A funerary silence pervaded the palace, signaling the death of freedom. Behind those towering marble doors, I counted the passing hours as if they were cold blades piercing my chest. Four days since Alexander had issued his decree forbidding me from leaving the suite; four days of "house arrest" that aimed not to protect me, but to break what remained of my dignity. In his eyes, I was nothing but an acquired "mistress"—a precious object displayed in the darkness of his room and hidden from the light of the world. My work at the company was the lung through which I breathed; by denying it to me, Alexander was slowly placing his hands around my neck, waiting for the moment I would beg for air from him alone.
I stood before the full-length mirror, contemplating the tattoo he had forcibly placed beneath my breast. The Russian letter (V) stood out in an irritated red against my pale skin, like a thermal brand seared onto the flesh of prey. It was not mere ink; it was a covenant of ownership, reminding me every time I looked at myself that I no longer owned this body. My heartbeats—repaired by his wealth and his cruelty—were betraying me; with every feeling of hatred toward him, there was that strange chemical and sensory hunger he had planted in my blood through his daily injections.
I let out a sigh laden with bitterness as I felt the soft silk of the nightgown he had chosen for me. Everything here was by his choice, from the color of the room's curtains to the type of medicine flowing through my veins. I felt dizzy—the fog that wrapped my mind whenever Alexander was absent for too long. These were the withdrawal symptoms that made me long for my executioner. Damn him. How had he managed to turn my hatred into an urgent physical need? How had he made my jailer the only person who could stop the trembling in my hands?
I crept toward the massive window, watching the trees swaying under the dominion of the wind outside. I envied those trees; at least they had the right to break. As for me, I had to remain standing, solid, like a marble statue satisfying the vanity of the master of the palace. "When will I get out?" I whispered to myself, my voice sounding strange, as if coming from a deep well. "Will I remain just a tattooed shadow in this labyrinth?"
Outside the Gilded Walls of Hell... Where Volk's Nets Begin
Sophia was walking down the crowded street, yet she felt as though she were alone in a desolate forest. Anxiety over Ayla was gnawing at her mind like a predatory beast. Knowing her friend was a prisoner of "Volkov" made her live in a never-ending waking nightmare. Sophia was no fool; she knew men of Alexander's ilk did not let go of their victims easily, but she never imagined the circle of hell would expand to include her as well.
As she was about to cross the road toward her dilapidated apartment, a black, tinted car stopped abruptly beside her. The back door opened, and a man stepped out who looked as if he had escaped from the legends of a Siberian winter. It was Ivan, Alexander's loyal assistant and right hand. He was terrifyingly tall, with broad shoulders that blocked the sunlight, and blue eyes as cold as glass shards extracted from icy depths.
"Miss Sophia still refuses advice," Ivan spoke in his sonorous voice, which carried the chill of graves and the stillness before a storm.
"Get away from me! Where is Ayla? What have you done to her?" Sophia screamed, trying to back away, but Ivan was faster than she could imagine. In a lightning-fast motion, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the dark corner of a nearby building, trapping her with his solid frame that reeked of bitter tobacco and gunpowder.
"Ayla is currently learning lessons in obedience—lessons befitting my master's favorite mistress," Ivan whispered, leaning close to her ear until Sophia felt a shiver strike her spine. "As for you... you have come under my personal surveillance. And that rebellion shining in your eyes... is exactly what draws a hunter to tame his prey."
He ran his rough thumb along her jawline, and Sophia felt a dark attraction—a disgust mingled with an awe that left her tongue-tied. "You are disgusting... just like your master," she whispered weakly, trying to gather her courage.
Ivan smiled a mysterious smile that did not reach his icy eyes. "Perhaps. But I am the only one who will decide when you see Ayla again... or if you will even remain breathing to see her. I will be at your apartment tonight, Sophia. Be ready to learn your first lessons in silence." He disappeared into the car, which drove off with a haunting quietness, leaving Sophia to realize that Alexander's monsters were not satisfied with a single victim, and that she was now in the heart of the storm.
Inside the Palace... The Return of the Devil and the Punishment of Lust
When midnight arrived, the suite door opened with a sharpness that silenced the ticking of the clock buzzing in my ears. I did not need to look to know it was him; the scent of his fine cigar and the aura of power surrounding him always preceded him. Alexander entered, removed his coat, and tossed it carelessly to the floor. He then headed toward me as I stood on the balcony, trying to inhale the night air, which seemed more merciful than his.
"Alexander, enough..." I began, my voice trembling with suppressed bitterness. I turned to him, my eyes burning with anger and despair. "Half the week has passed. Let me return to the company. I am suffocating here... I feel like I'm losing my mind, turning into nothing but a silent doll."
He turned toward me slowly, his grey eyes burning with a sadistic glint that only the blind could miss. He stepped toward me with measured strides, like a panther cornering its prey. "Suffocating?" he asked mockingly, his deep voice vibrating through my exhausted heartstrings. "Do you miss the cold secretary's chair, or the looks the employees cast at you with envy? Or do you miss seeing 'Adrian' pass by your desk without giving you a single glance, reminding you of how trivial your past is?"
"I miss being a human, Alexander! Not just a concubine hidden behind these curtains!" I shouted in his face, my chest heaving violently. "I hate you! I hate every touch from you, and I hate this heart for which you made me feel grateful!"
In the blink of an eye, before I could retreat, he grabbed my waist and pulled me toward him with immense force, the shock of my body hitting his broad chest knocking the breath out of me. "You hate me?" he whispered with terrifying hoarseness near my ear, his hot breath burning my skin. "Then why does your wretched body tremble under my touch now? Why does this heart, which I repaired with my money, scream for more of its master whenever he draws near?"
He shoved me onto the plush bed with a violence that was not devoid of desire, stripping me of my silk shirt in a single motion that tore through the silence and the fabric alike. He began to possess me with a savagery that expressed his punishment, his anger, and an excessive obsession that transcended the limits of reason. This was not a relationship between a man and a woman; it was a systematic "subjugation." He was using his body to deliver a single message to my rebellious soul: "You are my mistress, my property, and my shadow that sees the sun only by my leave."
The sensory moments that night were long, detailed, and drowned in dark wildness. He pressed his massive body against me, pinning my trembling wrists above my head with one hand like a steel shackle, forcing me to look into his grey eyes that reflected the blackness of his soul as he ravaged every inch of my body. I resisted, striking his broad chest with my small hands, but my cries of protest turned against my will into submissive moans because of that cursed addiction he had planted in me. He sank his teeth into my neck, leaving blue marks over my tattooed skin, as if redrawing the maps of his possessions with pain and pleasure mingled with humiliation.
"Say you are my obedient mistress," he roared, wrapping his hands around my neck with a gentleness that threatened to choke me, his eyes tracking every shiver in my violated body. "Say you don't want the outside world, and that this gilded prison is your only paradise where you will die."
"I... I..." I gasped, tears flooding my face, while he continued to shred my pride through my body, drowning in me with a violence that left no room for breath or thought. He knew that my senses had completely failed my mind, and that in that moment, I saw nothing in the entire universe but his overpowering shadow. He whispered obscene Russian words in my ear, describing how he would lock me away even more, and how he would make me beg him every night to never leave me to loneliness.
This violent physical confrontation lasted for long hours, as he deliberately prolonged the moments, making me feel every second of his absolute control, every movement declaring his ownership of me. He did not leave a single inch of my body without placing his seal upon it, whether through harsh kisses or marks that would remind me in the morning to whom I belonged. When he finally finished, he left me lying like scattered silk wreckage upon the bed, casting a cold look of possession as he buttoned his shirt with total indifference, as if nothing had happened.
"One week remains, Ayla," he said in his deep voice, heading toward the door without looking back. "One week for you to understand well that your role as my mistress is the only thing that gives you the right to keep this heart beating. And if you do not learn the lesson in obedience, I will make this suite your permanent world until you grow old and die in my hands."
He stepped out and locked the door behind him with a metallic hiss, leaving me in total darkness, feeling the tattoo carved beneath my breast and weeping silently. I realized with horror that I had lost the war before it even began; Sophia was now drowning in Ivan's shadows, and I had become the tattooed idol of a man who knew no mercy or love in his dictionary—only how to possess souls and shatter wills.
I looked at the moon through the locked glass window and felt like a withered jasmine in a vase of blood. Would I really return to the company? Or would I return as a soulless corpse, bearing the mark of "Volkov" and moving only by his leave? The questions gnawed at me, but the answer was clear in every pain I felt in my body: I am not Ayla anymore; I am "Her"—the cursed mistress who fell into Alexander's well and does not want to leave, despite drowning.