I want to argue, to defend myself, but the truth is I don't know what my presence has cost her. I don't know anything about Ilya's world beyond what I've seen, what I've experienced from the confines of where he’s kept me. I'm as much a prisoner of circumstance as she is.
"I didn't choose this," I whisper quietly. "Any of it."
Svetlana laughs bitterly. "None of us choose this."
We fall into silence, and I tug at the zipties again, knowing it’s useless but feeling as if I can’t just sit here and wait to see what happens next. I can hear her breathing, harsh and uneven, and I wonder if she's crying or just trying not to.
"Do you know who took us?" I ask after a while.
She shakes her head. “No. No clue. If we’re both here, I can guess it has something to do with Ilya.” She shifts, and I hear the plastic of her zip ties creaking. “Some mob bullshit that has nothing to do with either of us but is going to get us killed anyway.” She licks her lips, the sound loud in the stillness. “I’m guessing it’s whoever is in charge in this part of New York, whoever Ilya’s rival is here, and he doesn’t realize that Ilya broke our engagement. I’m probably leverage.” She snorts, and there’s a hopeless sound to it. “Some fucking leverage.”
I think about Ilya, about the way he left tonight without telling me where he was going or why. Whatever happens next, my resolve that I can’t give myself to him without him trusting me in return only hardens. I should have known what he was doing. I should have knownsomethingabout what was happening, so I wouldn’t be sitting here in a warehouse in the dark in more ways than one. So I’d at least have knowledge to arm myself with, if nothing else.
I want to believe that I matter enough to Ilya that he'd do anything to get me back. But another part—the part that remembers his coldness, his distance, his inability to let me in—wonders if I'm just another possession to him. Something valuable that was stolen, but not irreplaceable.
Svetlana was replaceable, after all. With me. And even though Ilya says it’s not the same, that he didn’t choose her for desire but for strategy, that I’m the only woman he’s ever wanted the way he wants me, maybe I’ve pushed him too far.
Maybe my demand was enough to crack that obsession. Maybe instead of negotiating with Sergei, who I feel strongly is probably the one keeping us here, he’ll just tell him to go fuck himself and go back to Boston.
I work at the zip ties, trying to find any give, any weakness. My wrists are slick with what feels like blood or sweat, and the plastic cuts deeper with every movement. But I keep trying, because sitting here waiting for whatever comes next isn't an option.
"Stop struggling," Svetlana says. "You'll just make it worse."
"I'm not going to just sit here."
"What choice do we have?"
"There's always a choice." I twist my wrists, ignoring the pain. "Even if it's just choosing not to give up."
She's quiet for a moment. "You really don't know anything about this world, do you?"
"No," I admit. "I don't. But I know I'm not going to wait around to be rescued or killed or whatever Sergei has planned. I'm going to find a way out."
“Sergei?” She pauses. “You know who took us?”
“Maybe. Ilya said someone named Sergei is in charge of the New York Bratva. He came after me once before—or sent someone, anyway—because he didn’t like Ilya being in his territory.”
“So this really is your fucking fault.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all. We sit in silence for a while, the only sounds our breathing and the occasional creak of the building settling. My fingers are going numb, but I keep searching for any edge, any rough surface I can use to saw through the plastic.
"I never wanted to marry him, you know," Svetlana says suddenly. "Ilya."
I pause, surprised by the admission. "Then why?—"
“My father wanted his business connections. The two of them on their own are formidable, but together, with my father’s additional connections in Moscow and Ilya’s empire here, they’d be practically unstoppable. Or at least he thinks so. Our first meeting was arranged two years ago and I was told to do whatever was necessary to secure the engagement.” She lets out a breath. “I didn’t like him at first. He’s cold and detached, and it was clear his only interest in me was financial. That his interest inanybride would be financial. But…” She pauses. “I made the mistake, over two years, of actually thinking I could find a crack in his armor. That I couldfixhim.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “I thought I was falling for him. And he never felt a shred of that for me. Meanwhile, my father was already plotting how to expand with the connections he’d gain. I still haven’t told him that it’s…” She trails off.
I bite my lip, feeling a spasm of guilt, even though I didn’t ask for Ilya to become obsessed with me. "It's not your fault."
"That doesn’t matter." She sounds tired. "In this world, everything is someone's fault. Every failure, every weakness, it has to be punished."
I want to argue, to tell her that's not true, but I can't. Because from what I've seen, she's right. This world Ilya lives in, this world I've been dragged into—it doesn't allow for weakness.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
“For what?” Svetlana snorts.
"For being part of the reason he broke the engagement. For... existing, I guess."
