Chapter 4
HELENA
The silence inside the SUV is deafening. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the cabin.
We are speeding down the highway, surrounded by a convoy of black steel. We are heading away from the only home I’ve ever known. The city lights blur past the tinted windows.
I assess the man beside me.
Konstantin Morozov is tapping on his phone. The harsh blue light hits his face. It illuminates the sharp, cruel angles of his jaw. The scar on his neck.
He looks like a CEO answering late-night emails, not a man who kidnapped a woman, invaded an estate, and held a gun to my father’s head.
The injustice of it burns in my throat like bile.
My hands are still shaking, resting on the fine leather of the seat.
The car smells like him—a distinct, masculine scent of expensive scotch and a cologne that screams power.
I look at the door handle.
Jump, my brain whispers.
Don't be stupid, Helena. We are doing eighty miles an hour.
I tell myself to think and stay calm, but my body doesn’t listen. Fight-or-flight mode kicks in, and every cell is hellbent on fleeing.
I reach out and yank the door handle.
Locked. Of course it’s locked.
I slam my palm against the window. Thud.
The sound is dull. The glass is thick. Bulletproof.
"Let me out!" I scream. "Stop the car!"
The driver doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look in the rearview mirror. He’s a statue, a machine programmed to drive, just like the man beside me is programmed to destroy.
Konstantin doesn't look up from his phone.
"Stop screaming," he says. His voice is annoyingly calm. "You’re fogging the glass."
His indifference snaps something inside me.
It’s worse than his anger. It makes me feel small. Insignificant.
I feel like a piece of luggage he threw in the back seat, an object to be transported and stored.
"You can't just take me," I spit, turning my body to face him. "This isn't the dark ages. People will look for me. My staff. The press.”
I take a breath, trying to find logic in the madness.
"I have a board of directors meeting on Monday. If I’m not there, questions will be asked."
Konstantin stops typing and sighs.
"Your staff will be told you are taking a sabbatical to handle family matters," he says, his thumb scrolling through a message. "The press will be told nothing."
He finally looks at me.
"And the police? The police are already paid for. No one is looking for you, Helena. You’re a line item on a ledger I acquired," he adds.
"You’re a monster," I hiss.
He leans back against the leather.
"I’m a businessman," he replies. "And you are bad for business."
"A businessman?" I laugh, a shrill sound that scratches my throat. "You’re a thug in a tuxedo. You broke into my home. You threatened my father. And for what? To settle a grudge? To make yourself feel big?"
He doesn't answer. He remains focused on his stupid phone.
I lean closer, invading his personal space. I need him to look at me, to crack that ice and see if there’s a human being underneath the suit.
"You lied back there," I say, my voice trembling with rage. "All that garbage about my father having blood on his hands. You made it up."
He stops typing, lowers the phone, and turns his head slowly. His eyes are black pits, devoid of light. He stares at me with a terrifying stillness.
"Did I?" he asks.
"Yes!" I shout. "My father is weak. He’s a drunk. He gambles away money we don't have. But he isn’t like you."
I point a finger at him, hand still trembling.
"He doesn't hurt people. You only said that to justify stealing everything we own. You had to invent a villain so you didn't have to face the fact that you are the bad guy."
Konstantin stares at me. He doesn't look angry. He looks... amused. Like I’m a child trying to explain the world to him.
"You think I care if you believe me?" he asks. "Believe he’s a saint, believe he’s the Pope, it changes nothing. I’ll destroy his family the way he destroyed mine. That’s the only truth that matters."
"You're pathetic," I sneer. My fear is gone and replaced by disgust. "You put a gun to a defenseless old man’s head and made up a fairy tale."
I meet his eyes, seething. "You’re a liar and a coward."
The movement is a blur.
One second, I’m shouting; the next, I’m slammed back against the leather seat.
His hand plants beside my head, bracing against the window, boxing me in. His other grips my jaw, not hard enough to hurt—but firm enough that I can’t look away. I’m trapped between his body and the seat, nowhere to go, nowhere to breathe that doesn’t taste like him.
My hands fly up, shoving at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
He leans over me, his face inches from mine.
I can’t move. All I can feel is him—heat, pressure, control.
"A coward hides, Helena," he snarls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "I’m looking you right in the eye."
My lungs hitch, breath shallow and uneven.
"Who are you?" I force out. "What are you?"
"I’m the devil," he whispers. His grip tightens slightly at my jaw, angling my face up. "I decide who breathes and who bleeds. That’s what I do. What I am."
He leans closer, his eyes burning into mine.
"Your father is alive because I allow it," he murmurs. "You are breathing because I allow it. I hold your life in one hand and his in the other. Don’t test the leash."
His thumb presses lightly at the base of my throat—not choking, just a reminder of how easily he could.
I try to speak, but my voice falters.
I’m frozen.
"And don’t think for one second that any of this was an accident," he says, a cruel smirk touching his lips. "You think the universe only happened to turn against you this week? Your ship unable to leave? Apex Heavy Industries?"
My eyes widen.
"How..." I whisper. "How do you know about Apex?"
"I know everything," he says. "I pulled the strings, Helena. I tightened the screws. I made sure your father had no choice but to walk into that casino tonight."
He leans back an inch, but keeps me caged between his arms as the horror of his confession sinks in.
He wasn't just the winner of a card game. He was the architect of my destruction. A carefully calculated cruelty. He has probably watched for days. Maybe weeks. Lurking as I tried desperately to pick up the pieces.
Abruptly, he pushes off the seat and releases me.
I collapse forward, dragging in a shaky breath, my chest tight, my pulse racing. Tears sting my eyes, more from the weight of it than anything else.
He goes back to his phone, ignoring me, as if I’m nothing more than a nuisance.
I stare at him, pressed against the door, shivering.
He isn’t a man. He’s a god of chaos.
And I’m his prisoner.
Eventually, the car slows.
I look out the window, expecting a warehouse or a dungeon in the industrial district. Instead, we are pulling into the underground entrance of the Morozov Hotel & Casino.
It’s a fortress of glass and steel piercing the city skyline. I’ve driven past it a thousand times, admiring its architecture and the luxury. I never knew the monster who lived at the top.
The car stops. The doors open.
Konstantin gets out and waits. He doesn't drag me. He stands there, adjusting his cuffs, and I know that if I don't get out, he will carry me.
I step out.
My legs shake on the concrete.
We bypass the lobby, avoiding the eyes of the guests.
We walk to a private elevator in the back. Brushed steel with no buttons.
Konstantin scans a key card before leaning in for a retinal scan.
Beep.
The doors open. We step inside, and they close behind us. The numbers on the digital display climb higher and higher until my ears pop.
We are leaving the world below. We are entering his sky.
The doors slide open.
Penthouse.
I step into a space that is more museum than home. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the entire city. The skyline is like a wallpaper of lights. The floors are polished obsidian, reflecting the darkness. The furniture is stark.
It’s beautiful.
And it’s a lifeless void. A mausoleum in the sky.
I walk to the glass to take in the view. I can't help myself.
The cars are specks of light, and the people are invisible. Up here, the wind doesn't howl. The city noise is gone. There’s only a thick, pressurized silence. It feels like being in space.
If I screamed, no one would hear me. If I pressed my hand against the glass, no one would see the print. I’ve never felt so high up. And I’ve never felt so buried.
"Lev," Konstantin barks.
The lieutenant appears from nowhere. "Boss."
"Take her bag," Konstantin orders. "Search it. Take her phone. Her keys. Her ID."
Lev steps forward. He rips the bag from my hand.
It takes no effort.
He walks to the glass coffee table and begins to unzip it. He sifts through my clothes—my underwear, my sweaters, then tosses it aside like a rag.
My face burns with humiliation.
He finds my wallet, takes the cash and ID from inside, and moves on to pocket my phone.
"Wait!" I step forward, "I need my phone."
Konstantin walks to the bar, pouring himself a drink.
"You have no need for a phone," he says, his back to me. "You have no one to call."
"What about my father," I ask.
"He sold you," Konstantin says coldly. "He’s currently drinking himself into a stupor to forget that fact. He doesn't want to talk to you. He wants to forget you exist. Because if he remembers you, he has to live with the shame.'"
He takes a slow sip of his drink.
The words strike like a physical blow. They hurt because they’re true.
My father drowns his guilt in whiskey. He has since the accident. He will until the day he dies.
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away.
"You can't keep me here," I murmur. "I'll leave. I'll walk out the front door."
Konstantin watches me over the rim of his glass.
"Try it," he challenges before gesturing to the elevator. My only exit to the world below. "Go ahead. But know this," he steps closer. "I have eyes on every street corner. I own the police who patrol this block. And I own the debt your father still hasn't paid.”
My blood turns to ice.