Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Ella
I jolted awake.
My heart was still racing, like something was chasing me. The images from my dream were still vivid—those three masked men, the red words on the wall, and that hand covering my mouth, rough, reeking of cigarettes, making it almost impossible to breathe.
I sat up, gasping for air, clutching the comforter tight.
The room was dark, curtains drawn tight, just a sliver of sunlight leaking through the gap.
This wasn't my room.
The ceiling was too high, the bed too big, and the air carried a faint scent of expensive diffuser—not the drugstore kind I used, but something refined, subtle.
Then the memories came flooding back like a tide.
Last night.
The apartment.
The masked men.
The words on the wall.
And Sergei.
I got out of bed, bare feet on the plush carpet, stumbling to the window. I yanked the curtains open.
The sunlight made me squint.
Outside was Central Park, trees bare, covered in a thin layer of snow, gleaming white in the sun. The skyline stretched clear in the distance, skyscrapers stacked like building blocks.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down.
Just a nightmare. You're safe now. You're in Sergei's apartment.
My phone sat face-down on the nightstand. I picked it up and checked—nine-thirty in the morning.
Nine-thirty.
I'd never slept this late. Even on weekends, I was up by seven—working odd jobs, doing chores, paying off debt. "Sleeping in" wasn't an option in my life.
But last night I'd been wrecked.
Not just physically tired—it was like someone had wrung me out completely, shaken everything loose inside me, then tossed me on the ground.
I changed into yesterday's clothes—the sweater was wrinkled, pants too. My hair must've looked like a bird's nest, but I couldn't worry about that now.
I pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway.
The apartment was quiet. The heat was on full blast, and the air smelled faintly of coffee, and—eggs frying?
I followed the scent to the living room, then stopped.
In the kitchen, Sergei stood at the stove wearing charcoal gray loungewear and a white T-shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He held a spatula, staring at something in the pan with the same focus he'd give an important document.
Misha lay at his feet, tail occasionally sweeping the floor, amber eyes fixed on the pan, clearly waiting for something good to drop.
This scene—
It was too surreal.
Sergei Volkov, the CEO who was cold enough in the office to make your legs weak, the man who'd stood in my trashed apartment last night with murder in his eyes, was now in the kitchen frying eggs.
And judging by the burnt smell, doing it badly.
"You're awake."
He looked up, saw me, and his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but softer than usual.
"Yeah," I said, voice still hoarse, probably from crying too much last night.
"Breakfast is almost ready," he said, looking back down at his battle with the pan. "Go sit."
I walked stiffly to the dining table and sat down.
Two place settings were already laid out, along with orange juice, bread, and butter. Everything looked normal, like an ordinary morning in an ordinary household.
But we weren't ordinary.
My fingers tapped lightly on the table. I didn't know what to say.
The atmosphere felt awkward.
That kind of awkward—where so much happened last night, but this morning you don't know how to face each other.
"Did you sleep okay?" he asked, back turned.
"Fine," I said. "The bed's comfortable."
"Good."
Silence descended again.
I heard the spatula scraping in the pan, Misha yawning, distant car horns.
Then—
"Shit."
He cursed under his breath.
I looked up to see him holding the spatula, staring at the pan, brow deeply furrowed.
"What's wrong?"
"The eggs," he said, defeat clear in his tone. "They're burnt."
I couldn't help standing up and walking over.
The eggs in the pan—or what used to be eggs—had become a blackened, curled-edge thing giving off a strong burnt smell.
I stared for two seconds, then—
I burst out laughing.
He turned to look at me, expression helpless but lips twitching upward. "Don't laugh."
"I'm sorry," I tried to stop but couldn't, "I just—didn't expect you to—"
"To what?"
"To burn them this bad." I pointed at the black lump. "That's not an egg anymore. That's coal."
He stared at the pan for two seconds, then laughed too.
The smile appeared suddenly, like ice cracking open to reveal water beneath. Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes.
"Alright," he said, setting down the spatula. "I admit it. I'm not good at this."
"You don't know how at all," I said, tone light, amused.
He shrugged. "I usually order in, or someone brings it."
"Then why did you—"
I stopped mid-sentence, suddenly realizing the answer.
He'd wanted to make me breakfast.
He wanted me to wake up to hot food.
That realization made my heart skip hard.
"Never mind," I said, trying to keep my voice normal. "I'll do it."
"You can cook?"
"Better than you." I took the spatula. "Move. Watch me."
He stepped back, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
I dumped the "coal" in the trash, reheated the pan, added oil, waited for it to warm, then cracked two eggs in.
"Keep the heat low," I said as I worked. "Otherwise, they burn. And you have to watch them constantly. Don't zone out."
"Okay."
"You had the heat too high, didn't you?"
"Probably," he said. "I thought higher heat meant faster cooking."
"That's for boiling water, not frying eggs." I gently nudged the egg white's edge with the spatula. "See, now the edges are setting but the center's still liquid. That's when you flip."
I flipped it smoothly. The egg sizzled in the pan.
"You're good at this," he said.
"Because I've done it for years," I said without turning. "At the orphanage, we took turns cooking. Later, when I lived alone, I had to cook for myself."
He didn't respond.
But I could feel his gaze on my back, that weight, warm, like something pressing gently.
"Done." I slid the egg onto a plate and handed it to him. "Try it."
He took it, picked up a fork, cut a small piece, and put it in his mouth.
"How is it?" I asked.
He chewed, swallowed, then nodded.
"Delicious."
"Really?"
"Really," he said, cutting another piece. "A hundred times better than mine."
I smiled and fried one for myself.
We sat at the dining table side by side, eating eggs and bread. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the orange juice glasses gleam.
Misha lay at our feet, occasionally nuzzling my calf or patting Sergei's pant leg with her paw.
This morning—
If I didn't think about last night, if I didn't think about my situation, if I didn't think about those words on the wall and those three masked men.
This morning was actually beautiful.
But I had to think about it.
And suddenly I remembered—
Today was Wednesday.
Wednesday at two p.m., I had a shift at Tony's.
"Sergei," I set down my fork, "I need to go to work today."
"You're not going anywhere," he interrupted, tone calm but with something unyielding in it.
"But I already confirmed my schedule."
"I'll handle it with the company," he said. "You can work remotely or just take leave."
"Not company work," I said. "My restaurant shift."
He looked up at me.
"Two o'clock this afternoon," I said. "I need to work at Tony's."
"No."
"What?"
"You can't go," he said, setting down his fork and turning to face me fully. "Ella, it's not safe out there."
"But I can't just not show up," I said, voice rising slightly. "I need that job, I need that paycheck to—"
"I can pay off your debts," he cut me off, tone still calm, like he was stating something simple. "You don't need to work those jobs anymore."
I froze.
"You—what did you say?"
"The two hundred thousand you owe," he said. "I can pay it off for you."
The words hit like a slap—sharp, loud, right across my face.
"Are you joking?"
"I'm not," he said. "Ella, I just—"
"What do you think I am?" I stood up, the chair scraping harshly behind me. "You think I'm the kind of woman who can be bought?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" My voice shook. "You say you can pay my debt, and then what? Then I owe you? Then I have to do what you say, stay here, go nowhere?"
"Ella!"
"I don't need your money!" I cut him off. "That's my debt. Mine to pay!"
He stood up and came toward me.
"But it's not your debt," he said, voice rising slightly. "It's Dmitri's! He took out loans in your name, then disappeared. Why should you pay?"
"Because the name is mine!" I said. "Because I was stupid enough to trust him, because I signed those papers! So—"
I took a deep breath, trying to calm down.
"So it's my responsibility."
"Your responsibility is to spend two years working three jobs and running yourself into the ground?" he said, something unreadable in his eyes. "Look at yourself, Ella. You're too thin, you sleep less than five hours a night, you—"
"That's my choice!"
"It's a terrible choice!"
We stared at each other, both breathing hard.
The living room was terrifyingly quiet, just our ragged breathing.
"Sergei," I finally said, trying to steady my voice. "I know you want to help. I'm grateful you saved me last night. But those debts—I have to pay them myself. It's the only thing I can still control."
He looked at me, brow tightly furrowed.
"You don't need to control this," he said. "You just need to—"
"Need to what?" I interrupted. "Just stay here like some—like some pet, waiting to be fed, waiting to be protected, waiting for you to decide when to let me out?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
He fell silent.
"I just want to protect you," he finally said, voice dropping. "Ella, those men, they're after me. If you go out, they'll find you again. I can't let that happen."
"But I can't hide here forever," I said. "Sergei, I have my life, my work. I have the right to control my own freedom!"