Anya stood frozen, Damien Volkov's last words ringing in her ears. She belonged to him. Her life was his. The heavy truth crushed her, making it hard to breathe. Outside the huge window, the city lights twinkled, mocking her with their careless beauty.
A quiet sound cut through the silence. Footsteps. Not the loud stomp of guards or Damien's steady walk. These were soft and fast.
A woman stepped out from a hidden doorway. She looked about fifty, with grey hair tied back tight in a bun. Her dark grey dress seemed like a uniform. Her face was wrinkled, her look cold and professional.
"Miss Petrova," the woman said. Her voice was calm and low, with a slight accent Anya didn't know. "I am Irina Sokolova. The housekeeper."
Housekeeper. Such a normal word in this scary, strange place.
Irina pointed down the hallway she came from. "Please, come. I will take you to your room."
Anya couldn't move. Her body felt stuck.
Irina waited, hands folded in front of her. Her eyes showed no kindness, but no anger either. Just a sense of duty.
At last, Anya made her legs work. She followed Irina down a wide hall. The soft carpet hid their steps. The walls were empty, cold, and plain like the rest of the place.
Irina stopped at a white door and opened it. "This is your room."
Anya walked in. It was a big room with a huge bed covered in shiny silver-grey sheets. Tall windows showed another amazing view of the city. There was a sleek desk, an empty bookshelf, and a large closet.
It was pretty. Fancy. But it felt empty, like a beautiful cage.
Irina came in, holding Anya's old, worn duffel bag like it was nothing. She set it down on a rack by the bed.
"Mr. Volkov told me to explain the rules," Irina said, her face still blank. "You must stay in the penthouse all the time. You can't leave unless Mr. Volkov takes you or says you can."
Anya's heart dropped. She was trapped.
"Your calls and messages will be watched," Irina went on, her voice steady. "There's a phone here, but you can't use it freely. Everything will be checked. You can't talk to anyone from your old life unless Mr. Volkov allows it."
No friends. No way to ask for help.
"Meals are at set times. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven. You must eat in the dining area unless told otherwise."
Irina paused, her eyes fixed on Anya. "If you don't follow the rules, there will be trouble. Mr. Volkov will decide what happens."
The hidden threat felt heavy in the room.
Irina moved to the duffel bag. "I will unpack for you."
Anya watched, numb, as Irina opened the bag. Inside were her few things: old t-shirts, worn jeans, one set of underwear, a thin sweater, and a toothbrush. They looked sad in this fancy room.
"Can I call a lawyer?" Anya whispered, her voice shaky.
Irina didn't stop working. "That is not allowed."
"My friends? They'll worry about me."
"Contact is not allowed," Irina said again, her tone flat as she put the clothes in a drawer.
She finished fast and closed the empty bag. "The bathroom is through that door. Freshen up. Dinner is soon."
With one last look, Irina left, shutting the door quietly. The click sounded like a lock on a prison cell.
Anya was alone again in this huge, pretty jail. She walked slowly, touching the cool desk and soft bed sheets. It didn't feel real. It was a bad dream.
She moved to the windows, pressing her forehead on the cold glass. The city below was alive, busy, not caring about her pain. Tears fell down her face, hot and quick.
She stumbled to the bathroom door Irina pointed out. It was huge. Marble floors, a big shower, a deep tub, and soft white towels. It was bigger than her old kitchen and living room put together.
Seeing herself in the big mirror, Anya hardly knew the pale, scared girl looking back. Her eyes were red, her hair a mess. This couldn't be real.
Suddenly, she broke. A loud sob escaped her, raw and painful. She fell to the cold floor, curling up, and cried hard. Her body shook with deep sobs as the terror of her life hit her. Trapped. Owned. Helpless.
Later, tired and empty, she got up. She splashed cold water on her face, hiding her tears. She wouldn't let them see her so broken.
Back in the bedroom, a soft knock came at the door. Anya froze.
"Miss Petrova?" It was Irina's voice.
Anya stayed silent.
The door opened, and Irina walked in with a silver tray. On it was a plate of grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and a bit of rice, plus a glass of water.
Irina set the tray on the desk. "Dinner."
Anya stared at the food. Her stomach twisted. Eating felt impossible.
"I'm not hungry," she said, her voice rough.
Irina looked at her, face still blank, but her eyes warned her. "Mr. Volkov wants you to stay healthy, Miss Petrova. That means eating."
It was another way to control her. Even her body wasn't hers. He decided when and what she ate.
"Not eating is against the rules," Irina added quietly but firmly. "Please. Eat."
Irina stayed a moment, then left, closing the door again. The plate sat on the desk, a sign of her cage, a quiet order to obey. Anya stared at it, fear and a small spark of fight growing in her chest. She wouldn't eat. Not now. It was the only power she had left.
