A ride to the Volkov mansion was a blend of polished leather and quiet silence. Alex maintained silence while watching the city lights twinkle through the tinted windows. However, I couldn't help but gaze upon the glistening landscape of this bustling metropolis, which had become a distant and very familiar place. My last night of freedom was marked by debt, but I still had to deal with it.
The car cruised beneath intricate gates, a winding route, and came to pause before passing by imposing an impressive mansion. The old-fashioned structure was not just a large one, but also had dark stone walls and high windows that seemed to be breaking the night sky. All the lights inside flickered like a silent, vigilant eye. It was not a dwelling, but rather merely an exhibit of old wealth and unrelenting influence. This was the case.?
A woman in a black uniform, with sexy clothing and makeup, welcomed us at the entrance. "Welcome home, Mr.". Volkov. Mrs. "Volkov," she uttered, her voice being as soft as parchment. She maintained her gaze on me, sharp and assessing, as if trying to classify me and place myself in a box that I was not meant to be.
"This is Mrs.
Alex spoke in a casual manner about Anya Petrova, his housekeeper. "She'll make certain you have everything you need.". Your possessions will be relocated to your room. ".
My wing? They lingered in my mind. Not our wing. Just my wing. The arrangement was a stark reminder of its cold, business-like nature. "Marriage" was a facade, and the mansion was meant to politely separate us.
Anya guided me through expansive corridors, examining polished portraits and marble statuettes that were submerged with pedantic stares. It emitted the scent of aged silverware and shine. My every move was a form of intrusion. I was a small, bright painting in the face of an all-too-distant earth.
You have your rooms here, Mrs.
Anya opened a set of heavy double doors, as she stated.
My jaw nearly dropped. The apartment was not a single room. What happened? The living quarters boast oversized sofas, a fireplace surround, an adjacent bedroom with a king-sized four-poster bed and an en-suite bathroom comparable in size to my previous apartment. The entire thing was a blend of muted grey, silver and cream; very luxurious but completely cold. There was no personal touch, no vibrant hues, nowhere to find books that were scattered, and nothing could be said about the people. It was a beautiful, pricey, deeply lonely affair.
"Mr. will be serving dinner at the main dining room at eight o'clock," Anya whispered, her voice not being heard.".
Volkov prefers punctuality. ".
"Thank you, Anya," I was able to say with a small voice in the open air.
Nodding gently, she left as the doors closed with a gentle click that felt like escaping from her lips.
With my fingers crossed, I entered the room while observing the soft, cool surface of a marble table. One of the small silver frames on the dresser displayed a black and white photo of an upright man and woman. Alex's parents, I presumed. He seemed as unapproachable as they were.
As I packed up my small suitcase, my dress and art supplies appeared to be missing from the big wardrobe. My old sketchbook, with its messy charcoal spots and vivid watercolors, was a hidden act of rebellion in this white, uncolored world.
Afterward, I put on my sole formal outfit of the evening in a basic, dark blue silk dress. It seemed like armor, or a play-specific costume, but I had not practiced it yet. It wasn't as grand as I imagined when I entered the dining room. I was positioned at both ends of a long, dark table, which seemed to highlight the divide in our relationship.
Alex was already seated, his dark attire blended in with the shadows. As I walked in, he glanced upwards, and for a moment there, I felt the intensity of his gaze, an intense sense of something beyond my comprehension. He positioned himself on the far side of the seat.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Staff who were quiet and ghostly served our perfectly cooked food. China's most intense sound was the clinking of silverware. There was one occasion when I attempted to engage in conversation.
I wished to make an exception for saying that the architecture here is very... beautiful.
"Alex was absorbed in his work, as it's a family-owned estate.". It serves its purpose. ".
The silence made my attempt a complete failure. It appeared that he had no interest in small talk or any other form of communication. He was a wall, immovable and frigid. The possessive vibe I had harbored in his workplace appeared to have vanished, replaced by an even more disturbing lack of concern. It was almost as unpleasant as resentment.
Almost without hesitation, the illusion of a courteous dinner swallowed me up. Back in my "wing," I gazed out at the large window, observing the twinkling of city lights. I had a partner who was unknown, living in an ornate wooden enclosure with no windows. Despite my family being safe, what was the emotional impact on me? How could this be justified?
I glanced outside the window and noticed something on the bedside table. What did they see? A compact, intricately crafted wooden box. The. It was not there before. Curiosity, a risky thing in this house, pulled me forward. I picked it up. The warmth and smoothness of the material felt comfortable on my fingers. The base had a subtle seam not connected to the lock or catch. As I opened the lid, my heart raced as I looked inside.
And then I saw it. Nothing but a jewel, nothing more disturbing than something. Something that made my blood boil, a fragment of Alex's world, situated here in my own mind, which indicated an absence of consciousness I had not even begun to imagine. It was...