Chapter 7 Inessa
INESSA
The black Mercedes winds through St. Petersburg's darkened streets.
I sit besides two of Yuri's men.
Their massive frames take up most of the back seat while I press myself against the window and try not to think about what's going to happen.
They've taken my phone, banned me from calling Alina or my mother, and I don't even have any idea what Yuri will do to me.
Pavel, the man who intercepted me in the parking garage, glances at me through the rearview mirror.
His eyes are cold, revealing nothing about what he thinks of this situation.
The other guard, whose name I never learned, stares straight ahead as if I don't exist at all.
"Where are you taking me?" I demand, but my assumption is that they're delivering me to Yuri Gravitch in person, wherever he is.
I thought leaving work thirty minutes before they were set to pick me up would be enough, that I could call my mother and she'd have her men stop by or meet me somewhere.
It isn't that I intended to ditch the meeting with Yuri—I never did.
I would've been late, though.
I wanted someone to know where I was going so if I don't surface tomorrow, they'll know who did it.
The men have been silent since forcing me into this car, communicating only through subtle nods and meaningful looks, so their lack of answer doesn’t surprise me.
The city gives way to suburbs, then to countryside dotted with estates hidden behind high walls.
We turn through iron gates that swing open automatically, revealing a long drive lined with bare trees.
At the end sits Yuri's compound—a fortress of black stone and dark glass that looks more medieval than modern.
Floodlights illuminate the grounds, revealing manicured lawns and geometric topiary that's dormant for winter.
But nothing can disguise the security features—cameras mounted on every corner, motion sensors along the fence line.
This isn't a home.
It's a prison designed to look palatial.
The car stops at the main entrance, where more men wait in dark suits.
They move in as soon as the car is in park, surrounding the vehicle before Pavel opens my door.
The night air cuts through my clothing and I hug my sweater over my chest more tightly.
I look up at the men, all armed with guns and radios, and know I'm not getting out of here by running.
Though, no one has laid a hand on me to harm me, so in that way, I'm safe for now.
"This way," Pavel says, his first words since capturing me.
I want to run, but there's nowhere to go.
The compound stretches in all directions, enclosed by walls that would require climbing equipment to scale.
Beyond them lie miles of empty countryside, and even if I made it that far, Yuri's reach extends throughout St. Petersburg and beyond.
A knot forms in my chest as I follow him through the front doors.
The main entrance opens into a foyer that could belong in a palace.
Slate floors reflect light from crystal chandeliers while tapestries and oil paintings line the walls, but the beauty of it all feels cold and sterile.
This is a house without warmth, without love, without any softness that might make it feel alive.
I stop in the foyer, refusing to move when Pavel gestures toward a corridor.
He says evenly, "The guest wing is this direction. Your accommodations have been prepared."
He speaks like a butler when I know he's a soldier.
The gun on his hip proves it.
"Accommodations?" I laugh bitterly.
"You mean a cell. I'm not some guest you're welcoming. I'm a prisoner, and we both know it." My voice quavers, but I hold his gaze.
"I think you misunderstand," Pavel replies in a very flat tone.
"This isn't a prison. You will be treated well."
"Treated well? You took my phone, dragged me here against my will, and now you're locking me away. That’s not treatment—it’s captivity."
My hands clench at my sides.
"I want to leave."
He points again toward the right.
"The guest wing, Ms. Mirova. Until Mr. Gravitch speaks with you, this is where you’ll remain."
This time, his eyes darken to a soulless color.
I stand my ground, fury rising in my chest, but the certainty in his tone leaves no room for choice.
When he starts moving, I have to move too.
I follow him down halls lined with more artwork and antique furniture.
The guest wing is separated from the main house by a heavy door that clicks shut behind us with the sound of electronic locks engaging.
The message is clear.
I'm not a guest.
I'm a prisoner in a gilded cage.
When we stop by an open door, he turns to face me, standing outside with his hands folded.
I peek in and see more of the same expensive furniture and decorations, and he nudges me into the room.
"Dinner will be served at eight," Pavel informs me.
"Someone will come to escort you."
The door closes with another electronic click, leaving me alone in my beautiful prison.
I rush to the windows and try the latches, but they don't budge.
The glass is thick enough to stop bullets, which means my fists won't make a dent.
I check the door to the hallway—locked from the outside, as expected.
The bathroom offers no better options.
The window is smaller and positioned too high to reach, even with a chair.
The mirror is mounted flush with the wall, impossible to remove.
Even the towel racks are bolted down, eliminating potential weapons.
I sink onto the bed and let the reality of my situation wash over me.
Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was planning a wedding to Dominic, worried about seating arrangements and flower choices.
Now I'm trapped in his father's compound, preparing to marry a man who terrifies and infuriates me in equal measure.
The rage builds slowly, starting in my chest and spreading outward until my hands shake with it.
This isn't how my life was supposed to go.
I was supposed to marry for alliance, yes, but to someone young and manageable.
Someone I could control, or at least influence.
Instead, I'm facing a future with a man who offers marriage proposals at gunpoint and who will never respect my desires or treat me well.
This definitely isn't what my father would've wanted for me, and Yuri is not and never was a friend to this family.
Besides, who will even come to a wedding like this?
Dominic's whole family thinks I was to marry him.
If they see me prepared to walk down the aisle to his father, they will know I'm being coerced.
That thought puts me a little more at ease, and I find myself able to stand by the window and watch the breeze bend the trees outside.
At eight o'clock exactly, footsteps approach in the hallway.
The lock disengages with a soft beep, and the door opens to reveal the massive guard from earlier.
His scarred face reveals nothing as he waits for me to follow him, but I don't move right away.
"I'm not hungry," I protest, turning away from him.
"The boss is expecting you," he grumbles, and then he cracks his fingers very loudly.
I get the idea quickly.
I can walk to dinner or be carried there.
Neither option appeals to me, but at least walking preserves some dignity.
When we walk into the dining room, Yuri stands near the windows, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys his domain.
He's changed from his earlier suit into dark slacks and a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing the tattoos that crawl up his forearms.
The casual clothes don't make him less intimidating.
If anything, they emphasize the predator lurking beneath his civilized exterior.
"Inessa." He turns as I enter, his dark eyes drinking me in.
It makes me squirm. "I trust your accommodations are acceptable."
"You mean my cell?"
A slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Your temporary residence. Until tomorrow, when you'll be moved to more permanent quarters."
He pulls out a chair at one end of the table, gesturing for me to sit.
The other chair is positioned close enough that we'll be forced into intimate conversation.
I remain standing. "I want to go home."
"This is your home now."
"This is a prison."
"Prison is a state of mind."
He moves to his own chair and settles into it.
"You can choose to see constraints, or you can choose to see opportunity."
"Opportunity?" I bite out.
"What opportunity is there in being kidnapped and forced into marriage?"
"The opportunity to preserve everything you've built instead of watching it burn."
He reaches for the wine bottle and pours two glasses of deep red liquid.
"Your company, your employees, your future—all of it depends on the decisions you make in the next few hours."
An older woman enters with covered dishes.
She sets them on the table carefully, but her kind eyes avoid mine as if she understands the nature of this dinner.
When she leaves, I'm tempted to race out after her, but he says quietly, "Sit."
"I told you I'm not hungry."
"And I told you to sit."
The gravel in his voice makes my spine stiffen.
I've never responded well to orders, especially from men who think their size and reputation give them the right to control others.
But the alternative—being forced into the chair—would be even more humiliating.
I sit but keep my hands in my lap and my back straight.
A posture of defiance even in compliance.
Yuri uncovers the dishes to reveal food that would normally make my mouth water—roasted duck with cherry sauce, herbed potatoes, vegetables that glisten with butter.
The aroma fills the space between us, but my stomach remains knotted with anxiety and rage.
"You need to eat."
I stare at the plate without moving.
"I'm not a child," I tell him, though I realize I'm acting like a child.
Maybe because I feel like I need my father to fix this, and that's never going to happen.
"Then stop acting stubbornly and take care of yourself."
When I don't respond, he reaches across the small distance between us.
His fingers find my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
It shocks me how gentle he's being when I know how strong he is.
"You need to eat."
The words send heat through my body that I absolutely don't want to feel.