Chapter 1 #2
Now it was quiet. Too quiet. My footsteps carried down the long hallway toward his study, each one a reminder that this place didn’t belong to me, not even a little.
Behind the heavy oak doors, I heard him. Speaking Russian in that clipped, sharp tone he reserved for threats disguised as business. Then came the harsh clatter of a phone slammed into its cradle. Even through the thick walls, I could feel the tension radiating outward like a seismic wave.
I hesitated, fingers curling slightly at my sides. It wasn’t fear, not exactly, but I knew the way his mind worked when stirred. He wasn’t violent, just precise. Calculating. And when he felt cornered, his grip only tightened.
The creak of his chair. The unmistakable cadence of approaching footsteps. I nearly turned back toward the stairs, but the door swung open with theatrical timing.
“Solnishko.”
Little sun.
The word landed between us like a relic from a life that didn’t quite exist anymore. I smoothed my expression, resisting the eye roll that twitched behind my lashes.
“Father,” I said evenly. “Is everything alright?”
He leaned down and kissed the crown of my head with practiced affection. A gesture for cameras if any had been watching. His cologne, oud and black pepper, lingered long after he stepped away.
“Of course. Never better,” he said briskly. “Get settled. Be ready by seven.”
I blinked. “For what?”
His eyes barely flicked to mine. “The Barnes Foundation.”
My heart kicked against my ribs.
Of course. The Barnes. A temple of Impressionism, post-Impressionism, and modern masters. Its collection rivaled those of entire countries. Renoir, Cézanne, Matisse, Picasso. All meticulously arranged in an order that defied museum logic while somehow adhering to aesthetic harmony.
This wasn’t just a gallery visit. This was a performance.
He was already striding down the corridor by the time I found my voice. “You could have told me.”
He raised a hand without turning back. “See you at dinner, sweetheart.”
And then he was gone, trailed by a pair of men in tailored suits and earpieces.
I stood there for a moment, my spine straight, my breath too shallow. The hall was silent again, as if he hadn’t been there at all.
When I checked my phone, it was just after four. Three hours. Enough time for a light meal, another drink, maybe two, and a bath so indulgent it bordered on revenge.
Because if I was going to be paraded around tonight like a feather in his cap, I’d make damn sure I looked the part of a woman he couldn’t control.
It took longer than it should have to find the kitchen.
The house was a maze of curated opulence, clean lines, antique chandeliers, and hallways that felt more like museum corridors than anything resembling home.
When I finally reached the kitchen, warm light spilled through tall windows and glinted off trays of carefully plated canapés, as if the house had been expecting royalty.
A woman stood near the stove, humming softly. Her smile bloomed the moment she saw me.
“Oh! Dear me, you must be Miss Polina.” She wiped her hands on a cloth and extended one. “I’m Mrs. Flannigan, but call me Molly, please. Your father said you’d be arriving soon.”
Her grip was firm and warm, her accent lilting, the kind of comforting presence that would’ve made more sense if I hadn’t been so on edge. She was young, late thirties, maybe, and striking in a quiet, natural way. Too attractive to be accidental.
I offered a polite smile. “Lovely to meet you, Molly. Are these... for me?”
“They are, darling. Tatyana sent a list of your favorites.” Her pride sparkled brighter than her earrings. “I do hope I got them right.”
“They look beautiful.” I selected a few open-faced sandwiches with smoked salmon with dill, slices of roasted zucchini layered with kielbasa and creamy garlic cheese, then added a bowl of beet salad, more out of nostalgia than hunger. “Thank you. I’ll take these upstairs.”
Molly beamed as if I’d handed her a prize.
Vlad and Dimitri were stationed like statues near the staircase. “There’s food in the kitchen,” I said without looking at them. “I’ll be in my room until seven.”
I caught Dimitri’s voice drifting behind me as I climbed. He was saying something in Russian, and I didn’t need to turn around to know he was already half-charmed by the cook. I almost smiled.
Almost.
My suite was... unsettling.
Deep red drapes, gold-accented furniture, and that unmistakable scent of roses and cedar, just like my room back home. Down to the same layout. Even the vanity was identical. I walked to the walk-in closet and slid the mirrored door open.
My breath caught.
Row after row of dresses, blouses, heels, handbags, everything tailored, color-coded, and impossibly familiar. A wardrobe fit for a woman who had no intention of ever leaving.
Except I hadn’t sent anything ahead. I hadn’t packed more than a suitcase. Which still sat unopened on the dressing bench.
My appetite vanished.
Storming downstairs, I found all three of them, Vlad, Dimitri, and Molly, chatting as if they were old friends in a country kitchen instead of accomplices in my gilded imprisonment. The moment I entered, conversation ceased.
“Would someone care to explain why my closet is stocked like I’m moving in?”
Dimitri and Vlad exchanged one of those loaded glances that made me want to slap them both.
Vlad cleared his throat. “Your father said you might be here for... a while.”
The burn of betrayal swept through me like acid.
I didn’t wait for further explanation. I turned, strode down the hall, found the bar, and poured a glass of vodka so full it bordered on criminal. Then I carried it back to my room like a talisman.
Sitting by the window, untouched food beside me, I dialed the number I’d memorized before I could read.
He answered on the first ring.
“Polina, darling. Everything alright at home?”
“Home?” I repeated, ice in my voice. “This isn’t my home, and you know it. But since you’ve already redecorated my prison cell, maybe you’d care to explain the wardrobe? I’m assuming I didn’t suddenly inherit a double life.”
There was a pause, one long enough to make my skin prickle.
“I’ve become aware of your recent... excursions,” he said smoothly, voice dipped in false concern. “Let’s just say it’s time for a course correction Solnishko. What would people think if they discovered my little sun frequents certain risqué... clubs?”
My stomach dropped. Cold. Hollow.
He knew.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,“ I said, fighting to keep my voice even. “I’m an adult, and I don’t need your permission to live my life. And in case you’ve forgotten, I had interviews scheduled this week—actual progress, genuine opportunities.”
A sound, soft and metallic, echoed through the room.
The lock.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor. I rushed to the door, turned the handle and found it unmoving.
Locked. From the outside.
“Are you insane?” I hissed into the phone. “You can’t do this. I’m not sixteen!”
“You’re right,” he said calmly. “You’re twenty-four. Old enough to understand that actions have consequences. You’ll stay there until I’m satisfied this... phase has passed. Be ready at seven.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone. Then at the door. Then down at my hand, still gripping the drink like it might anchor me to something solid.
My shoes flew across the room first in an explosion of fury that clattered against the closet door. I wanted to scream, to shatter glass, to break something beautiful just because he’d chosen it.
Instead, I stripped. Stepped into the marble bathroom. Turned on the taps until the tub filled with silken bubbles and steam curled around me like a shield.
I slid into the water, vodka in hand, and stared at my own reflection in the gilded mirror above the sink. Desperation hovered behind my eyes.
I let it burn. Then let it go.
What he didn’t understand, what he never had, was that I would always find a way. Even if it was only for one night, I would take back something. My choice. My time. My power.
And I’d start with tonight.