I’m awoken by the sunlight filtering through my curtains in the morning, lying atop the duvet. I fell asleep last night without even getting out of my clothes or under the covers.
I sit up, rubbing at my face. The girl with my breakfast tray came by already and I didn’t wake up—I see it sitting on the desk, steam rising in a slow curl from the cup holding my coffee. And there’s a note on the tray.
I get up slowly, feeling soreness in all my muscles from being thrown around yesterday hiding from the bullets. There's dried blood on my hands still, and the sight of it makes my stomach turn over. I scrub at it with my thumb, but I need a shower.
Suddenly, that feels like the most important thing I could possibly do. I ignore my breakfast, the coffee, the note, everything, and head toward the bathroom, stripping off my dirty clothes as I go.
I turn the water on as hot as I can stand, then scrub until the water runs clear and there’s no trace of yesterday's violence left on my body. My skin feels raw by the time I’m done, and I can still feel the weight of what happened yesterday, even if the blood is all gone. The sound of gunfire echoing, the look on myfather’s face and my realization of how little it seems I actually mean to him.
I keep trying to tell myself that he was willing to kill to get me back, but deep down, I don’t think this was really about getting me back at all.
A few minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my hair sticking to my spine. I look at the note on the breakfast tray and realize it’s from Andrei. The handwriting is sharp and angular, almost angry.
Had to leave. Stay inside. Don't do anything stupid.
No signature or reassurance. Just orders, delivered in the same clipped tone he uses with his men.
I crumple the note in my fist and throw it in the trash, watching it land among the discarded tissues. Then I stand there, dripping onto the expensive hardwood floor, trying to ignore the twist in my chest over how curt that note was.
You're being ridiculous,I tell myself.He doesn't owe you a goodbye. You're not his girlfriend. You're his captive.
Whatever else has happened between us, that’s all I am. And it’s important that I remember that.
I sit down, and try to eat my breakfast.
—
The mansion feelsdifferent without him here. Emptier and quieter, like a house holding its breath. I get dressed after breakfast, and try the knob to my door. It’s been left unlocked, and I wonder if this is a test, to see if I’ll try to escape when he’s not here
I expect someone to stop me when I leave my room. A guard posted outside my door, maybe, or one of Andrei's men watching from the hallway. But there's no one. The corridor is empty,silent except for the sound of my footsteps on the hardwood floor and the distant hum of voices somewhere deeper in the mansion.
Slowly, I test the boundaries of whatever freedom I’ve been allowed for a little while, exploring the mansion more thoroughly. The house feels cold and impersonal, old, with heavy, dark colors throughout and rich furnishings, antiques and art decorating the space. It feels more like a museum than a home, and I walk through room after room, curling my toes into soft rugs and running my hands over the furniture. I feel like I’m walking through a display.
No one stops me. It seems like Andrei’s men have been instructed to leave me alone, probably as long as I don’t try to leave the property. The few men I pass nod briefly and continue on their way, like my presence here is normal. Like I'm not a captive at all, but a guest.
I don’t think I could leave the estate entirely. I’m sure Andrei has guards in place for that. But I could try to make a phone call.
Not to my father. I don’t think that’s going to help any longer. I’m not sure if anyone can help, really. But I need to talk to someone who isn’t Andrei. Right now, as isolated as I am, I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I pivot and head toward the library, and the phone that I know is in there, unless Andrei removed it.
The room looks the same as it did the night Andrei kissed me here, the night he told me about my father's betrayal. The shelves are still lined with books I haven't read, leather-bound volumes in Russian and English and languages I don't recognize. The chairs are still positioned by the window, angled to catch the afternoon light. The air still smells faintly of old paper and the leftover smell of burnt wood from the fire.
I run my fingers along the spines of the books, not really seeing the titles, as I walk toward the phone. I pause, looking at it, and I feel my pulse speed up.
Who do I call? I have friends, but who would understand? Who is the right person to talk to about what’s happening to me?
Is this part of the test? To see if I’ll call someone for help? I bite my lip, and take a step back.
This all feels strange. I don’t know what to do, like I’m rattling around in this house, alone and scared and unsure of what exactly happens now. The last thing Andrei said to me was that he should kill me, that it would make everything easier.
What if he’s looking for a reason?
I back up, out of the library, and go back to my room.
—
Strangely,now that I can leave my room without anyone bothering me, even Andrei, I realize that I feel safer in my room than out of it. At some point, these four walls have come to feel like the only sanctuary I have.
