I launched into my first argument anyway. The Thirteenth Amendment. Involuntary servitude. How I'd committed no crime and therefore any arrangement requiring my labor without freely given consent was unconstitutional and unenforceable.
He ate while I talked. Calm, methodical bites. Occasionally sipping his wine. Never interrupting.
I moved to my second argument. Debt bondage explicitly illegal under federal trafficking law. The obligation incurred by my father, not me. Transferring it without my consent constituting trafficking under the legal definition.
Still no response. He just kept eating. Kept listening with those grey analytical eyes that seemed to track every word, every hesitation, every place my voice wavered.
Third argument. Contracts signed under duress were unenforceable. Being drugged, hooded, and carried out of a building while people shot at me definitely qualified as duress. Any agreement made under those circumstances was void.
I finished. Set my notes down. My hands were shaking slightly. I pressed them flat against my thighs under the table.
Nikolai dabbed his mouth with his napkin. The linen was crisp, white, probably cost more than the stationery I'd written on. He set it down precisely, folded in thirds.
Then he met my eyes. "Well,devotchka, You're absolutely right."
I blinked. "What?"
"Every point you made is legally sound." His voice was matter-of-fact. Like he was confirming the weather. "The Thirteenth Amendment does prohibit involuntary servitude. Debt bondage is illegal under federal law. And contracts signed under duress are unenforceable."
My brain stuttered. He was agreeing with me. Why was he agreeing with me?
"Which is why," he continued, reaching for something beside his chair, "this isn't a legal contract. It's a practical one."
He slid a leather portfolio across the table. Dark brown, expensive, the kind lawyers carried. It landed between my plate and my wine glass, heavy with whatever was inside.
"You owe $2.3 million to people who were going to kill you for it," Nikolai said quietly. "I paid that debt. Now you owe me. But I'm offering significantly better repayment terms than they would have."
I stared at the portfolio. Didn't touch it. "What kind of terms?"
"Open it."
His voice had shifted. Still calm. Still controlled. But with an edge of command underneath. The kind of tone that expected obedience.
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to push the portfolio back across the table and tell him I wouldn't play whatever game this was.
But I needed to know. Needed to understand what he wanted. What I was actually facing.
I pulled the portfolio toward me. The leather was butter-soft under my fingers. I opened it.
Inside was a contract. Formal, beautifully printed on heavy cream paper. Maybe fifteen pages, bound with a black clip.
The header read:SERVICE AGREEMENT BETWEEN NIKOLAI DMITRIEVICH BESHAROV AND SOPHIE KATERINA VOLKOV.
My throat went dry. I started reading.
The language was clear. Professional. Nothing buried in legalese or hidden behind clauses designed to trap. I read fast, my photographic memory capturing every word, every provision, every detail.
TERM: Four years from date of signing.
SERVICES REQUIRED: Household management including but not limited to organization of records, scheduling,correspondence. Intelligence analysis including but not limited to review of documents, pattern identification, reporting of findings.
COMPENSATION: Complete forgiveness of $2,300,000 debt upon successful completion of term. Monthly stipend of $500 for personal expenses. Room and board provided at the Besharov compound. Medical care including dental and vision. Three meals daily prepared to dietary preferences.
I stopped. Read that part again. Dietary preferences. He'd included my food preferences in a service contract.
I kept reading.
WORKING HOURS: Flexible schedule to be determined by Pakhan Besharov, not to exceed 50 hours per week averaged monthly. Minimum one full day off per week. All major holidays observed.
