Chapter Seven - Clara
I lose track of time within days. The lights in this room never match the sun outside. The curtains are heavy, always drawn. I try to push them aside on the second morning—at least, I think it’s morning—but the rods don’t budge.
The only light I have comes from a row of warm bulbs set into the ceiling, too soft to mark the hour, too steady to give me any sense of the world beyond these walls.
I try to keep myself busy. I wake and shower, pick through the clothes someone left neatly folded on the dresser—expensive, impersonal, none of it mine. I eat when food is delivered, though I stop counting meals after three or four. Hunger fades and comes back in waves.
Every so often, I find a new book left on the table. They’re well chosen, as if someone went out of their way to make sure I’d have something to do. Classics. Modern thrillers. Collections of poetry.
I tear through them too quickly at first, devouring words to fill the silence, but soon even the comfort of turning pages begins to blur into routine.
It’s the isolation that gets to me. No phone, no laptop, no news. No way to reach anyone or to prove to myself that the world outside these walls still exists.
Even when the housemaid arrives—always the same woman, silent and quick, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid—I can’t get her to speak to me. I try English, Spanish, even the few words of Russian I remember from college.
She ignores me with professional precision, gliding through the room as if I’m invisible. She dusts the bookshelves, folds the spare blanket, empties the trash, then leaves as quickly as she came, her gaze never meeting mine.
The first time, I yell after her, desperate for any acknowledgment, but she doesn’t even flinch. The second time, I don’t bother.
I pace the floor every morning, examining every inch of the room, looking for a way out.
The windows are double-paned, reinforced, sealed shut.
The balcony doors are heavy, locked with bolts too thick to tamper with.
Even the doorknob is gone from the inside—only a blank plate of polished metal.
I try anyway. I press my shoulder to the door, test the hinges, run my fingers over every groove and seam.
Nothing gives.
At night, I lie awake and listen. Sometimes I hear footsteps outside, heavy and deliberate, passing my door at regular intervals.
Sometimes they stop, as if whoever is out there is listening for me to make a sound.
Sometimes I swear I hear breathing, quiet and close, blending into the low hum of the camera in the ceiling corner.
I start talking to the camera just to keep from going mad. Sometimes I whisper my name. Sometimes I recite facts I can still remember from my research. Sometimes I ask questions, half hoping someone on the other end will slip up and answer.
On the fourth—or maybe the fifth—day, the lock clicks open in the late afternoon. The door swings wide and Lukyan steps in. He fills the room with calm menace, dressed in black again, sharp lines and cold eyes.
I stand by the window, arms folded tight. My voice is steadier than I feel.
“How long are you going to keep me like this?” I ask. “Am I supposed to thank you for the books and the wardrobe? Is this some kind of twisted hospitality?”
He watches me for a moment, eyes unreadable. “You’re safer here.”
“Safer from what? You?”
His jaw clenches. He takes a few steps closer, stopping just short of the table. “Safer from people who’d do worse.”
“I’m not na?ve,” I say, hating the brittle sound in my own voice. “You talk about threats, about danger—like you’re not the one holding me captive. I was attacked, yes. I was followed. You’re the reason I’m locked in this room.”
For the first time, something sharp flickers in his eyes. A flash of anger. Or maybe it’s something else, a wound I can’t see but can sense.
“You think I enjoy this?” His voice cuts through the air, low and rough. “You think this is what I wanted?”
I stare at him, defiant and exhausted. “Does it matter what you wanted? I have no choices left. I have no voice. You made sure of that.”
He looks away, shoulders tense. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so human it almost startles me. I think for a second he might say something—something honest, something that would explain any of this—but instead, he shakes his head once, sharply.
He walks to the door and pauses with his back to me.
“I’m sorry you can’t understand,” he says quietly, so quiet I almost miss it.
I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to hold his gaze.
“Then help me. Explain it to me. You keep saying I’m in danger, that there are worse people than you out there—fine.
Maybe I believe you. What about you, Lukyan?
What am I supposed to think about the man who dragged me out of my life and locked me in this room? ”
He turns, the lines of his jaw tense, frustration darkening his expression. “You think I haven’t considered what this looks like? That I don’t know how it feels?”
I stand my ground, anger pushing past my fear. “I don’t care how it feels for you. I care about what happens to me.”
He looks at me, searching my face as if he expects me to flinch or fold. I don’t. I’m too tired for that now.
“I haven’t hurt you,” he says, his voice clipped. “I could have. I could have let those men take you. I could have sent you away. I haven’t.”
“No, you haven’t, but you’ve made sure I have nothing. No phone. No freedom. No way to tell anyone I’m alive. You say it’s for my safety, but you never once ask what I want.”
He shakes his head, a bitter half smile curving his lips. “If I let you go, they’ll find you again. If you run, you’ll lead them straight back to me—or you’ll end up in a place I can’t protect you from.”
“Then why not trust me? Why not let me decide?” My voice cracks, raw from days of shouting and silence. “You want answers from me. You want me to trust you. How can I do that when all you show me is another locked door?”
He steps closer, his eyes locked on mine. For a moment, I see something flicker there—regret, maybe, or longing for something he’s already given up.
“I never wanted to involve you in this,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you hurt.”
I shake my head. “That’s not your choice to make.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer, the air between us heavy with everything neither of us can say. At last, he drops his eyes, turning away.
“I’ll send someone with dinner,” he says. “If you need anything else, ask.”
I laugh, a harsh, exhausted sound. “Will they answer, or will they pretend I’m invisible too?”
He pauses at the doorway, hand tightening on the frame. “You’re not invisible. Not to me.”
Then he leaves, closing the door with quiet finality. The lock slides into place.
His words hang in the air, as sharp and strange as the first day I arrived.
***
I hardly sleep that night. I replay every word from our conversation, staring at the ceiling, the memory of his voice circling through my mind.
I hate how those words dig beneath my skin, how a part of me clings to the idea that he might mean it.
Sometime before dawn, I drift into uneasy sleep. My dream is a blur of city lights and cold rain. I’m running—no, I’m being chased. Shadows flicker at the edge of my vision, faces I almost recognize.
There’s the alley, sharp with the smell of oil and fear, and I see Lukyan in the distance, his silhouette cut from darkness. Gunfire cracks through the dream. I feel the weight of his coat thrown around my shoulders, the fabric heavy with his scent—smoke and something warm, unfamiliar.
He pulls me close, his arm a barrier against the world, but when I look up, his face shifts between comfort and threat. One moment he’s saving me, the next he’s the one dragging me away.
“Clara,” he says, his voice both gentle and commanding.
I wake with his name on my lips, whispered into the dark. Sweat clings to my neck. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes until the room comes into focus. The door is still closed, the curtains still drawn, but sunlight filters in from around the edges, pale and uncertain.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My hands tremble, still caught between the terror of being chased and the strange security I felt in his arms. I press my palms to my face, willing the memory away. It lingers anyway.
By the time I shower and dress, the tray of breakfast has already appeared. I ignore it at first, scanning the room for anything out of place. My gaze snags on the nightstand.
A small silver key sits there, catching the early light. I stare at it, heart pounding. No note. No explanation. I pick it up carefully, turning it over in my hand. It’s old, but well kept, cool and solid against my skin.
“Alright,” I murmur. “Let’s see what secrets you’re supposed to unlock.”
I cross the room and try the key in the door. It doesn’t fit. Not even close. For a moment, disappointment sweeps through me, but I force myself to think. If not the door, then what?
I scan the rest of the room and spot the desk against the wall. It’s a beautiful piece: old, heavy, the kind that looks like it was built to outlast generations. I kneel and try the key in the drawer. This time, it slides in smoothly. The lock clicks open with a soft snap.
Inside, resting alone on a strip of velvet, is a phone. Not a sleek new model, but an old flip phone, screen flickering weakly. My breath catches as I reach for it, half expecting it to vanish like a trick of the light.
I press the power button. The screen glows dimly, then stabilizes. One bar of battery. The only thing on the home screen is a call icon.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I run my thumb over the keypad, the weight of decision settling heavy on my chest. I should call my mother. I should call Eden. I should call the police, scream for help, tell them where I am.
Instead, I sit back on my heels and stare at the phone. My mind races through a dozen possibilities.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I punch in Eden’s number. The phone rings twice before she answers.
“Hello?” Her voice is tentative, wary of unknown numbers.
“Eden, it’s me.”
There’s a long pause. “Clara? Oh my God, Clara, where are you? Are you alright? Are you—?”
“I’m okay. I can’t say where I am. I just—listen, I’m safe for now. Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Don’t come looking for me. Just tell my parents I’m alright. Tell them not to worry.”
There’s rustling on the other end, a shaky exhale. “Are you sure you’re safe? Did someone take you? Clara, please—”
“I’m safe,” I repeat, the words tasting strange. “Just… don’t get involved. I’ll call again if I can.”
The line crackles, Eden’s breath unsteady. “Is someone hurting you?”
A lump forms in my throat. “No. Not yet. Just… trust me. I can’t explain.”
She sniffs, then tries to pull herself together. “Your article… people are saying things online. Are you in trouble because of that?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Just… remember I love you, okay?”
“Clara—”
I end the call before she can say more. My hands are shaking now. I stare at the phone, then punch in my mom’s number, letting it ring. It goes to voicemail.
“Mom, it’s me,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. I just… needed time. I’ll call again when I can. I love you.”
I have only a few minutes left. I stare at the phone, considering my options, then type out a message to Eden: Erase your call history. Tell no one I called. Please. I send it to her number, watching the envelope icon blink out.
There’s no time for more. The screen flickers again, battery almost dead. I slip the phone under my pillow.
My heart pounds as I return to the window. For a few moments, I let myself hope—maybe he’s giving me a choice. Or maybe he’s testing me.
When the food tray arrives at lunch, there’s a folded napkin atop the plate.
I look up at the camera in the corner, my voice hoarse but steady. I know he saw me make those calls, but will he do anything about it?
For the first time since I arrived, I don’t feel entirely alone. I don’t quite know what to do with that.