Chapter Three - Serena
The room they’ve given me is tastefully decorated in shades of cream and gray, with a four-poster bed that looks utterly ridiculous.
There’s a private bathroom stocked with expensive toiletries, a walk-in closet filled with clothes in exactly my size, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a picturesque view of the wooded grounds.
It’s also a prison cell dressed up in high-thread-count sheets and designer curtains.
I spend the first hour after Pavel leaves sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing my breathing to slow, my hands to stop shaking. The adrenaline from the abduction is finally crashing, leaving behind exhaustion and a creeping sense of unreality.
This can’t actually be happening. People don’t get kidnapped and forced into arranged marriages in the twenty-first century, not in America, not to senator’s daughters.
Except apparently they do.
My father agreed to this. The thought keeps circling back, sharp and bitter. Pavel could be lying, manipulating me to ensure compliance, but something in the way he said it rang true.
I’ve always known my father sees me as an asset. A well-educated, photogenic daughter who can charm donors and make the family look respectable. But this? Trading me to criminals to save his own skin?
The hurt tries to surface, and I shove it down ruthlessly. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford right now. I need to think, to plan, to find a way out of this before Saturday’s forced ceremony becomes reality.
I stand and move to the window, testing the frame.
Locked, as promised, and when I press against the glass I can feel the reinforcement—probably bulletproof or at minimum shatterproof.
The second-floor height wouldn’t be impossible to survive if I could break through, but the fall would likely injure me enough to make running difficult.
Not an option, then.
I turn my attention to the door instead. Also locked from the outside, but I hear footsteps in the hallway periodically. Guards, probably, on rotation. The frequency of the passes tells me they’re thorough but following a pattern. Patterns can be exploited.
When a young woman arrives with a dinner tray an hour later, I smile at her and accept the food graciously. She seems nervous, avoiding eye contact as she sets everything on the small table near the window.
“Thank you,” I say warmly, making my voice soft and unthreatening. “I’m Serena. What’s your name?”
She hesitates, clearly uncertain whether conversation is allowed. “Anya,” she finally offers in accented English.
“It’s nice to meet you, Anya.” I gesture toward the food—some kind of roasted chicken with vegetables that actually smells delicious. “This looks wonderful. Did you make it?”
A tiny hint of pride flickers across her features. “Yes, miss.”
“You’re very talented.” I take a bite, making appreciative sounds that aren’t entirely fake. “How long have you worked here?”
Anya’s expression shutters immediately, recognizing the question for what it is: an attempt to gather information. “I should go,” she says quickly, backing toward the door. “Ring if you need anything.”
She’s gone before I can press further, the lock clicking decisively behind her.
Worth a try.
I eat mechanically, fueling my body while my mind continues cataloging details.
The window faces west based on the sunset I watched earlier.
The woods appear dense but not impassable.
The driveway curves away from the house in a direction I estimate is northeast, which means the main road lies somewhere in that direction.
After finishing the meal, I explore the closet more thoroughly.
Someone selected these clothes with frightening accuracy—not just my size, but my style.
Fitted dresses, tailored pants, cashmere sweaters in muted colors.
Everything tasteful and expensive, the wardrobe of a woman who belongs in powerful circles.
He seems to know exactly what I like, and exactly what style will fit my curvaceous frame.
The wardrobe of a Bratva boss’s wife.
My stomach turns, but I push past the nausea to focus on practical concerns. Most of these clothes would be useless for running, but there’s athletic wear too. Leggings, fitted tanks, even running shoes in my exact size.
I change into the darkest options—black leggings, a dark gray long-sleeve shirt, the running shoes. Then I return to the bed and wait, listening to the house settle around me as night deepens.
The guard rotations continue like clockwork. Every forty-five minutes, footsteps pass my door. At eleven thirty, the pattern breaks—longer gaps, quieter movement. Shift change, probably, with fewer personnel during the overnight hours.
That’s my window.
At midnight, I ease the door open as silently as possible.
It’s unlocked from the inside, another test of compliance rather than actual security.
The hallway is empty, dimly lit by fake sconces mounted along the walls at regular intervals.
I can hear voices drifting up from downstairs—two men speaking Russian in low tones near what I assume is the main entrance.
I move in the opposite direction, toward the back of the house where I spotted a side entrance earlier during my supervised tour. My footsteps are silent on the plush carpet runner, every sense hyperalert for sounds of discovery.
The side entrance is located through a mudroom off the kitchen. One guard is posted nearby, but he’s facing away from me, attention focused on his phone rather than the empty hallway. Sloppy security, or maybe just boredom during what he assumes will be an uneventful shift.
His mistake.
I wait until he shifts position, then slip past while his back is turned, using the kitchen’s shadows for cover. My heart hammers so hard I’m convinced he’ll hear it, but he doesn’t turn around. I make it to the mudroom, through the door, and out into the cool night air without raising any alarm.
The grounds are darker than I expected, only a few exterior lights illuminating the immediate area around the house. Perfect. I stay low, moving quickly toward the tree line while keeping the driveway in sight. The main gate is visible from here.
Someone must be arriving or leaving soon. The gap is narrow but passable, and once I’m through it, the main road can’t be far. From there I can flag down a car, find a phone, and call the police.
I run for it.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I sprint down the driveway, lungs burning with exertion and fear. The gate looms closer, that narrow opening representing freedom, safety, escape from this nightmare. Almost there. Just a few more yards—
Headlights sweep across the driveway.
A black car pulls through the gate with perfect timing, blocking my path completely. I skid to a stop, momentum almost sending me into the side of the vehicle. The engine is still running when the driver’s door opens.
Pavel steps out.
He’s not wearing the suit from earlier. Instead he’s in dark pants and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking somehow more dangerous in casual clothes than he did in formal wear.
I try to push past him anyway, darting around the car toward the still-open gate. He moves faster than someone his size should be able to, catching my arm before I make it two steps. The sudden stop throws me off-balance, and I stumble forward.
He catches me, his other hand settling on my waist to steady me.
The contact sends heat through the thin fabric of my shirt, his palm broad and warm against my side.
I’m pulled close enough that I can feel the solidity of his chest, smell the faint scent of expensive cologne and something darker underneath—gunpowder, maybe, or just the particular danger that seems to emanate from him naturally.
“Let go of me,” I demand, trying to wrench free. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s absolutely immovable.
“No.” The single word is delivered with the same calm certainty he used earlier, like my compliance is simply a matter of time rather than question.
I twist harder, anger burning away the fear. “You can’t keep me here. This is kidnapping, coercion, false imprisonment—”
“All accurate,” he agrees, his tone maddeningly even. “All irrelevant to your current situation.”
Behind us, I hear guards approaching, their footsteps crunching on gravel. They must have discovered my absence and followed. Pavel raises his free hand slightly, a silent command that stops them in their tracks several yards away.
He hasn’t looked away from me once.
“You’re remarkably predictable for someone who considers herself strategic,” he says quietly. Conversationally, almost, like we’re discussing the weather rather than my failed escape attempt. “Mapping the guard rotations. Testing the locks. Waiting for shift change. I’ve seen it before.”
“Then maybe you should invest in better security,” I snap, still trying to pull away from his grip.
“The security is fine. I gave specific instructions to make this achievable.” He shifts his hold slightly, his thumb pressing against my pulse point—whether deliberately or by accident, I can’t tell. “You needed to try. To confirm that you’re trapped here, that running won’t work. Now you know.”
The calculation in that statement steals my breath. He let me get this far on purpose. Gave me just enough rope to hang myself, all so he could prove a point about how completely he controls this situation.
The fury that realization sparks is hot enough to override common sense. I stop pulling away and instead step closer, getting in his space the way he got in mine at the car. “You arrogant—”
“Careful.” His voice drops lower, barely above a murmur, but something in it makes my next words die in my throat.
He leans down slightly, close enough that I can see the faint silver flecks in his gray eyes.
“You don’t run from me. Not tonight. Not ever.
The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes. ”
It’s not a threat, exactly. There’s no anger in his voice, no heat. Just absolute, calm certainty that borders on inevitability. Like gravity or mathematics—simple facts about how the world works.
My heart is still racing, but now I can’t tell if it’s entirely from fear and exertion or if some other reaction is creeping in.
Standing this close to him, I’m hyperaware of details I didn’t notice before.
The controlled strength in the hand wrapped around my wrist. The precise way he’s positioned himself to block any escape route without making it obvious.
The complete absence of uncertainty in his expression.
Pavel Rudenko doesn’t doubt for a second that he owns this situation. That he owns me.
The realization makes something twist in my chest—part rage, part terror, and something else I absolutely refuse to examine.
“I will never accept this,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. “You can lock me up, threaten me, control every aspect of my life, but I will never willingly cooperate with this forced marriage. Never.”
For the first time since stepping out of the car, something shifts in his expression. Not concern, exactly, but a flicker of what might be interest.
“We’ll see,” he says simply.
Then he releases my wrist and steps back, the sudden absence of his hand leaving my skin feeling strangely cold. He gestures toward the house with that same economical movement, commanding without words.
The guards move forward immediately, flanking me but not touching. Pavel walks beside me as we head back up the driveway, his pace unhurried, like we’re simply returning from an evening stroll rather than my failed escape attempt.
“The wedding is still scheduled for Saturday,” he says as we approach the house. “Additional security measures will be implemented to prevent future incidents. You’ll find your movements more restricted going forward.”
“You can’t actually believe you can force me to go through with it,” I say, hating how breathless I sound. “I’ll refuse to say the vows. I’ll object during the ceremony. I’ll tell everyone exactly what you’ve done—”
“The ceremony will be private. Bratva witnesses only, plus the officiant we’ve already compensated for discretion. Your objections will be noted and ignored. The legal documents will be signed regardless of your cooperation, using methods I’d prefer not to employ but will if necessary.”
He holds the door open for me, the gesture almost mockingly polite. “You have four days to decide whether you walk down that aisle with dignity or have to be carried. Either way, Saturday evening you will be my wife.”