory flashing in her eyes.
“You think this is a victory?” My voice is low, cold enough to slice through the haze of smoke still hanging in the room.
I take a step toward her, allowing her to see the depth of my anger, the fury that burns just beneath the surface. “Do you realize how foolish this was? You could have burned yourself alive—or worse, destroyed a part of my house.”
She crosses her arms, lifting her chin. “Going to let me go now?”
“No.” I laugh, a dark, humorless sound that fills the room. “You’ve proven nothing, Cathy, except that you’re willing to endanger yourself to play at defiance. It’s reckless. Childish.”
She holds her ground, that smug look never leaving her face. “I’ve called the police,” she says, her voice steady, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “They’ll be here any minute, so you might as well let me go before they arrest you.”
I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, really?” I allow my voice to drop to a mocking tone. “You think the police will rescue you?”
She looks away, her confidence wavering for the first time, but she doesn’t respond. Just then, footsteps echo in the hall, heavy and unhurried.
The door opens, and one of my guards steps aside to admit a uniformed officer. “Derek,” I say. “Good evening.”
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his cap pulled low over a hardened face, his expression unreadable as he surveys the scene, though I see the subtle shift of unease when his gaze falls on me.
“Mr. Morosov,” he says, nodding respectfully. There’s a careful deference in his tone, a subtle acknowledgment of the power dynamic in the room. He doesn’t speak to Cathy, doesn’t even glance her way, his focus solely on me. “A call came through to Central. Thought I’d come in person.”
Switching to Russian, I address him with calm authority. “A minor accident,” I say. “My guest here had a misunderstanding, nothing more. I’d like to keep this private, as I’m sure you understand.”
Derek nods, listening carefully, his posture a blend of professionalism and wariness. “Of course, Mr. Morosov,” he replies in Russian, casting a quick, dismissive glance at Cathy. “I’ll make sure the report reflects your request.”
Cathy’s face drains of color, her smugness replaced by shock as she realizes the depth of my influence. Her lips part slightly, a faint, horrified realization flickering in her eyes as she watches the exchange.
I can almost see her thoughts, the disbelief, the dawning understanding that the rules she’s used to do not apply here, not within my walls.
She tries to find her voice, manages a weak protest. “But—you’re the police! Aren’t you supposed to help?”
He glances at her briefly, almost as though she’s an inconvenience, then turns back to me. “I apologize for the intrusion Mr. Morosov,” he says, his words a clear acknowledgment of his place in this arrangement.
“Good,” I say, nodding in approval. “I trust there will be no further visits this evening.”
He meets my gaze, an unspoken agreement passing between us. “None, Mr. Morosov.” He tips his cap, then turns on his heel, disappearing back into the hall without another glance in Cathy’s direction.
As the door closes behind him, I turn to Cathy, allowing her to absorb the gravity of what just transpired. “You see now?” I say softly, my tone a mockery of gentleness. “No one’s coming to save you. No one can protect you from me. Make as many calls as you like. The result will be the same.”
She swallows, her bravado visibly slipping as she takes a step back, her back hitting the wall. There’s a mixture of anger and fear in her eyes, as if she’s beginning to realize just how thoroughly I control this world she’s stumbled into.
“You’re trapped,” I continue, my voice low and dangerous. “This is your reality now. Resistance will only make it more difficult. Accept that you belong to me now, and you might just survive this.”
For a moment, she stands there, her chest heaving, her fists clenched as though she’s debating whether to fight back. But I see it in her eyes—the crack in her resolve, the flicker of fear that’s finally begun to take root.
She may not accept it yet, but she’s starting to understand that there’s no escape, no world outside of this house that can save her.
And as I watch her, I feel the satisfaction of knowing that, piece by piece, she will surrender.
“The wardrobe,” I tell her. “Your clothes are wet. Change.”
She hesitates, gripping her arms protectively, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. Her defiance returns, but this time, it’s tinged with apprehension. “Why are you doing this?” she asks, crossing her arms.
I raise an eyebrow, holding her gaze. “This isn’t a game. It’s about your survival. Your ex-fiancé is far worse than you know. Staying here will keep you safe as long as you do as you are told.”
I take a slow, deliberate step toward her, watching the defiance and fear clash in her expression. “If you want safety, there’s conditions. You do as you’re told. You marry me. You give me an heir.”
Her face twists in anger, and she lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re no better than Jimmy.”
The accusation cuts, though I keep my face impassive. I take a breath, the memory of Jimmy’s treatment of my sister flaring, adding an edge to my words. “I will never harm you, Cathy. Not physically. But your safety will come on my terms.”
She meets my gaze, bitterness and accusation simmering in her eyes. “And you think that makes you different? You’re just a different kind of jailer, with a different set of bars.”
I don’t respond, letting her anger wash over me. There’s truth in her words, in a way I can’t deny, but I don’t relent. “Protection isn’t free. Now get changed or spend the night soaking wet in the cellar.”
The tension between us hangs thick and unyielding, but I see her resolve beginning to waver, her understanding that resistance here is futile.
She grabs clothes from the wardrobe, her movements rigid, her expression a mix of fury and helplessness. “At least give me some privacy,” she says.
“You have two minutes.” I step back, pulling the door closed.
As I stand in the corridor, Nik comes up to me. “All good?” he asks.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” waving him away.
By the time he’s vanished from sight, Cathy emerges, and my breath stalls. She's wearing a tailored black dress that clings to every curve as if it’s been sculpted directly onto her body.
The fabric glides over her skin, catching the light in a way that highlights the elegance of her collarbone, the delicate curve of her neck.
Her shoulders are bare, smooth and inviting, and I find myself wanting to trace the line where her skin meets the fabric. I knew when I ordered the clothes how good they might look on her but the reality takes my breath away.
My gaze trails down, lingering on her chest. The dress dips low, revealing more than enough of her breasts to be distracting, the cleavage soft and inviting, framed perfectly by the cut of the fabric.
It’s the kind of dress designed to draw every eye in the room, to leave anyone who looks at her captivated, almost helpless. And yet, despite how incredible she looks, I can tell she’s uncomfortable, shifting slightly as if trying to find a way to cover herself.
I don’t know why, but that tiny flicker of vulnerability—the way her fingers fidget against the sides of her dress, the way she glances down as if to check that nothing’s showing that shouldn’t be—somehow makes me want her even more.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women, dressed in much less, but none have ever had this effect on me. There’s a fire in her, a strength, but she tempers it with that softness she doesn’t even know she has.
The dress skims her waist, perfectly highlighting the curve of her hips. Her legs, long and toned, extend from the short hemline, smooth and inviting, each step revealing just a hint more of her thighs.
She’s a contradiction—vulnerable yet strong, demure yet sensual—and I feel something inside me shift, something beyond the usual pull of attraction.
I realize it’s because she’s not just beautiful; she’s mine. And not in the way I’ve ever thought about anyone before. It’s more than possession, more than lust.
She’s the only woman who’s ever made me feel like there could be something more. Something deeper than I’ve ever let myself admit I wanted. And for the first time, it’s not just a woman’s body I crave—it’s her, entirely, exactly as she is.
“Couldn’t have had sweatpants in there for me?” she asks, tugging at the dress.
“Let me show you something,” I reply, gesturing toward the hallway, enjoying her unwilling compliance.
I stop in front of a door and push it open, revealing another lavish bedroom bathed in warm, golden light. The room is furnished with an ornate bed, carved and polished to a gleam, its linens rich and soft.
A crystal chandelier casts a faint glow, refracted across the intricately patterned wallpaper. On one side, a large, well-equipped desk sits near the window, complete with a computer, sleek and modern against the vintage décor. On the wall are two large whiteboards filled with notes.
“What’s that?” she asks, running over to the desk.
“An Osiria Rose, known for its striking color combination. Blood-red on the inside but pure silvery-white on the outside. A lot like you.”
“Not the flowers, this.” She waves her hands at the whiteboards “My notes.” She turns to face me. “How?”
“Recreated by my people from surveillance photos. Jimmy wiped yours clean but wiping out my power over you will be far harder.
“This will be your office. You can work on your manuscript in here or the library. As long as you behave.” I turn my voice darker. “Misbehave and you’ll find the cellar becomes your permanent home. Your choice.”
She steps inside, glancing around with wary eyes. I watch as she ignores the fine linens, the ornate furniture, the luxuries she’s been offered as part of her confinement.
It’s clear the splendor doesn’t impress her. The whiteboards on the other hand, she looks like she could fall in love with them. She turns to face me and she looks on the verge of tears. “I thought I’d lost it all.”
I gesture to the computer. “You’ll have access to writing software and all your backed up files in the cloud. You can also use this computer to purchase anything you want. No limits.” I let my words hang in the air, waiting for her reaction.
She turns to me, her expression one of defiance, her mouth pressing into a tight line. “Bribery. That’s all this is,” she says, her tone scornful. “Trying to buy my compliance with luxuries.”
“Call it what you like,” I reply coolly. “The sooner you understand the realities of your new life, the easier it will be.” I step closer, looking down at her. “I have no limits on what I’m willing to provide for you. But remember, in the end, whether you fight me or not, you’re mine.”
I step back, pulling the door closed behind me. There’s a quiet finality to the sound, a subtle reminder that she’s under my control now, no matter how long it takes for her to accept it.
I pull out my cellphone and dial Amanda Grant as I walk away. She answers on the first ring, her tone sharp and efficient, as always. “Mr. Morosov? I trust your new employee meets your satisfaction.”
“Amanda,” I say, a faint smile curving my lips. “Good work today.”
“A pleasure as always,” she replies, the satisfaction evident in her voice.
“Yes,” I say, my tone colder, deliberate. “I need you to arrange a wedding for me.”
“That’s a tall order. How long do I have?”
“Forty-eight hours.”