CHAPTER 10
ROSE P.O.V.
The silence of the salon, broken only by the gentle scrape of my tools against ancient fibers, was a deceptive thing.
It offered a fragile peace, a momentary reprieve from the raw, bruising reality of Liam’s world and his brutal claim.
But even as I painstakingly cleaned a section of the Flemish tapestry, the memory of his office, of the desk digging into my spine, of his body pressing into mine, pulsed like a fresh wound.
I still tasted him, felt the phantom ache of his possessive thrusts, the sting of his words.
“That is what happens when you forget your place, Rose.”
He thought he had broken me. He thought he had cowed me into submission with his savage display of power and my body's traitorous response. And for a terrifying, shameful moment, he had been right. My legs still trembled whenever I thought of it, my skin still prickled with unwanted arousal and disgust. But beneath the humiliation, a colder, harder resolve had begun to form. He wanted me to understand his world? Fine. But he would soon realize that understanding led to knowledge, and knowledge, as I’d told him, was power.
He'd given me a task, a distraction disguised as an opportunity. Now I would turn it into my weapon.
The tapestry, “The Hunt of the Unicorn,” was a masterpiece, intricate and dense with symbolism.
Liam had called it a coded message, and the idea resonated deep within my historian’s soul.
If his art collection truly reflected his empire, then every piece was a potential clue, every thread a story waiting to be unraveled.
I spent hours, sometimes days, lost in the delicate work, my mind a relentless engine searching for patterns, for anomalies.
But the salon, for all its beauty, was still a cage, and my curiosity, a hungry beast, demanded more.
Liam had not visited since that morning after the "lesson," a subtle shift in his strategy. He left me to my work, to the illusion of freedom within my opulent prison. But I felt his presence everywhere, in the guards’ silent patrols, in Natalia’s watchful eyes, in the sheer, inescapable weight of his control.
It was a suffocating thing, this constant awareness of being watched, owned.
It fueled my need to find something, anything, that could give me leverage.
My work on the tapestry led me to ponder the architecture of the penthouse itself.
Liam had acquired many of these pieces through dubious means, he admitted.
What other secrets did this place, his literal fortress, hold?
He was a man of shadows and hidden agendas.
It stood to reason his home would reflect that.
I’d explored the main public areas, my studio, and my bedroom, but his private chambers, and other less-trafficked wings, remained a mystery.
One afternoon, fueled by a restless energy and a prickling sense of unease, I abandoned the tapestry.
I wandered down a long, unused hallway off the main gallery, a passage I hadn't truly investigated before.
The air grew cooler here, thicker, carrying a faint, musty scent that hinted at disuse.
The walls were lined with heavy, dark wood paneling, ornate and old-fashioned, a stark contrast to the sleek modernity of the rest of the penthouse.
It felt out of place, almost like a piece of an older building stitched into a newer one.
My fingers traced the intricate carvings, seeking an imperfection, a seam.
My historian's eye, trained to spot discrepancies, noticed it near a large, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with leather-bound volumes that looked more decorative than read.
A section of the paneling, slightly misaligned, almost imperceptible.
I pressed, I prodded, running my hands along the edges.
Behind a heavy, unmarked book—a decoy, no doubt—my fingers found a faint ridge, a barely visible latch.
With a quiet click, the section of the wall swung inward, revealing a narrow, dust-choked passage.
My heart hammered against my ribs. A secret passage.
Just like in the gothic novels I devoured as a teenager, only this was real.
And infinitely more dangerous. I stepped inside, the air heavy and cool against my skin.
The passage was short, leading to a small, windowless room, sparsely furnished but lined with old, steel filing cabinets and a heavy, ancient-looking wooden chest. This wasn't a room for living. This was a room for secrets. Liam’s secrets.
My hands trembled as I opened the nearest filing cabinet.
Inside, tucked away in neat, organized folders, were documents.
Old deeds, financial ledgers, blurry black-and-white photographs.
Many were in Cyrillic, a language I only vaguely recognized, but some were in English, detailing properties, investments, and names that meant nothing to me. Yet.
One folder, thicker than the rest, drew my attention.
It was simply labeled "Family." I pulled it out, my fingers brushing against yellowed paper.
Inside, were photographs. Pictures of a younger Liam, maybe ten or twelve, looking stern even then, standing beside an older, menacing man with the same steel-gray eyes – his father, no doubt.
There were other faces too, men and women I didn't recognize, some looking formal, others caught in candid, brutal moments, their faces hard, shadowed.
The kind of faces that promised violence.
But what truly snagged my breath was a faded sepia photograph tucked into the very back.
It showed a group of men, dressed in old-fashioned suits, standing in front of a grand, dilapidated building.
A crest was visible above the entrance, a symbol I had seen before, subtly woven into one of the smaller, older tapestries in Liam’s private collection.
And written faintly on the back of the photo, in a looping, elegant script that contrasted sharply with the harshness of the image, was a name: Konstantin Volkov.
I'd never heard it before, but the sense of its importance thrummed through me.
This was it. A thread, waiting to be pulled.
I spent another hour, carefully sifting through more files, my mind racing.
Documents mentioning land holdings, an obscure, defunct shipping company, and repeated references to a "pact" or "agreement" made decades ago. Nothing concrete, nothing that explained my family’s debt, but enough to paint a picture of a sprawling, insidious network, stretching back generations. Enough to confirm that Liam’s power was not merely built on brute force, but on a carefully constructed, ancient foundation of secrets and blood.
I replaced everything, making sure the paneling closed perfectly.
My hands were clammy, my heart still racing.
I had found something. A weakness, perhaps, or at least a crack in his impenetrable armor.
This wasn't about the art anymore. This was about him.
And now, I had a piece of his past, a name: Konstantin Volkov.
Later that evening, the heavy weight of my secret pressed down on me.
I needed to use it. Not to expose him yet, not to escape, but to gauge his reaction, to see how deep the rabbit hole went.
I needed to see if the monster had a past he wished to keep buried, a chink in his armor that I could exploit.
I found him in his private study, a room I rarely dared to enter, lined with more dark wood and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books in multiple languages.
He sat behind a massive, antique desk, bathed in the soft glow of a reading lamp, a tumbler of whiskey at his elbow, a cigar smoldering in an ashtray.
He was engrossed in a document, his face grim, his brow furrowed.
He looked formidable, unapproachable, a king on his throne.
I took a deep breath, the scent of expensive cigar smoke and old leather filling my lungs.
I was still wearing the simple black dress Natalia had provided, a stark, elegant sheath that hugged my curves.
I walked in, not knocking, just as I had done last night.
He didn't look up immediately, a silent challenge in his apparent indifference. He knew I was there. He always knew.
"Morozov," I said, my voice deliberately calm, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel.
He slowly lowered the document, his steel-gray eyes rising to meet mine.
There was no surprise, only a cool, assessing gaze that stripped me bare.
"Rose," he rumbled, his voice low, a note of dark amusement in it.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled visit?
Have you finally decided to offer me a formal apology for your insolence? "
I walked closer, my steps slow, deliberate, the sound of my heels muted by the plush carpet. I stopped a few feet from his desk, the expanse of polished wood a barrier between us. "I came to ask you a question."
He leaned back in his chair, a faint, humorless smile playing on his lips.
"You always have questions. And I, sometimes, have answers.
What is it this time? More about the provenance of my Etruscan mirrors?
Or perhaps you've decided to decipher the coded messages in my tapestry?
" His eyes glinted, a predatory spark within their depths. He was testing me, waiting.
"Something far older," I said, my voice dropping, imbued with a subtle challenge.
My gaze was unwavering, daring him. "Something...
about your family's history. About the people who helped build this empire.
" I paused, letting the implication hang in the air, watching his face for any flicker of reaction.
There was none, outwardly. But I felt a subtle shift in the air, a sharpening of his attention.
"Specifically, a name. Konstantin Volkov. "