9
ALINA
The commotion starts as a distant rumble that pulls me from the edge of sleep. Raised voices. Heavy footsteps. The sound of multiple vehicles arriving at once.
I sit up in bed, my heart already racing. Something is wrong.
I throw off the covers and rush to the window, pressing my palms against the cool glass. The view of the front drive steals my breath. Black SUVs line the circular driveway like a funeral procession, at least six of them, maybe more. Armed men pour out, taking positions around the estate with military precision. I recognize the vehicles immediately.
My father is here.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. Part of me wants to run downstairs, to throw myself into his arms and beg him to take me away from this nightmare. To rescue me from Dimitri Morozov and this gilded cage. But another part, a part that's grown stronger in the past few days, hesitates.
I think about the security footage Dimitri showed me. The coordinated attack at the church. The documents I haven't seen yet but that Dimitri claims exist, linking my father to the Kozlov family. The way my father's face looked on that news broadcast, tearful and desperate, but somehow wrong. Rehearsed.
I press my forehead against the glass, watching as more of my father's men spread out across the grounds. Dimitri's guards are there too, weapons visible, creating a tense standoff. This could turn violent in seconds.
A knock at my door makes me jump.
"Come in," I call, my voice steadier than I feel.
Dimitri enters, already dressed despite the early hour. He's wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, and I can see the outline of a weapon at his hip. His green eyes find mine immediately, assessing, calculating.
"Your father is here," he says, his tone neutral. "He's demanding to see you. To verify that you're unharmed."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware that I'm wearing only a thin nightgown. "I heard the vehicles."
Dimitri moves closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with coffee. He's been awake for a while, probably monitoring the situation. "Do you want to see him?"
The question surprises me. It's the first time since he brought me here that he's given me a real choice about anything. I study his face, looking for the trap, the manipulation. But all I see is genuine inquiry.
"Yes," I say. "But I want you there. I want you present."
Something flickers in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or approval. "Get dressed. Something appropriate. We'll go down together."
He turns to leave, giving me privacy, but I stop him with a question. "Dimitri? What if he tries to take me by force?"
He looks back at me, and the expression on his face is absolutely cold. "He won't. Not if he wants to leave here alive."
After he's gone, I move to the closet and select clothes carefully. Not the borrowed designer pieces but the simple jeans and sweater I wore yesterday. I want to look like myself, not like someone Dimitri has dressed up. I pull my red hair back into a ponytail and skip makeup entirely. My father needs to see that I'm really me, really unharmed.
But as I'm getting dressed, my hands shake. Because I don't know what I want anymore. Do I want my father to rescue me? Do I want to go back to the Popov house, back to my old life? The life where I was being sold off to Sergei Morozov like a piece of property?
Or do I want to stay here with a man who kidnapped me but also saved my life? A man who's given me more honest answers in three days than my father gave me in twenty-two years?
I don't have time to figure it out. Dimitri returns, knocking once before entering. His eyes sweep over me, and he nods approval at my clothing choice.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No. But let's go anyway."
We walk downstairs together, and I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me. He doesn't touch me, doesn't guide me with a hand on my back like he did before. He's giving me space,letting me approach this on my own terms. It's a small thing, but it matters.
The grand foyer is crowded with men. Dimitri's guards line the walls, weapons visible but not raised. And in the center, surrounded by his own soldiers, stands my father.
Viktor Popov looks exactly as he did on the news broadcast. Expensive suit, perfectly styled hair, an expression of paternal concern etched on his face. But when his eyes meet mine, I see something underneath the mask. Something cold and calculating that makes my stomach turn.
"Alina!" He moves toward me, arms outstretched, and I find myself walking forward to meet him. It's instinct, muscle memory from a lifetime of being his daughter.
