My eyes snap open.
The ceiling above me is high, painted a soft cream color. Crown molding edges the corners, detailed and expensive. A chandelier hangs in the center, crystals catching light from somewhere I can’t see yet.
I turn my head slowly, taking in the room. It’s large, easily three times the size of my bedroom in London. Heavy drapes in deep burgundy frame tall windows. The furniture is dark wood, antique or made to look it. A wardrobe against one wall. A vanity with an ornate mirror. An upholstered chair positioned near the window.
Everything is beautiful. Tasteful. Expensive.
Completely unfamiliar.
I sit up carefully, the movement sending aches through my body—muscles stiff from the cell, ribs still tender where I was hit during capture. The sheets slip down and I freeze.
I’m wearing different clothes.
Not the cleaning uniform I was captured in. A nightgown: silk, pale blue, delicate lace at the collar and hem. It fits perfectly. Too perfectly.
Someone undressed me. Someone put this on me. Someone touched me while I was unconscious, and I never knew, never felt it, never had a chance to fight back.
Nausea rolls through my stomach. I press a hand to my mouth, breathing through my nose, forcing down the panic that threatens to overwhelm me.
Focus. Look around. Figure out where you are.
I slide out of bed, bare feet touching thick carpet. The floor doesn’t creak. Everything in this room is designed for quiet, for discretion, for controlling even the smallest sounds.
I move to the window first, drawn by the natural light. The drapes are partially open, revealing a view that makes my chest tighten.
Grounds. Extensive grounds stretching out beyond the window—manicured lawn, carefully trimmed hedges, a fountain in the distance, and beyond that, iron gates. Tall, imposing, clearly electrified based on the warning signs visible even from here.
Guards patrol the perimeter. I count at least four from this angle alone. They move with military precision, regular patterns, weapons visible at their hips.
No bars on the windows. None needed when the entire estate is a cage.
I’m in Aleksandr Sharov’s home. Has to be. The luxury, the security, the careful attention to detail that screams wealth and power and absolute control.
He moved me here. From the cell to this room. While I was unconscious or sleeping or—
How long was I out?
I try to remember. The interrogation in the cell. His hands in my hair, his voice cold and controlled, telling me I was being moved upstairs. Viktor appearing in the doorway. Being escorted through corridors, up stairs, into an elevator—
Everything after that is blank.
They drugged me. Must have. Something in the water they finally gave me, or injected while I was too weak to fight back. Just enough to keep me compliant during the transfer.
The realization makes my skin crawl.
I back away from the window, wrapping my arms around myself. The nightgown feels obscene now, thin silk doing nothing to protect me, chosen by someone else for reasons I don’t want to think about.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
I don’t answer. Don’t say anything. Just stand there, heart hammering, as the door opens anyway.
A woman enters. She’s older, maybe fifty, dressed in a severe black suit that screams professional staff. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun. Her expression is neutral, composed, the kind of face that’s seen everything and been shocked by nothing.
She takes in my position by the window, the way I’m holding myself, and something that might be sympathy flickers across her features before disappearing behind professional detachment.
“Miss Lawrence,” she says in accented but perfect English. “I’m Irina. I manage the household. Mr. Sharov asked me to speak with you.”
I find my voice, though it comes out rougher than I want. “Where is he?”
