I feel like I’m walking through a postcard or a painting or a movie set. Everything is perfect, but nothing feels real. It's all just... arranged. Displayed. Maintained by staff who probably never stop to actually enjoy what they're caring for.
Much like my new life.
The guards never leave. Even when I sit on a bench by the lake, trying to enjoy the late summer sunshine and the sound of birds in the trees, they maintain their distance but never disappear. Watching. Monitoring. Making sure the hostage doesn’t try to escape.
Not that I have anywhere to go. Not that I’d make it past those walls even if I tried.
After an hour of walking aimlessly and looking at things that should be beautiful but just feel empty, I can’t stand the suffocating presence of the guards, the oppressive perfection of everything, and the crushing loneliness. I head back inside, my shadow-guards following dutifully.
I need to call my mother. I need to hear a familiar voice, to connect with someone who loves me, who isn’t looking at mewith suspicion or hostility. I need to know that someone still cares, that I’m not completely alone in the world.
My phone is in my room, tucked in my purse. The purse is hanging on a hook in the enormous closet, looking small and out of place among all the expensive clothes someone has already arranged there. Clothes I’ve never seen before, designer labels, everything in my size.
I dig out my phone with shaking hands and try to dial my mother’s number.
No service.
I stare at the screen in disbelief. There are signal bars—four out of five—but when I try to make the call, it just... doesn’t connect. The call button lights up, but nothing happens. No ringing. No connection. Just silence.
I try again. Same result. I try calling my father. My sisters. Even just trying to call my own voicemail. Nothing works.
They’ve blocked it somehow. Disconnected it. I don’t know how, I’m not tech-savvy enough to understand the specifics, but I know it’s deliberate. Someone has specifically disabled my ability to make calls while making it look like everything is fine.
Panic rises in my throat again, sharp and choking. It wraps around my windpipe like hands, squeezing, cutting off my air.
I’m completely cut off. From my family. From everyone I know. From the outside world. Trapped in this house with people who hate me.
I need to talk to someone. Anyone. I need?—
Mrs. Kozlov. She might let me use a house phone. Or at least explain why my cell phone doesn’t work.
I find her in what appears to be her office—a small room off the kitchen with a desk and filing cabinets and a wall of schedules and lists. Everything is organized, not a paper out of place.
“Excuse me,” I say from the doorway, trying to keep my voice steady. “My phone. It isn’t working. Could I use a house phone to call my mother? Just to let her know I’m?—”
“No.”
The word is flat and final, like a door slamming in my face.
“I just want to call my mother,” I try again, keeping my voice calm with effort. “Just for a few minutes to tell her I’m okay. That’s all. Five minutes.”
“Mr. Volkov decides who you may and may not contact,” Mrs. Kozlov says without looking up from whatever paperwork she’s reviewing. Her pen scratches across paper. “He has not authorized phone calls.”
My mouth drops open. “B-But I’m his wife.”
Now she does look up, and the expression on her face makes me take an involuntary step back. The look in her eyes is beyond active dislike. There’shatredthere.
“You are what Mr. Volkov says you are,” she says coldly. “Nothing more. Nothing less. If you have request, you may make it to him when he returns. Until then, my orders are clear.”
I want to argue and scream that this is illegal, that they can’t just cut me off from my family. I have rights, dammit. Basic human rights. The right to communicate and contact my family.
But the look in her eyes stops me, because I can see the truth there. I have no rights here. I’m a prisoner in all but name, and everyone in this house knows it. The expensive clothes and the beautiful room don’t change the fundamental reality of what I am.
A hostage. A possession. A means to an end.
“I understand,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. Then I retreat, fleeing back to my room like a wounded animal seeking shelter.
Lunch is brought to me in the morning room.
