The words sit in the air between us. Clean. Final.
“Mr. Belov, I understand that security is important here. I’ve respected every rule since I arrived — the restricted areas, thecurfew, the monitored Wi-Fi. But I need to be able to leave the property on my days off. I need to see my friend. I need?—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You cannot leave the estate. Not today. Not until I determine it’s safe to do so.”
“Can I ask why?”
He holds my gaze. Three seconds. Five. The silence stretches with tension.
“Your actions in this house have consequences, Miss Calloway. The incident at the dinner created a security situation that I’m still managing. Until that situation is resolved, I can’t allow anyone in this household to move freely outside the perimeter. It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”
Where the hell is this coming from? I thought things were fine after our conversation in the hall. Apparently, I was wrong.
“The dinner?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I went downstairs because your daughter had a fever. I couldn’t find medicine, and the call system wasn’t working. I was doing my job.”
“You were told to stay on the upper floor.”
“Your child was burning up.”
“And your decision to disregard instructions has had consequences that extend beyond this house.” His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. The temperature drops on its own. “I don’t expect you to understand the specifics. I expect you to follow the rules of your employment.”
The rules of my employment. The words land with a thud, designed to remind me of my position. Not a resident. Not a guest. An employee. A function. A line item in someone’s operational budget.
“Mr. Belov,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice holds steady, “you can’t keep me locked in a house. That’s not employment. That’s?—”
“It’s in your contract.”
The sentence stops me cold.
“What?”
“Section four, clause seven. The employer reserves the right to restrict the contractor’s movement to and from the premises when deemed necessary for security purposes.” He recites it from memory. Without looking at a document. Without hesitation. “You signed the contract, Miss Calloway. I suggest you read it.”
I stare at him. He looks back at me with those impossible eyes, and there is nothing in them I can argue with. Nothing that acknowledges the fundamental insanity of what he’s telling me.
He’s not angry. He’s not apologetic. He’s not even particularly interested. He’s a man stating terms, and the terms are non-negotiable.
“Is that all?” he asks.
The dismissal is so clean it barely registers as an insult. He’s already turning his attention back to his laptop, his eyes leaving mine with the ease of someone who has concluded a conversation that was never a negotiation.
I leave.
I don’t slam the door. I want to, hard enough to crack the frame, hard enough to make every guard in this house flinch, but I don’t, because throwing a tantrum would give Rolan Belov the satisfaction of reducing me to one.
I walk to my room, close the door, and lock it.
Then I stand in the middle of the beautiful, enormous room, press my hands against my face, and breathe.
The contract is in my nightstand drawer. I stuffed it there on my first day, unread, still in the agency’s Manila envelope.
Three hundred and twelve pages of legal language that I should have reviewed with a lawyer. Instead, I signed it on a kitchen counter at eleven in the morning.
I pull out my phone, opening Maren’s thread.
