I’m not grateful, I tell myself firmly. I’m surviving. Using their resources while I figure out how to escape.
The lie tastes bitter even in my own mind.
I move back to the window, staring out at the grounds. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the lawn. The guards continue their patrols, precise and regular.
I count the seconds between rotations. Note the blind spots, the areas where sight lines don’t quite overlap. Calculate distances, timing, possibilities.
The escape plan forms automatically, years of strategic thinking kicking in despite the impossibility.
I’d need to get past the bedroom door—locked, guarded. Down the stairs—also guarded. Through the main house—filled with staff and security. Across the grounds—patrolled,monitored, probably sensor-equipped. Over or through the gates—electrified, reinforced, designed to keep people in as much as out.
Even if I managed all that, I’m in Russia. Moscow, probably, based on the drive time from the facility. I don’t speak the language fluently. Don’t have money, identification, or any resources.
I’d be caught within hours.
The calculation collapses before it’s even complete.
There is no escape. Not now. Maybe not ever.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me into panic or despair or furious defiance.
Instead, I just feel tired.
So tired.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the window. Beyond the gates, I can see the city in the distance. Moscow’s lights starting to glow as darkness falls. Millions of people going about their lives, completely unaware that I’m here, trapped, with no one coming to save me.
My family doesn’t know where I am. Yusuf might suspect something is wrong, but he has no leads to follow. Even if someone wanted to rescue me, they’d never find this place, never get past the security, never reach me.
I’m alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
The realization settles into my bones, heavy and cold. Not panic anymore. Just acceptance of a terrible truth.
Aleksandr Sharov moved me from the cell to this beautiful room not because he’s merciful, but because he’s calculated. He knows isolation breaks people faster thanviolence. Knows comfort after suffering creates dependency. Knows that giving me space to think will only make me understand how trapped I really am.
This room wasn’t improvised or prepared overnight.
It was waiting for me.
Which means he planned this long before I ever broke into his facility. Before the auction, even. He’s been watching me, studying me, preparing for the moment when I’d make exactly the wrong move.
Above me, cameras track my movement.
Everything is controlled. Everything is monitored.
I close my eyes, pressing harder against the glass, and let the truth wash over me in waves.
I’m not going home. Not today. Maybe not ever.
My old life—the desperate attempts to prove myself, the constant struggle for recognition, the careful balancing act of being Lawrence in name but never quite in practice—that’s over.
This is my life now. This room. These rules. This cage dressed up as luxury.
Somewhere in this massive house, Aleksandr Sharov is waiting for me to understand exactly what that means.
Chapter Ten - Aleksandr
