In that sliver of time, my mind spirals through possibilities faster than my body can react.
I imagine shoving past him, slipping into his office while he’s momentarily unprepared to look for my phone and laptop wherever he’s hidden them, all the while proving to myself that I still have some agency left in this house.
The temptation is intoxicating.
So, so damn tempting.
I hate this feeling of standing here knowing answers are only a few steps away and being told I’m not allowed to reach for them.I hate the way he’s framed this as a choice when it’s anything but. I hate that he knows exactly how much I want to push him.
Because he does know.
He watches me with those same cold, unblinking eyes, his expression unreadable, his body utterly still. He doesn’t move to block the doorway any further. He doesn’t raise his voice or gesture toward the guards I know are lurking somewhere just out of sight.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence between us stretches. It feels like a silent dare.Go on. Try it.
I know that look. I’ve seen it before on men who are certain of the outcome, men who don’t need to bluff because they’ve already won. As much as I want to take that step forward to force the issue and prove I’m not as powerless as he thinks, I know the truth.
Even in the best-case scenario, I won’t come out on top.
This is his house, his territory, his rules.
Every inch of this place favors him. Every locked door, every unseen guard, every missing camera angle all works against me. I’m not just outmatched. I’m playing on a board he designed with pieces he controls, and we both know it.
My jaw tightens as I make my decision.
Slowly, I step back instead of forward. I break eye contact first, not because I’m afraid but because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me give in and crumble. I walk backdown the hallway without running and without looking over my shoulder even though I can feel his gaze burning into my back.
Each step feels like retreat and survival all at once.
I hate that he won. That I let him. But as I disappear into the shadows of the corridor, one thought settles cold and sharp in my chest.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
4
SASHA
Watching Alina retreat down the hallway, one thought lingers long after she disappears around the corner.
She is more than Viktor promised.
He had painted her as a porcelain doll when he offered her up—fragile and ornamental, easily contained if put on a shelf properly. A girl who would comply if handled carefully enough. Something delicate enough to keep intact, something breakable enough to threaten him with if he grew bold enough to step out of line.
Porcelain cracks when you apply pressure. It does not glare the way she did at me, demanding things when she has no bargain to offer up in return. It does not stand its ground or prowl empty corridors in the middle of the night to listen in on conversations meant to stay behind closed doors.
Yet that’s exactly what Alina does.
I should be furious.
No one raises their voice to me. Not the FSB generals who beg for favors. Not the oligarchs who bleed money into my accounts just to stay breathing one more year. Not rivalPakhanswho smile to my face while calculating how long it would take me to bury them.
And certainly not the daughter of a politician who mistook his influence over Moscow for immunity with me.
The instinctive response is there, hot and immediate, sharpened by years of dominance and discipline. A reflex honed through violence and consequence. In my world, defiance is corrected quickly and decisively, publicly enough to discourage imitation from anyone else.
