30. DARIA
Chapter thirty
I pushed the empty plate aside, the last bite of buttered blini and caviar sitting heavy in my stomach. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but Svetlana had insisted I eat every bite. I just wanted to get this day over with.
The food wasn’t for me—it was for them, the ones watching on the cameras. They had to see me as obedient, willing, docile.
I wiped my mouth with a linen napkin and set it beside the dish just as Svetlana swept into the room, flanked by a team of women carrying makeup and hair cases.
“Time to make you beautiful,” she announced.
The beauty brigade approached, their heels clicking against the wood floor as they surrounded me. I was nothing more than a doll to them, a thing to be polished and adorned.
I followed their orders as their hands scrubbed every inch of my skin, washing away any last remnants of imperfection. They applied exfoliants, scented oils, and body butters. My skin was slathered and buffed until it gleamed. My legs and arms were waxed despite the fact that I’d barely had any hair to begin with. My nails were trimmed, shaped, and painted a pale pink. They were now demure, delicate, a mockery of the blood they had once been stained with.
The hairstylist circled me, running her hands through my short blonde hair, clicking her tongue in disapproval.
“There’s not much I can do with this,” she muttered, tugging at it.
I arched a brow at her through the mirror. “I did consider shaving it all off.”
She gasped, her hands flying to her chest like I had suggested setting myself on fire.
Svetlana snorted behind me.
“Absolutely not,” the stylist huffed. “That would be a tragedy.”
“Would it?” I mused, tilting my head. “I think it’d be quite freeing.”
She muttered something under her breath before grabbing a comb and getting to work.
In the end, she decided to add a little volume and curl the hair to frame my face, giving the illusion that effort had been made where little could be done.
The makeup artist stepped up next, airbrushing away every last sign of fatigue and stress. She even managed to cover up the lingering bruises marring my skin. Foundation blurred the imperfections, concealer erased the shadows, and contours sharpened my cheekbones to a deadly elegance.
By the time she was done, I didn’t look like a woman who had been starved, beaten, and tortured.
I looked expensive. I looked owned.
Svetlana nodded in approval. “Good. You ladies have done a fine job. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
She waved the women away, urging them to collect their things. They packed up their kits, chatting amongst themselves as if I wasn’t sitting there.
Once they were gone, Svetlana shut the door and exhaled a long breath, the tightness in her shoulders momentarily easing.
“Let’s get you into your dress.”
She reached for the gown but paused, glancing at her watch with a theatrical sigh.
“Where is that damn prikazchik?” she grumbled loudly enough for those monitoring the cameras to catch.
She fussed with the gown, shaking her head. “If he doesn’t hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
I understood immediately. She was forcing their hand so that he would come before I was dressed. That way, there would be no risk of him finding what lay inside the fabric of the gown.
The prikazchik was, in fact, quite late. He probably enjoyed the power he had, making me wait. But he wouldn’t dare make Malinov wait. And Svetlana shouting about it had just ensured my father would hear about his delay and send him straight here.
Sure enough, within minutes, the door slammed open, and the old, sour man strode in, his beady eyes already crawling over me like insects.
“Robe off,” he barked.
Svetlana hovered nearby with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.
I stood and untied the belt, letting the robe slide from my shoulders, the silk pooling at my feet.
He walked a slow circle around me.
Inspecting. Assessing. Reducing me to flesh and obedience.
His gnarled fingers prodded my ribs, tracing the fading bruises. I clenched my teeth.
“Still too thin,” he muttered. “But at least the bruises are fading.”
He pinched my arm before turning to Svetlana. “You should have fed her more.”
Svetlana narrowed her eyes. “You told me she needed to heal, and she has. I can’t make her gain weight overnight.”
He sniffed. “Fine. You had better get going, or you’ll be late.”
“Perhaps if you had arrived on time, we wouldn’t be wasting precious minutes discussing it,” Svetlana snapped, gesturing toward the clock.
He stiffened, glaring at her. But she was right. He was the one delaying me now.
Not bothering to respond to her, he huffed and turned back to me. His gaze swept over me one last time before he jerked his chin toward Svetlana.
“Dress her,” he ordered. Then he stormed out.
The moment the door shut behind him, Svetlana muttered a curse under her breath. “Vile bastard,” she hissed, snatching up the dress.
I stepped into it, and she quickly zipped it up.
Her fingers grazed my collarbone as she adjusted the pearls resting against my skin.
In the quietest whisper, barely more than a breath, she murmured, “Beautiful. Your mother would be so proud of you—for standing against the Devil. Against all of them.”
My breath hitched.
I met Svetlana’s gaze in the mirror, my pulse hammering in my throat.
She knew.
She knew I hadn’t just betrayed my father—I had betrayed the Kremlin.
And still, she had helped me.
She was risking everything.
I swallowed hard, lowering my voice to the same hushed murmur as I said, “You must be careful. No one can ever find out what you’ve done for me.”
Svetlana’s expression remained calm, but her hands trembled ever so slightly as she squeezed my shoulders.
“I know,” she whispered. “But some things are worth the risk.”
I turned fully toward her then, my chest tightening. “Thank you.”
Two simple words. Not nearly enough for what she had done.
“Stay here. I must change. I’ll be right back,” she said, scurrying out the door.
Stepping to the dresser, I added the finishing touch—my mother’s pearl necklace. For some time, I stood in front of the mirror, gazing at the woman staring back at me.
She didn’t look like a prisoner or a beaten whore anymore.
The bruises had faded into muted shadows and were barely visible beneath the gown’s delicate fabric and my makeup. The teal fabric clung to my frame, accentuating the sharp angles of my shoulders, the long lines of my legs, and the quiet power in my stance.
I had to admit it; I looked like a runway model. Regal. Controlled. Untouchable.
The cameras were watching—as always—so I let them see what they wanted.
A woman transformed. A woman resigned to her fate.
Inside, I was buzzing, completely ready for the fight ahead.
I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress, feeling the hidden weight of the secrets stitched into the fabric. The passport. The money. The blade nestled within the bodice. I moved to the closest and stealthily strapped the combat knife to my upper thigh. Now everything I needed to escape, to disappear, to take back my life, was on me.
Svetlana knocked once before stepping back inside, her formal black-and-white servant’s dress crisp and pristine. Her posture was rigid, her expression schooled into one of quiet obedience.
“The car is ready,” she said calmly.
I turned, raising my chin high, donning an unreadable expression.
And then I stepped out of my bedroom.
The hallway stretched before me, mostly unchanged since I’d laid eyes on it years ago. I hadn’t seen this part of my father’s house because I had been carried through it unconscious and locked in that gilded prison while I healed.
The air smelled the same—a mix of my father’s cologne, aged wood, and the faintest hint of cigars. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, their light spilling across walls adorned with gold-framed oil paintings and making the marble floors gleam.
It was a house built on power. On wealth. On blood.
I walked past portraits of my ancestors, their cold eyes following me down the corridor. My heels barely made a sound on the polished floor. I felt like I was walking through a graveyard of memories.
For a second, I was six again, sitting on the floor with my mother as we played with the latest stray puppy she’d brought home. Its tiny body trembled in my hands, all ribs and oversized paws, too weak to do much of anything. My mother had always found the truly helpless ones, the lost and forgotten creatures no one else wanted. She’d said it was our duty to care for them because, if we didn’t, who would?
I had believed that. Once .
The memory twisted, turning on itself like a knife in my ribs.
I had done the same, hadn’t I? I’d seen Braxton as a stray dog—lost, needing help. The irony curdled in my stomach. I had pitied him. I had saved him. And all the while, he had been lying to me.
Not once had he mentioned Nikolai Volkov.
Not once had he let it slip that he had connections to the Volkovi Notchi—the same ruthless mafia syndicate that had been at war with my father for decades, the same syndicate that ran drug and sex trafficking rings, that burned entire families alive, that had left bodies rotting in the streets of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and New York.
And Braxton was close to them.
Close enough that Nikolai Volkov had been willing to negotiate his release with the Kremlin in exchange for me.
A bitter taste filled my mouth.
My father’s men had tortured me, strapped me down, and shocked me until my screams became something less than human. And Braxton? The man I had trusted—his betrayal had cut me even deeper.
He hadn’t told me who he truly was, what he truly meant to those people.
I had once thought him helpless.
I had been so fucking wrong.
Braxton wasn’t a stray. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I continued down the hallway.
At the landing, the wide formal staircase stretched before me, curving down into the grand entrance hall. The mahogany railing gleamed beneath my fingertips, worn smooth by generations of hands—mine included, once upon a time.
I descended slowly, with Svetlana following close behind.
At the base of the stairs, a household staff member in a dark suit stood waiting, his expression unreadable. He stepped forward and reached for the door.
The moment he opened it, I immediately noticed the upgrade.
A state-of-the-art security system. A sleek, modern panel embedded discreetly beside the heavy oak door. Keypad. Retinal scanner. Reinforced locks.
My father always did love his cages.
I forced my features into a mask of indifference and stepped past the man, into the evening air.
A sleek black limousine purred in the driveway, its tinted windows reflecting the towering estate behind me.
The sun hung low on the horizon, casting the world in gold and shadow. A warm breeze stirred the hem of my dress, whispering against the cobblestones as I approached the waiting car.
The driver opened the door, his face emotionless.
I slid inside, keeping my body poised while my mind whirred with the various escape plans I’d already gone over a million times.
Svetlana followed, settling into the seat across from me. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, her posture flawless and controlled.
The door shut, the locks automatically clicking into place.
Then the car eased forward, gliding toward the estate’s iron gates. They creaked open, inch by inch, before finally releasing us into the city beyond.
As the mansion faded into the distance, one thought burned through me like fire.
I would not let them own me, and I would not fail.