Page 81 of Ruined

The scent of the place is wrong too. Clean, but with an underlying chemical smell—like something hidden beneath layers of expensive cologne and cleaning products.

As we move deeper into the house I notice the windows are all covered with heavy drapes despite the daytime hour. No natural light penetrates this place. Only the artificial glow of recessed lighting that casts everyone's face in unflattering shadows.

We pass a dining room with a table that could seat twenty, though I doubt Ivan has ever hosted a dinner party here. The table is bare except for a single white orchid in the center—beautiful but sterile.

The silence is the most disturbing part. No music. No distant conversations. Not even the hum of appliances. Just the sound of our footsteps and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Dmitri stops at a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. They're made of dark wood—the only non-white surface I've seen so far—with intricate carvings that don't match the modern aesthetic of the rest of the house.

"Wait here," he says, then knocks three times.

I hear Ivan's voice from the other side, speaking Russian. The words are unfamiliar but the tone is unmistakable—calm, controlled and utterly malevolent.

Dmitri opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

I sit rigid on the edge of Ivan's hard leather sofa, my hands folded so tightly in my lap that my knuckles have stretched white.

This was stupid. So incredibly stupid.

But what choice did I have? Jessica and Michael are suffering because of me. Because I signed that contract. Because I got tangled up with Noah. Because I exist.

"Would you like some tea, Miss Anderson?" Dmitri asks, his thick accent oddly polite for a man who works for a monster.

I shake my head. My throat is too dry to speak.

The townhouse is quiet—too quiet. Shouldn't I hear something? Jessica crying? Michael calling for help? The silence is worse than screams would be.

"Where are they?" I finally manage to ask.

Dmitri's face remains impassive. "Mr. Volkov will be with you shortly."

I stand up, unable to contain my nervous energy. "I didn't ask about Ivan. I asked about my sister and my friend."

"Please sit, Miss Anderson." His tone hasn't changed but his hand shifts slightly toward his jacket. I know what that means.

I sit.

What would Noah do right now? The thought comes unbidden and I push it away immediately. Noah is the reason I'm here. Noah and his possessiveness. Noah and his refusal to trade me. Noah and his?—

No. I can't think about him. Not now.

I try to focus on what I'll say to Ivan. I need to be clear. Direct. I'm trading myself for Jessica and Michael. He gets me—my performances, my name on his programs, whatever he wants—and they go free. Simple.

But as the minutes stretch on, doubt creeps in. What if Ivan doesn't want a trade? What if he just wants all of us? What if?—

The door opens and Ivan Volkov strolls in. He looks exactly as I remember him from Moscow—impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his ice-blue eyes calculating, that permanent smirk on his lips.

"Evelyn," he says, my name sounding wrong in his mouth. "How nice of you to visit."

I stand again, this time forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Where are they?"

He laughs softly. "No pleasantries? No catching up with an old friend?"

"We were never friends," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I want to see my sister and Michael."

Ivan takes a seat in an armchair across from the sofa, crossing one leg over the other like we're having a casual business meeting.

"All in good time," he says. "First, let's discuss how you managed to escape Noah Rivera. I'm quite curious."

---