As we move toward the car downstairs, a nagging sense creeps over me. Something about this situation feels off. Herstory, her timing…too precise, too clean. I don’t know if Valeria is a victim of a ruthless conspiracy or the architect of one herself.
Either way, my job is the same: Stay close, watch everything, and anticipate the danger before it reaches us.
Chapter 3 – Valeria
Timofey Volkov’s house is far larger than I expected.
The property sprawls across acres of land outside the city, tucked behind tall iron fencing topped with coils of razor wire. Armed guards patrol silently at the gates, their eyes flicking toward us the moment the car slows. I feel their weight on me—not threatening, but sharp, assessing. This is no ordinary home.
The building itself looks more like a fortress than a residence. Reinforced glass, sleek black stone, cameras tracking every angle. The architecture is minimal, cold, intimidating. Each line screams efficiency, control, and the kind of precision I know I can respect—and fear.
I glance at Timofey as we pull up to the entrance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance at me either, his posture rigid, deliberate. The kind of control that comes from knowing power, knowing danger, and trusting no one.
This is exactly the kind of environment I’ve survived in before, but even I have to admit—he’s built a place that could withstand a siege.
Though I don’t trust that anymore. I thought the same about my family home in Moscow until it was attacked.
The moment we step out of the car, the cold air hits me like a slap. Winter bites through my thin coat, and I shiver, though I don’t let it show. The coat is flimsy and cheap. It’s funny how I went from a closet full of clothes…to this.
Timofey doesn’t acknowledge the shiver. He walks ahead, hands in his pockets, moving like he owns the world.
I follow silently, my mind replaying the last few days like a broken film reel. After I emerged from the tunnel, I made my way to the Morozova house to see Sofia—my best friend, the only person I could trust without thinking twice. It was a long walk, over an hour, every step aching through the frozen streets.
I knew I couldn’t stay with her. Anton and the others could be trailing me, shadows waiting for a mistake.
That night, Sofia became my lifeline. She equipped me with everything I needed to leave—a new phone, cash, and a one-way ticket to New York. She drove me to the airport, and we sobbed like we’d never see each other again. She made me promise to call when I could.
I haven’t.
Since landing, I’ve spent my days tracking the Rusnaks, staying in the shadows, piecing together a plan, doing my best to survive. And now, here I am, in the middle of what is supposed to be my refuge, and I’m met with suspicion. Suspicion from people my father vouched for. Didn’t Papa say we could trust the Rusnaks? Why shouldn’t they extend the same courtesy to me?
I’m exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I haven’t even mourned Papa properly, and my head throbs from the lack of sleep and the weight of everything. I just need a place to lay my head, somewhere I won’t have to hide in dingy motels, running from shadows that could be real—or imagined.
Timofey doesn’t slow his pace, doesn’t speak. I glance at him once, trying to gauge him, trying to figure out if he’s going to be another obstacle or the unexpected shield I desperately need.
Either way, I don’t have a choice. I have to survive.
And right now, survival means following him.
We enter through the main doors, and I notice the security measures even inside: keypads, retinal scanners, silent alarms. The foyer is sleek, modern, devoid of warmth. Everything has a purpose. Nothing is decorative.
A line of staff waits, bowing politely.
“This is Valeria,” he says, voice even, almost dismissive, like introducing a guest is barely worth the effort. “She’s a guest and will be staying here for some time.”
The staff straightens instantly, a subtle but noticeable shift in posture.
“Good evening, Miss Valeria,” one of the maids says, voice soft but precise.
“Welcome,” another adds, hands folded neatly in front of them.
I nod stiffly, offering a polite acknowledgment, but my eyes flicker to Timofey. He doesn’t watch me. Doesn’t even glance at the staff. His gaze is fixed forward, casual, almost bored. And yet, every head in the room moves in tune with his presence. It’s obvious they understand the rules: authority is not questioned here, and he is authority.
He walks toward the staircase, and I follow slowly, keeping my distance, noting everything—the cameras, the silent observers, the controlled energy that hums in this place. Up two flights, and he stops in front of a door.
He stares at me, pointed, unyielding. I nod, push the door open, and step inside.
The room is spacious, perfectly curated, comfortable—too comfortable for what I feel inside. A large bed dominates the space, positioned by the window overlooking the guarded grounds. Normally, I might have admired the luxury, but tonight it feels meaningless.
