The sedan stopped so smoothly that Anya didn’t notice until the engine went quiet. Outside the dark windows, a huge skyscraper towered into the gray sky, all steel and glass. It looked rich. Powerful. Nothing like her rundown apartment building.
The guard who held her arm opened the door. The air outside felt sharp, maybe cleaner, but definitely colder. He didn’t say a word, just pointed to the giant entrance of the building.
Misha was right beside her, a strong and commanding figure. He walked ahead through the spinning doors into a lobby that looked more like a fancy art gallery than a place to live. Shiny marble floors glowed under soft lights. Weird statues stood in quiet corners. The whole place felt silent, almost holy.
No one talked as they moved to a private elevator. Misha pressed a button, and the doors opened without a sound. Inside, it was just Anya, Misha, and the two quiet guards. The ride up was quick and smooth, making her breath catch. Her ears popped.
When the doors opened, they showed not a hallway, but the entrance to a huge apartment. A penthouse.
Misha stepped to the side, his hand telling her to go in. Anya froze, her feet stuck to the soft elevator carpet. Walk into this trap?
The guard behind her gave a tiny push. Anya stumbled forward, stepping into what felt like her cage.
The place was massive. Cold. Simple furniture in gray and black sat far apart on a huge, light rug. One whole wall was glass, showing an amazing view of the city skyline. And there, among the buildings and lights, were the docks. Her docks. Her father’s docks. Now owned by the man who controlled her.
The luxury felt strange, almost cruel. Shiny metal surfaces reflected the gray light, giving no warmth. It was pretty, empty, and scary.
"Wait here," Misha said. His voice bounced a little in the giant room. He and the guards moved back to the entrance, leaving her alone in the middle of the huge living space. Alone with her fear.
Anya hugged herself, shivering even though the room wasn’t cold. She walked slowly to the windows, pulled by the awful view. From so high up, the ships looked tiny, the water like a dark, uncaring line. Her whole world, made small and out of reach.
How long did she stand there? Minutes? Forever? Long enough for the shock to turn into a sick, heavy fear.
Then, she felt it. A shift in the air. Someone was there. She turned slowly.
He stood near the entrance, appearing like a silent shadow. Damien Volkov.
He was just as the rumors described, but somehow more intense. Mid-thirties, maybe older, it was hard to guess. His dark hair was perfect, his suit fitted tight to his lean, strong body like it was made for him. He wasn’t huge like his guards, but he had a dangerous calm, a power that filled the room more than any muscle could.
His eyes, dark like a stormy sky, looked her over. Not like a man seeing a woman, but like someone checking a new thing they bought. Cold. Judging. Figuring out her value. Or if she had any.
Anya’s breath stopped. This was him. The man who owned her father’s debt. The man who now owned her.
He walked toward her, his steps slow and quiet on the thick rug. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He moved around her like a hunter studying his catch before striking. His eyes saw everything, her cheap clothes, her shaking hands, the tear marks she couldn’t hide.
"Anya Petrova," he said at last. His voice was deep, smooth, but sharp like a blade. It wasn’t loud, but it demanded she listen. Demanded she obey.
She could only nod, her voice gone.
"Misha told you about the situation? The debt?"
Another nod. Her throat felt too tight to talk.
"Two million dollars," Damien said, stopping right in front of her. He was so close she could see the small lines by his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. "Your father, Viktor, was stupid. He borrowed money on promises he couldn’t keep. On earnings from my docks he couldn’t deliver."
His eyes locked on hers. "That debt is mine to take now. And since you have no money to give..." His gaze slid down her body, cold but claiming. "...you will pay it."
Anya flinched. "How?" Her voice was a weak whisper.
A small, hard smile touched Damien’s lips. It didn’t warm his eyes. "You will stay here. With me. Until I say the debt is... paid off."
Paid off. The words hung heavy, unclear but full of threat. What did he mean? A maid? A servant? Or something much worse?
He saw the fear in her eyes, the way she shook without control. "Fighting me," he went on, his voice dropping low, soft, but even more dangerous, "is useless. It will only bring pain. Do you get it?"
She got it. He would destroy her if she resisted. Break her body, break her soul.
Tears came again, hot and burning. She couldn’t stop shaking, a small tremble running through her.
Damien watched her, his face impossible to read. For a quick moment, something flashed in his dark eyes. Surprise? Anger? Something else? It vanished fast, replaced by his cold, hard mask.
He stepped back, giving a little space between them. "You are mine now, Anya. Your life is mine to control. Accept it. It will be less hard for you."
Less hard. As if anything about this could be easy.
He turned away, like he was done with her. "Irina will take you to your room. Rules will come later."
And just like that, he walked off, leaving her alone in the huge, fancy prison. The weight of his words, his power, pressed down on her. Her future wasn’t just unknown; it was shaped by Damien Volkov’s will. The debt wasn’t just money. It was her life. And he had just made it very clear how he planned to take it.
