CHAPTER 13
SCARLETT P.O.V.
The silk is cold. That’s the first thing you notice when you sell your soul for a tactile advantage—the way the fabric feels like ice against nipples that are already hard from pure, unadulterated nerves.
It’s blood-red, this slip. A quiet little scream of a garment Nikolai bought, likely because he enjoys the visual of me looking like a walking open wound.
I stand in front of the vanity, staring at my reflection, trying to find the version of Scarlett Vance that used to run boardrooms and terrify interns.
She’s gone. Replacing her is this pale, wide-eyed doll with messy auburn hair and a mouth that tastes like copper and anxiety.
I adjust the strap. It slides off my shoulder. I pull it back up. It slides down again. Calculated disarray.
I look up, straight into the black glass eye of the camera mounted in the corner.
I know he’s watching. I know he’s probably sitting in some dark, leather-bound office, staring at a monitor, analyzing the way my chest rises and falls.
If he wants a show, I’ll give him an Oscar-worthy performance.
I need him soft. I need him distinctively un-Nikolai-like for exactly five minutes.
"You can do this," I whisper, the sound dying instantly in the soundproofed air. "He's a man. Just a man with a god complex and a gun fetish."
The silence in this suite is heavy enough to crush a lung.
It’s not peaceful; it’s predatory. It waits for you to make a noise just so it can swallow it.
I pace the perimeter, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet that probably costs more than my first car.
Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn. I’m spiraling.
My thoughts are a chaotic mess of static and panic, centering on one thing: my mother.
She’s fragile. She’s always been fragile—a woman made of crystal and Xanax.
If she knows I’m gone, really gone, her heart won’t take it.
She’s probably frantic, calling the police, calling my father, weeping into her silk pillows.
I need to hear her voice. I need to know the world outside this high-rise prison hasn’t forgotten I exist.
And for that, I need the monster to hand over his phone.
I stop pacing. I take a deep breath, holding it until my lungs burn, then exhale slowly.
I relax my face. I let my shoulders slump.
I conjure up the memory of when my dog died when I was twelve—the helplessness, the raw grief.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, forcing a flush to my skin.
Click.
The lock disengages with a sound like a gunshot.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I don't turn immediately. I let him see the curve of my back, the vulnerable line of my spine exposed by the low cut of the silk.
Nikolai walks in. He brings the smell of the city with him—ozone, exhaust, and that sharp, metallic scent of violence that seems to sweat out of his pores.
He looks wrecked. His suit jacket is off in three seconds, tossed onto the chaise lounge with a disregard that screams exhaustion.
He’s loosening his tie, his jaw working as if he’s grinding down a retort to an argument he just had.
"Scarlett."
It’s a grunt. A recognition of presence, nothing more. He doesn’t even look at me. He walks straight to the bar cart.
"Hello, Nikolai."
My voice is breathless. Perfect. I sound like a tragic heroine in a noir film. I turn slowly, clasping my hands in front of me to hide the fact that they’re shaking. Not from acting, but from genuine, visceral fear.
He freezes, hand hovering over the crystal decanter. He turns his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as they sweep over me. He takes in the red silk, the bare feet, the carefully constructed expression of despair.
"You look..." I start, taking a step forward. "Troubled."
"Define 'troubled,'" he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Because your definitions are usually lacking."
He pours the bourbon. No ice. He drinks it like it’s water, his throat working.
I move into his space. It’s a dangerous game, walking into the blast radius of a bomb that’s already ticking, but I have to bridge the gap.
I need to touch him. I need to remind him that I’m warm, soft flesh and blood, not just a line item in his ledger.
I brush my hip against his trousers. The wool is rough against my bare leg. I smell him—gun oil, expensive soap, and the dark, musky scent of a man who takes what he wants.
"Don't mistake silence for invitation, Scarlett," he rumbles, not moving away but tensing. "I haven't given you permission to approach."
"I..." I let my voice crack. I reach out, my fingers trembling as I touch his forearm. The muscle beneath the bespoke shirt is rock hard. I trace the line up, daring to brush the jagged scar on his throat. "I just need to ask you something important."
He looks down at my hand like it’s a venomous insect he hasn’t decided whether to crush or study.
"Speak," he says, stepping back to pour another drink, effectively severing the contact. The rejection stings, but I push through.
"It’s my mother," I whisper. "She has a terrible heart, Nikolai. Literally. A condition. This silence... me disappearing... it could kill her. She must be dying of worry right now. She doesn’t know where I am. She doesn’t know if I’m alive."
He drops ice into his glass. Clink. Clink. He swirls it, watching the amber liquid crash against the crystal. He looks bored.
"Worry is expensive, Scarlett," he says flatly. "Pour yourself some wine. You look parched."
"I don't want wine!" I let the desperation bleed through, real and raw.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force the tear out.
It tracks hot and wet down my cheek. I look up at him through my lashes.
"I just need to know she's still breathing, Smirnov. Please. Five minutes. I swear on the value of my father’s debt.
Just for the collateral, give me five minutes to hear her voice. "
Nikolai sets the glass down on the marble table. Thud.
The sound rings in the room. He turns to me fully now, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks like a monolith. Unmovable. Unfeeling.
"You mistake your value," he says. "The debt is settled. You are just surplus. And why would I breach my own security protocol? Signal interference is death here. Are you worth risking the entire compound for the sake of your mother's delicate sensibilities?"
"She’s my mother!" I argue, stepping closer again. "She’s innocent in this! My father is the thief, not her!"
"Is she?"
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps the screen twice, his expression unreadable, then turns it around to face me.
"What makes you think she hasn't already accepted her daughter's disappearance as a fair trade?"
I look at the screen.
My brain stutters. It simply refuses to process the image.
It’s a high-resolution photo, timestamped four hours ago.
It’s my mother. She’s lying on a pristine white lounger next to a turquoise pool.
She’s wearing oversized sunglasses and holding a mimosa.
She’s laughing at something someone off-camera said.
She looks... radiant. Relaxed. Rich.
"No," I whisper, backing away. "No, that’s impossible. That’s old. That’s from last summer."
"It’s from this morning," Nikolai says, his voice devoid of pity. "The Hamptons. A wellness retreat. The detox wrap she’s scheduled for later costs ten thousand dollars. Paid for from the account your father flushed with cash the morning after I took you."
I hit the wall. The impact knocks the wind out of me. I stare at the phone, at the woman who was supposed to be dying of grief. She’s not grieving. She’s cashing in.
"She... she doesn't know," I stammer, grasping at straws that are already burning. "She thinks I'm traveling. My father must have told her—"
"Stop stammering," Nikolai snaps. He puts the phone away. "The math is simple: you were a liability. They traded you for solvency. Stop pretending you have family left. You don't."
The room spins. My knees feel weak. The red silk suddenly feels ridiculous, like a costume for a play that got cancelled halfway through the first act. I played the grieving daughter, and my mother is playing the wealthy socialite. I am the only one who didn't know the script.
Nikolai steps closer, invading my space. He leans down, sniffing the air near my neck, then recoils with a sneer.
"Your performance was pathetic, Scarlett," he spits. "The trembling hand? The single, dramatic tear? I saw it all on the monitors. I watched you stare into the mirror and practice that little wobble in your lip."
Shame, hot and agonizing, floods my veins. He knew. The whole time, he knew.
"Did you really think that silk would make me soft enough to forget who I am?" he asks, his voice dropping to a mockery of intimacy. "Did you think I’m some desperate john you can manipulate with a flashed thigh and a sob story?"
"You are a monster!" I scream, lashing out. I shove at his chest, but it’s like shoving a brick wall. "A manipulative, cold-blooded bastard!"
His hand snaps out. He catches my chin in a grip that threatens to bruise bone. He forces my head up, locking my eyes with his.
"Silence," he hisses. "Use that word again, and I'll muzzle you. You have no voice here. You don't get needs. You get commands. Your only family is the one who took you as payment."
He releases me with a shove. I stumble back, catching myself on the edge of the vanity. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I feel stripped raw. Not just naked, but flayed.
"Learn your place, Scarlett. Learn it now."
He turns his back on me. He walks over to the chaise, picks up his jacket, and grabs his keys. The jingle of the metal sounds like a death knell.
"Where are you going?" I ask, my voice trembling for real this time.
"You bore me," he says over his shoulder. "I have business that actually matters. Since you like playing games, you can play them alone."
He reaches for the door handle.
Panic, primal and idiotic, seizes my throat. The silence. The room. The emptiness. I can’t do it again. I can’t be left alone with the knowledge that my mother is sipping mimosas while I rot. I’d rather have his cruelty than the void.
"Nikolai!"
I lunge forward. I stumble, my legs betraying me. "Wait! Don't leave me!"
I grab the back of his shirt. It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I am the collateral, the queen of the high-rise, and I am clinging to my captor like a toddler.
He stops. He doesn't turn around immediately. I can feel the tension radiating off him, a heat wave of satisfied dominance. Slowly, he looks back over his shoulder. His eyes are cold, calculating, and victorious.
"Tell me what you are, Scarlett," he demands. "Right now. Tell me the truth about the game you played."
I swallow hard. My pride is a corpse at my feet. "I... I tried to trick you. I was weak."
He turns fully now. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms again. He owns the space. He owns the air. He owns me.
He points a single finger at the plush carpet directly in front of his polished shoes.
"Kneel."
The word hangs there. It’s not a request. It’s an ultimatum.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct I have screams at me to stand tall, to spit in his face, to be a Vance. But the Vances sold me. The Vances are at the spa.
"I am not known for my patience, Scarlett," he warns softly.
I look at his face. Hard. Unforgiving. But present. If I kneel, he stays. If I kneel, I exist.
I sink.
My knees hit the carpet with a dull thud.
The red silk pools around me, spreading like blood.
I bow my head, staring at the intricate patterns of the rug, my hands resting limp on my thighs.
The humiliation burns, but under the burning, there’s a sick, twisted sense of relief.
I don't have to fight anymore. I just have to be.
Nikolai pushes off the doorframe. He walks toward me, his steps silent. He stops directly in front of me. His shadow falls over me, cool and encompassing. The toe of his shoe nudges the hem of my slip.
"Look up, Scarlett."
I lift my head. My neck aches. He looks like a giant from down here, a god of tailored wool and violence.
"Tell me what you are asking for," he says. "Beg me for it. Use your manners, or I walk out that door and lock it for a week."
My throat is dry as sand paper. I have to cough to clear it.
"I..." My voice breaks. I hate him. I need him. "I want you to stay."
"Properly."
"Please, Nikolai," I whisper, the words tasting like ash. "Master... stay. I beg for the privilege of your presence."
The silence stretches for a heartbeat, two, three. Then, he moves. He crouches down, bringing his face level with mine. He reaches out and runs the back of his knuckles down my cheek, wiping away the wet track of the fake tear that turned real.
"Good girl," he whispers, his voice rough with a dark, terrifying promise. "Now, we begin your training."
He stands up, and the world rights itself, sharper and colder than before. The game is over. I lost. And God help me, I think I wanted to lose.