I pull free and head for the stairs.
The east wing is quieter than the rest of the house, the corridor lined with dark wood paneling and portraits of people I don't recognize. Kashkin ancestors, probably, their painted eyes following me as I pass. The gothic atmosphere feels heavier here, the shadows deeper.
I find the office at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar, and I hear Misha's voice—low, tense, speaking in rapid Russian.
I wait. Count my heartbeats. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty.
The conversation ends. Silence.
I push the door open.
Misha is behind a massive desk, phone still in his hand, dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept at all—his jaw shadowed with stubble, his sweater rumpled. For a moment, he just stares at me, something unreadable flickering across his face.
"Bianca."
"What's happening?" I don't bother with pleasantries. "Why are there a dozen new men outside? What changed?"
He sets the phone down slowly. Deliberately. Buying time, I realize, to decide how much to tell me.
"Don't." I step into the room, closing the door behind me. "Don't decide what I can handle. I'm not a child, and I'm not fragile. If something is happening that affects my life—my safety—I have a right to know."
He watches me for a long moment. Then he reaches for something on his desk—his phone—and holds it out to me.
"This arrived last night."
I take the phone. The screen shows a text message from an unknown number. Below the number, an image.
Me.
On the stage at the auction, bathed in white light, my face frozen in an expression of pure terror. The moment beforeI found my composure, before I raised my chin and pretended to be brave. I look young in the photo. Vulnerable. Exactly like what I was—a woman being sold to the highest bidder.
Below the image, four words:She belongs to me.
My hands don't shake. I'm distantly proud of that.
"Sergei," I say.
"Yes."
"He sent this to you. To provoke you."
"Yes."
I stare at the photo a moment longer, then hand the phone back. "What does it mean? Tactically?"
Misha blinks. Whatever reaction he expected, it wasn't that.
"It means he's making this personal," he says slowly. "He's not just angry about losing money or face. He's fixated on you specifically. He wants me to know that he's coming, and he wants me to be afraid."
"Are you?"
"No."
"Liar."
His jaw tightens. "I'm not afraid for myself."
The implication hangs in the air between us. He's afraid for me. Afraid that Sergei will find a way through his defenses, afraid that all his security and surveillance won't be enough.
