Ivan leaves past noon—pressed suit, sharp lines, not a wrinkle out of place. He doesn’t say where he’s headed, but he doesn’t have to.
“Business,” he called it. I think I know what kind of business, but I don’t ask to confirm. I don’t want the answer. The dark possibilities that surround him terrify me. For now, I’d rather remain ignorant.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with Pyotr.
Ivan is dangerous in a sleek, controlled way. Pyotr’s danger circles more like a natural disaster. Six-five at least, with shoulders broad enough to block doorways and a neck thicker than my thigh, he positions himself in front of the elevator. His arms remain crossed and his face expressionless.
I wait five minutes, testing if he’ll move.
Then ten.
He doesn't. Not an ounce of muscle relaxes.
"I need to leave," I say finally.
He stares at the wall above my head as if I haven't spoken at all.
"This is illegal. Kidnapping. False imprisonment." I movecloser, trying to make him acknowledge me. "You could go to jail for this."
He gives me nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. It's like talking to a statue that occasionally blinks.
"Please." I hate the pleading edge in my voice. "I want to go home."
His jaw tightens. That's it. That's the only indication he's heard me at all.
I try reasoning with him. "I have a job. A landlord who'll notice when I don't pay rent. People who'll ask questions. Someone will realize I'm missing."
That gets me more of nothing. "My coworkers will call the police. Dave will wonder where I am."
Still nothing.
"You can't keep people locked up forever. Eventually, someone will notice."
When that fails, I switch tactics. "I'll scream. These walls can't be that soundproof. I'll call the cops the second you turn your back, too. Hell, I’ll break a window. Watch me."
His expression doesn't change.
"I'll tell everyone what Ivan's done, what you're both doing. I'll testify. I'll?—"
He shifts slightly, and I take it as progress.
"Just let me walk out," I plead, working the compassion angle instead of continuing on with threats. "I won't tell anyone, I swear. I'll disappear. Move cities. Change my name. Whatever you want. You'll never see me again."
More silence.
Each new attempt crashes against the wall of his silence and breaks apart.
Finally, I give up and explore the penthouse, looking for exits. Searching for options. Desperate for anything that might bring freedom.
The windows are floor-to-ceiling glass, offering apanoramic view of Chicago spread out below like a promise I can't reach.
The balcony door is locked, and when I rattle it, Pyotr lets out a low rumble of warning, like a dog growling. I step away, undeterred fromthatoption but still determined to get out before Ivan’s return.
Soon, I discover that the private elevator requires a code. I try obvious combinations and then random guesses. The panel beeps and flashes an angry red each time.
After the fifth failed attempt, Pyotr moves. It’s a shift of his weight, but the message is clear: stop.
I retreat to the guest room, feeling more trapped than ever. The luxury that seemed impressive yesterday is more like gilding on prison bars now.
