Chapter 17 #2
"Your life right now is staying alive," he said, each word deliberate. "Alive and safe. That's more important than any job."
"But—"
"No buts," he said, turning toward the bedroom. "You're not going anywhere today. I need to go out and handle things. My men will stay to protect you."
"Sergei!"
"This isn't a request, Ella." He stopped at the bedroom door, looking back at me. Those gray eyes held no warmth. "This is my decision."
Then he walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
I stood in the dining room, staring at that closed door, fingers unconsciously twisting my shirt.
Something rose in my chest—not tears. Something sharper.
Anger.
And hurt.
What gave him the right to decide for me?
What gave him the right to arrange my entire life without asking my opinion?
I knew he meant well.
But this wasn't the kind of "well" I wanted.
Misha came over, nuzzled my hand, and let out a soft whine.
"Misha," I crouched down, hugging her, burying my face in her fur. "What am I supposed to do?"
Twenty minutes later, Sergei left.
He'd changed back into his three-piece suit, hair slicked back perfectly, transformed back into that cold, unapproachable CEO.
"Porter will stay," he said, gesturing to the brown-haired man at the door. "Tell him if you need anything."
Porter nodded at me. He looked mid-thirties, solidly built, with a faint scar running from his brow to his cheekbone.
"And," Sergei came close, voice dropping so only I could hear, "don't leave this apartment. It's safe here."
"I know," I said, but my tone was cold. "I won't run off. Your orders, boss."
His brow furrowed, like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he said nothing. Just looked at me once, then turned and left.
The door closed softly, but in the quiet apartment it sounded especially clear.
I stood in the entryway, staring at that closed door, taking a deep breath.
Then I turned and looked at the living room.
Porter had already settled into a corner chair, pulling out his phone to handle something.
I sat on the couch, holding Misha, staring at the snow outside.
The apartment was too quiet. Like I'd been sealed in a glass case. The world outside kept turning, but it had nothing to do with me anymore.
I pulled out my phone and texted Tony. "Sorry, can't make it today. Family emergency."
He replied quickly. "No problem. Stay safe."
I stared at that message for a long time, then set my phone face-down on the couch.
Another lost paycheck.
This month's payment plan would need adjusting.
Maybe I could pick up more translation work.
"Miss Collins?"
Porter's voice interrupted my thoughts.
I looked up.
"Are you alright?" he asked, concern in his eyes.
"I'm fine," I said, but it didn't sound convincing.
"If you need anything, please let me know," he said.
"I—" I hesitated. "Can I walk around?"
Porter looked surprised.
"Of course. You can go anywhere here."
"Thanks."
I stood up, taking Misha with me, and started walking through the apartment. Porter followed at a respectful distance.
I'd been to this apartment before.
It was months ago—that late Friday night when I'd pushed through this door as a cleaner, carrying a mop and cleaning supplies, spending two full hours making every tile shine.
Back then, this place was just a work site to me.
A space that needed cleaning, strange, having nothing to do with me.
I remembered standing in the living room that night, looking at that heated pool, legs trembling with exhaustion, then on impulse jumping in—
Then everything changed.
Now I stood here again.
Not as a cleaner, not as an intruder, but as—
As what?
His woman? Someone he was protecting? Or a temporary guest who'd leave once the danger passed?
I walked through the living room, fingers trailing over the sofa's armrest, stopping before that painting of a Moscow winter.
"This painting," I said softly, "I remember spending forever cleaning the frame."
Porter came up beside me.
"This is one of Mr. Volkov's most treasured pieces," he said. "His mother left it to him."
"His mother?"
"Yes," Porter nodded. "When she left, she only left this painting, and—" He glanced down at Misha.
"And Misha," I said.
"Yes." Porter's tone held a kind of nostalgia. "Misha was brought back from Russia by Mr. Volkov ten years ago. She was still an unweaned puppy. Mr. Volkov hand-raised her."
I crouched down, looking at Misha's gentle face.
"Misha," I said softly, fingers combing through her fur, "you're really important to him, aren't you?"
Misha's tail wagged slightly.
I looked up at that Moscow painting.
Gray sky, black horizon, that thin white line between them.
This man who ruled this city with an iron fist, ruthless and cold—yet he'd hand-raised an unweaned puppy.
"What kind of man is he, Porter?" I asked.
Porter looked at me, something complex in his eyes.
"He's the best boss I've ever had," he said. "And the most dangerous enemy."
"Doesn't that contradict?"
"No," Porter said. "Because he knows which face to use when."
We kept walking.
The study was to the left of the living room, door half-open. I pushed it open. Sunlight streamed through the window onto floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
I remembered this room.
I'd spent ages cleaning here that night, dusting every shelf with a feather duster, carefully removing each book, wiping away dust, putting it back.
Back then, I thought this guy must be boring. Who keeps this many books at home?
Now I stood here, reading the titles on those spines.
Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture, Light and Shadow, The Image of the City—all professional architecture books, many with dog-eared pages, some with sticky notes.
"Does he read here often?" I asked.
"Every night," Porter said. "If he's not working, he spends hours here."
I walked to the desk.
The surface was neat, just a computer, a desk lamp, and a picture frame.
I'd cleaned that frame that night, carefully, afraid of breaking it. I hadn't looked closely at who was in the photo—cleaners shouldn't pry into employers' privacy.
But now—
I picked up the frame.
The photo was black and white, slightly yellowed. A woman in a sixties-style dress, hair pinned up, smiling. She had light-colored eyes that crinkled when she smiled.
She was beautiful.
"That's his mother."
Porter stood in the doorway.
"Is she—" I hesitated. "Is she still around?"
"No," Porter said. "She left when Mr. Volkov was fifteen. Went to Paris. Never came back."
I looked at the smiling woman in the photo, an indescribable feeling rising in my chest.
"Does he miss her?"
Porter was quiet for a moment.
"I don't know," he said. "Mr. Volkov never talks about it. But this photo, it's always in the place he spends the most time."
I set the frame back down, fingers lingering on the edge for a second.
When I cleaned this frame that night, I just thought it was old and precious.
Now I knew why.
We left the study and continued on.
Gym, wine cellar, and a small home theater. I'd cleaned every room, but back then, they were just spaces needing to be cleaned.
Now they held different meaning.
This was where he worked out, where he spent time alone, where he lived.
"Does he live here alone most of the time?" I asked.
"Mostly," Porter said. "The family mansion—it's complicated. This place is quieter."
"What do you mean, complicated?"
Porter looked at me, seeming to weigh how much to say.
"The family mansion is the heart of the family," he said. "There are many people there, many rules, many—unavoidable things. This is where he can escape temporarily."
"And he's sharing it with me," I murmured, unsure what to feel.
Should I feel warm? This lonely, cold man had opened his safe haven to me alone.
But why couldn't I feel any happiness about it now?
I walked to the end of the hallway. There was a door different from the others—dark solid wood with an old-fashioned brass handle engraved with intricate patterns.
This door had been locked that night.
I remembered trying to open it, couldn't, and gave up.
Now my hand was on the handle again.
"Miss Collins—"
Porter's voice came from behind, carrying a clear warning.
I turned to look at him.
"That room," he said, expression serious now, "Mr. Volkov doesn't allow anyone in."
"Why?"
"I'm sorry," he paused. "That room is absolutely forbidden."
My heart started racing.
"What's in there?"
Porter hesitated.
"I can't say, Miss Collins," he said. "That's not for me to reveal. If you want to know, you should ask Mr. Volkov himself."
I stared at that door, fingers lingering on the handle.
Okay, people should have their secrets, I should understand—I should think that, but everything that happened these past few days made my rationality fly away like a helium balloon.
"So is he planning to destroy the world? Like there's a nuclear bomb in there?" I said sarcastically.
But Porter acted like he hadn't heard me, expression unchanged. "Some things—the less you know, the safer you are."
That reminded me of what Sergei said at breakfast.
They were both saying the same thing—for my own good, they wouldn't tell me.
But this wasn't for my own good.
This was treating me like a fool.
I suddenly felt my one-sided argument with Porter made me look like an idiot.
I slowly removed my hand from the handle.
"Fine," I said, turning away. "I won't look."
Porter relaxed.
We returned to the living room. I sat on the couch, and Misha jumped up, resting her head on my lap.
"Porter," I said, "how long have you been with Sergei?"
"Five years."
"Did he save you?"
Porter froze, expression turning guarded.
"How did you know?"
"What you said earlier," I said. "You said he's the best boss you've ever had. Usually when people say that, there's a reason."
Porter was quiet.
"Yes," he finally admitted. "He saved me."
"Can you tell me?"
He looked at me, seeming to weigh something.
"Five years ago, I was badly injured in a... conflict," he said, hand unconsciously touching the scar on his face. "A bullet grazed my face, heavy bleeding. I was lying in an alley, thought I was going to die."
"Then?"
"Then Mr. Volkov passed by," he said. "He could've just walked past. In that situation, getting involved usually means trouble. But he stopped. Had someone take me to the hospital, paid all the medical bills."
"Why did he save you?"
Porter shook his head.
"I don't know."
I looked at the scar on his face, pale white in the sunlight.
"So you followed him."
"So I followed him," Porter said. "These five years have been the most meaningful of my life."
"Even though—" I paused. "Even though what he does isn't all legal?"
Porter's expression changed.
"Miss Collins," he said, tone cautious, "I don't know how much you understand, but—"
"I know he's not an ordinary businessman," I said. "I know those men last night weren't ordinary thieves. I'm not stupid, Porter."
He looked at me, silent for a long time.
"Mr. Volkov's business," he finally said, carefully choosing each word, "isn't all... above board. But he has his principles, his lines he won't cross."
"What principles?"
"He won't hurt innocent people," Porter said. "He won't touch certain things—things even people in this line shouldn't touch."
"Like?"
Porter hesitated.
"Miss Collins, these things really aren't for me to say—"
"Then who can?" I interrupted. "Sergei won't tell me, you can't say. So how am I supposed to know what kind of man I'm with?"
"I know it's hard, but—"
His phone suddenly rang.
He glanced at the screen, expression changing, and immediately answered.
"Yes."
He spoke a few sentences in Russian, tone urgent.
Then hung up and looked at me.
"Miss Collins," he said, "Mr. Volkov asked me to tell you he might be very late tonight. You should rest, don't wait up."
"Is he," I hesitated, "is he okay?"
"He's fine," Porter said. "Things are just more complicated than expected."
I looked at him, then finally nodded.
"Okay."
I turned and walked back to the bedroom, closing the door.
Leaning against it, I closed my eyes.
Trust him.
I needed to trust him.
But he didn't trust me.
He wouldn't tell me the truth, wouldn't let me participate, wouldn't let me make any decisions.
He'd locked me in this apartment like I was fragile porcelain he needed to protect.
But I wasn't porcelain.
I was a living, breathing person with my own thoughts, my own choices.
I walked to the window, looking out at Manhattan.
Snow was still falling, painting the whole city white.
And I—
I was trapped in this glass case, waiting for the snow to stop, waiting for him to come back, waiting for—
Waiting for this to end.
But when would it end?
And after it ended, what would Sergei and I become?
I didn't know.