Chapter 5 The Terms Of Engagement

The air in my small studio was thick and cold, mirroring the heavy dread settling in my chest. I woke on the couch, my limbs stiff and my mind fuzzy, the expensive cologne from last night still faintly clinging to the threads of my charcoal suit, which lay discarded on the floor. I hadn't even attempted my bed. I'd collapsed right here, a physical attempt to distance myself from the terrifying reality of the Volkov penthouse.

It was real. Every cold, demanding moment was real.

I dragged myself up, the floorboards complaining beneath my weight. I needed coffee, something hot and bitter, to scour the lingering shame and the unwanted thrill from my memory. I went through the motions-grinding beans, filling the kettle, a pathetic imitation of my normal routine.

My phone was charging beside the kettle. As I waited for the water to boil, it vibrated with a text message. A knot tightened in my stomach. It was an unfamiliar number, but my heart instantly recognized the sender. I gripped the countertop, staring at the screen, unable to move.

But it wasn't them. It was Sasha.

Sasha: You're silent, babe. Did the Volkov dinner kill you? Did you meet the handsome twins? Give me details! Are they Scary?

A wave of intense, desperate relief washed over me. Sasha. Normalcy. A lifeline. I answered instantly, needing to hear a voice that wasn't laced with threat or demand.

"Hullo?" My own voice sounded weak, thin.

"Leo! Finally! You disappeared last night. I was starting to think Arthur Volkov locked you in a vault. How was the family dinner? Did you survive the formal interrogation?" Sasha's voice crackled, blending concern with her usual curiosity.

I leaned heavily against the counter, closing my eyes. "It was... overwhelming. Exactly as terrifying as them, actually. Arthur is... intense. He treated my entire career like a tax deduction."

"Ugh, old money arrogance. Did you use the dark fire in your eyes to blind him, like I told you?"

I managed a weak, reluctant laugh. "I think I mostly just stammered. It was very polite, very structured. Very Volkov." I desperately wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to scream, I met the twins! One of them was the stranger! He knows my secret! But the words were locked behind the threat of the Volkov name.

"And the sons? Dmitri and Ivan? Were they there? Are they identical? Are they hot and terrifying in a rich-guy way?" Sasha pressed.

My jaw tightened. The thought of them, identical and unified in their threat, sent a fresh jolt of cold fear through me. "They were present," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral, professional. "Yes, they are twins. Very successful, very formal. Honestly, Sasha, I barely spoke to them. They were all business talk." I hated the lie, but it was essential.

"Boring! You need to inject some chaos into that family structure, Leo. Maybe flirt with one of them, see if you can break the ice."

I laughed, a sharp, artificial sound. "I think the ice surrounding the Volkovs is entirely nuclear-grade, Sasha. I'm sticking to my studio and keeping my head down. Less chance of me ending up as a corporate liability."

As I spoke that last line, my phone buzzed again. My blood instantly ran cold. The phone was still on the counter, and I could see the notification banner: New Message from Unknown Number.

My eyes widened, fixed on the screen. The image of the black keycard-sleek, metallic, and utterly commanding-flashed in my mind.

My voice hitched. "Listen, Sasha, I... I need to go. Something just came up. A delivery, actually. Very important for the gallery. I have to sign for it."

"A delivery? At 10 AM? What, did Sotheby's send you a miniature yacht? Call me later, don't forget!"

"I promise. Bye." I hung up abruptly, my hand trembling as I reached for the phone. I didn't care about the lie; I just needed to see the message.

I tapped the screen, opening the text. It was from a new, unfamiliar number. But the content confirmed my deepest dread:

TONIGHT. 21:00.

West Wing Penthouse. You know the lift.

My mind went utterly blank. The simplicity of the message was brutal. No greeting, no questions, just a command stamped with the authority of wealth and malice. 21:00. Nine o'clock tonight. It wasn't a request for a date; it was a mandatory meeting with my captors.

I slumped onto the floor, the ceramic tiles cold beneath my legs. West Wing Penthouse. I didn't know the building well, but the phrase itself screamed exclusivity and high security. It wasn't the communal floor; it was their territory. Their cage.

I can't. I won't go.

I wanted to throw the phone, smash it against the brick wall, erase the evidence of their contact. But the immediate, crushing thought was: What happens if I don't show up?

The answer was instant and terrifying: exposure. My mother's face, tear-streaked and horrified, flashed in my mind. The ruined wedding, the public scandal, the end of her happiness, all because her artist son couldn't control his reckless choices.

They know that is my weakness. They know the only thing holding me to their terrifying game is the threat to her.

I curled into myself, hugging my knees. The air in the apartment felt heavy with the scent of coffee and the crushing weight of the Volkov name. The internal debate was over before it began. I had to go. I had already lied to Sasha. I had already accepted the secret. I was already playing by their rules.

********

The rest of the day was an exercise in self-control. I tried to focus on an old canvas, but every brushstroke felt hollow. I was living on borrowed time, counting down the minutes until I had to surrender myself to the most dangerous and irresistible men I had ever met.

Around seven in the evening, I forced myself to shower and dress. I chose simple, non-confrontational clothes a dark sweater, black trousers, anything that wouldn't draw attention. I felt like I was donning a uniform for my own execution.

I retrieved my keys, but paused at the door, catching my reflection in the dark glass. I looked small, pale, and completely cornered.

I am going to save my mother's peace. I will pay the price. I have no other choice.

With a final, desperate sense of surrender, I stepped out, found a cab, and gave the address of the Volkov Tower.

******

The ride was an agony of silent self-recrimination. As the cab pulled up to the glittering monolith, I felt my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.

I walked through the lobby, my shoulders tight. I took the private elevator, giving the security officer the code I had only just memorized, the code from the keycard image. The officer nodded, his face blank, confirming my feeling that this was expected.

The lift ascended silently, the pressure in my ears building. The doors didn't open on the familiar social floor. They opened onto a floor Leo had never seen. This was a private vestibule, richly paneled in dark wood, with a single, massive bronze door ahead.

I stepped out onto thick, silent carpeting. The air here was still and heavy. I walked toward the bronze door, my footsteps making no sound. I lifted my hand to knock, but before my knuckles could connect, the door swung inward silently, as if operated by an unseen mechanism.

The room beyond was dimly lit, mostly by the vast, cold glow of the Manhattan lights. It was a massive, empty space, designed for absolute power.

"Don't stop now, Leo," a low voice commanded, immediately shattering the stillness.

I spun around, my breath catching. They hadn't been visible a moment ago.

Dmitri stood framed by the moonlight, his silhouette massive and intimidating. Ivan was beside him, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, a soft, predatory smile playing on his lips. They were waiting. They were unified.

"You are precisely two minutes late," Ivan noted, his voice smooth and devoid of human warmth. "We don't enjoy delay, Leo. It shows a fundamental lack of respect for the arrangement."

I looked from the dark, imposing presence of Dmitri to the smooth, controlled watchfulness of Ivan. I was perfectly caged.

"Now," Dmitri stated, his gray eyes locking onto mine with cold, absolute intent. "Let's discuss the terms of your engagement."