Chapter 5 – Eleanor
I’d been wearing the same tank top and shorts for what felt like a lifetime. The clothes that had seemed perfectly normal in my fashion studio now felt like a prison uniform, sticking to my skin with dried sweat and the lingering chemical smell from whatever they’d used to knock me out.
My hair was a disaster, escaped from its ponytail and hanging in greasy strands around my face. I probably smelled like fear and exhaustion, which was exactly as appealing as it sounded.
The sound of the lock turning made me look up from the fashion magazine I’d been pretending to read.
Instead of Maxim’s intimidating presence, a woman entered carrying a silver tray.
She was tall, maybe five-seven, with chestnut brown hair that fell in soft waves and sharp hazel eyes that looked disturbingly familiar.
She wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform, just well-fitted jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. Everything about her screamed money and taste, from her perfectly applied makeup to the way she moved with practiced elegance.
The resemblance hit me like a slap. The bone structure, the eyes, even the way she held herself with that same controlled authority I’d seen in Maxim.
She set the tray down on the small table without a word, her movements efficient and professional. Soup, bread, water, and what looked like decent coffee. My stomach growled loudly enough to be embarrassing, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days.
When she turned to leave, I cleared my throat and stood up. “Wait.”
She paused, one hand on the door handle, and looked back at me with an expression that was carefully neutral.
I gestured toward the camera mounted in the corner of the room. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”
Her response was flat and immediate. “I don’t give a fuck about permission.”
That surprised a laugh out of me, short and bitter but genuine. “Fair enough. I’m Eleanor.”
“Anya.” She didn’t move from her position by the door, but she didn’t leave either.
“Anya Voronov?” I guessed, putting the pieces together. “Maxim’s your cousin? Boss? Handler?”
“Brother.”
That explained the resemblance and the expensive clothes. If Maxim were high up in the Bratva hierarchy, his family would have access to serious money. The kind that bought cashmere sweaters and professional makeup applications.
“Look, Anya,” I said, trying to inject some desperation into my voice without sounding pathetic. “I know this is probably weird for you, but I have a favor to ask.”
She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow but didn’t respond.
“I’ve been wearing these clothes for three days. Two days living in my office before your brother decided to drug me, and now this.” I gestured at my wrinkled, stained outfit. “Could I maybe get a shower? And some clean clothes?”
Anya’s expression didn’t change, but I thought I saw something soften around her eyes. Maybe sympathy, maybe just basic human decency, recognizing that I was asking for the bare minimum of dignity.
“Please,” I added, letting some of my exhaustion show through. “All I need is clean underwear and not to smell like stress and fear. I’m not asking for much.”
She studied me for a long moment, those hazel eyes taking in my disheveled appearance and probably calculating whether I was trying to manipulate her or just genuinely desperate for basic hygiene.
“You work in fashion,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. I have my own label. Eleanor Beaumont Designs. Nothing huge, but we’re growing.” I paused, then added, “ You?”
“Anya V. Collection. Minimalist pieces, sustainable materials.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit, really? I know your work. That black dress with the architectural neckline that Gwyneth wore to the Met Gala? That was yours, wasn’t it?”
For the first time since entering the room, Anya’s carefully controlled mask slipped slightly. A hint of pride flickered across her features. “You follow fashion week?”
“Are you kidding? It’s my job to know who’s doing what in the industry. Your fall collection last year was incredible. The way you played with negative space and clean lines? Pure genius.”
Anya actually took a step back into the room, closing the door behind her. “Your spring line wasn’t terrible either. The florals were predictable, but the construction was solid.”
“Predictable?” I felt my competitive instincts kick in, temporarily overriding the fact that I was having this conversation in a basement prison.
“Those weren’t just florals. I was exploring the intersection between organic growth patterns and urban decay.
The color palette was specifically chosen to—”
“I know what you were doing,” Anya interrupted, but there was amusement in her voice now. “And it worked, mostly. The execution was better than the concept.”
Despite everything, despite the insanity of discussing fashion criticism with my captor’s sister while imprisoned in an underground room, I found myself grinning. “Okay, fair point. Sometimes I get too caught up in the story and forget that clothes need to be wearable.”
“Exactly.” Anya moved further into the room, apparently deciding that our conversation was worth continuing. “Fashion is art, but it’s also function. Beauty without purpose is just decoration.”
“Says the woman who designed a dress that required three assistants to help the model walk down the runway.”
“That was a statement piece. And she walked fine once she got used to the weight distribution.”
We stared at each other for a moment, both of us probably realizing how surreal this situation was. Here I was, kidnapped and held prisoner, having a professional debate about fashion theory with my captor’s sister, like we were at some industry cocktail party.
“This is fucked up,” I said finally.
“Completely fucked up,” Anya agreed.
But neither of us moved to end the conversation. It felt good to talk about something normal, something that had nothing to do with revenge plots or family betrayals or whatever psychological damage had turned Maxim into the kind of man who kidnapped innocent women.
“So,” I said, settling back down on the bed and gesturing for Anya to take the chair. “About that shower.”
She sat down, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. “I can probably arrange something. Clean clothes too, though you’ll have to make do with whatever I have that fits.”
“Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how grateful I am.”
“Don’t thank me yet. This whole situation is….” She trailed off, looking toward the camera in the corner with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Completely insane?” I suggested.
“That’s one way to put it.”
I followed her gaze to the camera, wondering if Maxim was watching our conversation. Probably. He seemed like the type who would want to monitor every interaction, control every variable.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
Anya nodded.
“Do you think your brother’s plan is going to work?”
She was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing her words carefully. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s going to figure out pretty quickly that William Beaumont gives exactly zero fucks about his daughter.”
The words hung in the air between us, bitter and true. Anya’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or pity.
“You really believe that,” she said.
“I know that. My father is a lot of things, but sentimental isn’t one of them. He’ll write this off as an acceptable business loss and move on with his life.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
I laughed, the sound harsh in the elegant room. “Okay with it? No, I’m not okay with it. But I’m realistic about it. William Beaumont didn’t build his empire by making emotional decisions or putting family before profit.”
Anya was looking at the camera again, and I wondered what she was thinking. Whether she was starting to doubt her brother’s plan, or if she was just processing the reality of my situation.
“He did it out of love,” she said suddenly.
“Who, my father?” I shook my head. “Maybe in his own way, but not enough to risk himself for me. Not enough to negotiate with the Bratva.”
“No. Maxim. My brother loves his family more than anything in this world. It’s his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The idea that the cold, calculating man who’d drugged me and dragged me to this basement prison was motivated by love seemed impossible to reconcile with my experience of him.
“He’s doing this because he thinks it will bring him justice for something that happened years ago,” Anya continued. “But I’m starting to wonder if it’s really about justice, or if it’s just about pain.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes, when you hurt for long enough, you start to think that making other people hurt will somehow balance the scales. But it doesn’t. It just creates more pain.”
Her words carried the weight of personal experience, and I found myself studying her face more carefully. There was something there, some old wound that hadn’t quite healed.
“You don’t approve of what he’s doing,” I said.
“I love my brother. I always have and always will. But that doesn’t mean I have to agree with his choices.”
“Then help me convince him that this won’t work. Help me make him understand that holding me hostage isn’t going to accomplish anything except destroying more lives.”
Anya stood up, smoothing down her sweater with practiced elegance. “I’ll get you those clothes and arrange for a shower. But Eleanor? Be careful what you ask for. My brother isn’t the type of man who changes his mind easily, and cornered animals are dangerous.”
She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at me. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you got caught up in this. You seem like a good person, and you don’t deserve what’s happening to you.”
“But you’re not going to help me escape.”
“No. I’m not.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the growing certainty that I was completely fucked.
I looked up at the camera in the corner, wondering if Maxim had heard our entire conversation. If he was analyzing every word, looking for weaknesses to exploit or threats to neutralize.
“I hope you’re listening,” I said to the camera, my voice carrying clearly in the quiet room. “Because your sister is right. This isn’t going to end the way you think it will.”
The camera stared back at me, silent and unblinking, offering no answers and no comfort.
I was trapped in a game I didn’t understand, with rules that seemed to change based on the whims of a man who thought love and violence were the same thing.
Would I survive long enough to prove him wrong?