I'd been a dancer. An artist. Someone who moved through the world with grace and purpose and the certainty that my body could do beautiful things.
Now I was negotiating with criminals. Monsters.
I gathered my notes from the bed and folded them carefully, tucked them into the pocket of my leggings like a talisman.
At 6:58 PM, I left the room. The hallway was quiet, thickly carpeted, the kind of luxury that swallowed sound. I descended the stairs slowly, careful of my knee, my notes clutched in my left hand like a shield.
I reached the dining room door at exactly seven PM. Stood there. Became someone who could do this.
Then I opened the door and walked in to negotiate the terms of my captivity.
Theroomwassmallerthan I'd expected. More intimate. Not the intimidating dining hall I'd imagined, but something almost cozy—if you ignored the fact that I was a prisoner negotiating the terms of my servitude.
Exposed brick walls painted soft charcoal, the kind of designer grey that probably had a name like "urban shadow" or some other pretentious bullshit. Recessed lighting cast a warm glow that should have been relaxing. Three tall windows overlooked Brooklyn streets, the evening light fading to purple and gold.
The mahogany table seated eight but was set for two. At one end, positioned so we'd sit adjacent rather than across from each other. Like friends having dinner. Like this was normal.
Nothing about this was normal.
Nikolai stood when I entered. That old-world courtesy that made me feel simultaneously respected and patronized—like I was a guest instead of property he'd purchased. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Forearms on display, the kind that came from work rather than vanity. He looked less like a mob boss and more like someone's older brother. Approachable. Calm. Domestic.
The casualness should have made him less threatening. It didn't. Made him more dangerous, actually, because it was harder to remember what he was when he looked like that.
"Sophie. Please sit." His voice was warm. Welcoming. The kind of tone you used with someone you cared about.
I hated it. Hated how it made something in my chest loosen despite my best efforts.
The table held food. Actual food. Roasted chicken with herbs, the skin golden and crispy. Roasted vegetables that smelled like rosemary and garlic, still glistening with olive oil. A basket of bread, steam rising from the sliced pieces. A bottle of red wine, already open and breathing in the center of the table.
My stomach growled despite my determination to stay armored.
I moved to the chair he'd indicated—the one to his right—and sat stiffly. Immediately noticed the place setting. China, delicate with tiny blue flowers painted around the rim. The same pattern as the teacup this morning. Heavy silverware that probably cost a fortune. A crystal wine glass catching the light, refracting tiny rainbows onto the charcoal walls.
Everything about this setup screamed care and thoughtfulness. Which made me suspicious. Nikolai Besharovdidn't pay $2.2 million for me to treat me nice. This was strategy. Manipulation. Making me comfortable so I'd be easier to control.
I pulled my notes from my pocket. Set them on the table between us like a barrier. Physical proof that I wasn't here to be charmed or seduced into compliance. I was here to negotiate.
Nikolai sat. Reached for the serving dishes. Started putting food on my plate before serving himself.
Chicken breast, the meat white and tender when he cut into it. Roasted carrots and brussels sprouts, the vegetables caramelized at the edges. A piece of bread he took time to butter, the knife moving with precision.
The domesticity of it made my teeth clench. This wasn't what captors did. Captors didn't serve their prisoners dinner like they were family. Didn't butter their bread and make sure they had the tender part of the chicken breast.
Except he wasn't technically my captor. He was my—what? Owner? Employer? The man who'd paid my debt and now expected repayment in service?
The categories didn't fit right. Made my head hurt.
He filled my wine glass. Then his own. Set the bottle back in the center of the table and finally started serving himself. The whole process took maybe two minutes. Two minutes of watching those capable hands move with careful precision, plating food like it mattered.
“So. You can eat.”
I picked up my notes. Unfolded them.
"No. I’m not here for that. I've prepared several arguments," I started. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Regarding the legal issues with this arrangement."
Nikolai cut into his chicken. "I'm listening."
He was too relaxed. Too comfortable. Like he'd expected this and prepared for it.
