“There must be a misunderstanding. Today is my day off. I’m meeting a friend.”
“I understand, ma’am, but we have standing orders. No exit without direct authorization from Mr. Belov.”
I scan the garden. Same trees, same guards with dead eyes, but now it seems that everything has taken on a new shape.
The shape of a cage.
“Since when?” I ask.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details, ma’am. You’re welcome to speak with Mr. Belov directly.”
I stand at the gate.
Entry and exit. Biometrics are required for entryandexit. The guard said that on my first day, and I filed it underthings that are probably fine but feel like warnings, and now the warning has grown teeth.
“Thank you,” I say.
And I turn and walk back up the drive with the golden light on my face and a cold weight spreading in my chest.
His office is on the first floor of the east wing behind a door I’ve passed dozens of times without knocking. I’ve never had a reason to knock. I’ve never had a reason to be on the other side of that door, in the room where Rolan Belov is doing whatever Rolan Belov does.
I have a reason now.
I knock, delivering three sharp raps. My knuckles are louder than I intend.
“Come in.”
I open the door.
The office is large, with dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the massive desk I remember from — wait, no, I’ve never been in this room. I saw a different office during the interview with Mikhail. This one is his. And it looks like him — controlled, precise, every object placed with intention. Nothing decorative, nothing soft.
And behind the desk, in a shaft of sunlight that comesthrough the tall windows and falls across him, a spotlight designed by God specifically to ruin my composure, is Rolan Belov.
The daylight is not forgiving. It’s precise and honest, showing me every detail I could have missed. His jaw is sharper than I thought, cut at an angle that catches the light and creates shadows beneath his cheekbones. His skin is clear, golden in the sun. The dark hair pushed back from his forehead reveals a scar.
He’s wearing a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and the beginning of his collarbone. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms.
Focus. I’m here because I’m locked in a house.
“Mr. Belov. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
He leans back in his chair. The motion is minimal, an inch, maybe two, but it changes the geometry of his body in a way that draws attention to the width of his shoulders and the way the shirt pulls across his chest.
“Miss Calloway. How so?”
“Today is my day off. I was planning to meet a friend for coffee, but the guards at the gate told me I don’t have authorization to leave.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t have authorization to leave the estate.”
He says it the same way he’d say,The meeting is at threeorThe weather is cold.Flat and informational. As if the confinement of a human being is a scheduling matter.
“There must be a mistake,” I say. “I wasn’t told about any change in policy. Mikhail didn’t mention?—”
“It’s not a mistake.”
