Moscow

5:45pm

Aastha

I unzipped the garment bag. The dress spilled out like a pool of midnight ink a sleek, off-shoulder one-piece in obsidian black. It was simple, elegant, and devastatingly beautiful.

​"Beautiful," I murmured, my fingers trailing over the expensive fabric. Then, I mentally slapped myself.

Don't do it, Aastha. Don't start praising the cage just because the bars are gold.

​I tossed the dress onto the bed and moved to the window. I pushed it open, letting the biting Moscow air collide with the artificial warmth of the thermostat. The cold was a shock, a necessary wake-up call.

​Down below, the security perimeter was a fortress. I counted ten guards at the main gate alone a massive "overhead cost" for a single night. This wasn't a party; it was a mobilization.

​A black SUV crunched over the light dusting of snow, its tires sounding like breaking bone. A guard snapped to attention and hauled the gate open.

​Nikolai stepped out first, followed by the mountain that was Fedya. Nikolai was dressed in a black tailored suit that made him look less like a man and more like a shadow come to life. As if sensing my gaze, he tilted his head back.

​He didn't have to look for me; he knew exactly where I was.

​"Chumiya," I muttered, my lip curling in a face of pure disgust.

​He was too far away to hear me, but he saw the expression. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face almost a giggle as his icy blue eyes locked onto mine. It was the look of a collector checking on his most prized, and most troublesome, asset.

​He broke eye contact and disappeared into the "Black Castle."

​

Fedya remained at the gate, a stone sentinel waiting as the SUV cleared the path. A second later, a sleek white BMW glided into the courtyard like a ghost.

​Fedya didn't just open the door; he stood with a level of posture I hadn't seen him use for Nikolai.

​A girl stepped out.

She was wrapped in a coat of white bear fur so plush it looked like fallen snow, but it was the woman inside it that stole the air from my lungs. A jagged, silver scar sliced through her beauty, starting just above her right eye and trailing down her cheek, disappearing beneath her collarbone like a lightning strike frozen in time.

​"Gorgeous," I whispered, the word escaping before I could catch it.

​She shared Nikolai’s lethal bone structure those high, aristocratic cheekbones that looked like they were carved from ice but her eyes were a startling, molten amber brown. They weren't cold like Nikolai's; they were burning.

The girl in the white fur disappeared into the house, but Fedya remained. He didn’t look up immediately, but I could feel his senses tuned to the window.

Without even turning his head fully, he raised a massive hand and pointed a finger toward his own torso mocking my height from fifty feet away.

​Dwarf.

​He didn't have to say it. The gesture was loud and clear. He was reminding me that in his world, I was just a small piece on a very large chessboard.

​I didn't give him the satisfaction of a middle finger; that would be too predictable. Instead, I scrunched my face into the most ridiculous, distorted "funny face" I could muster, a silent protest against his giant-sized ego.

​"Bhakk," I muttered, the familiar Indian dismissal tasting better than any Russian word.

​I slammed the window shut, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thwack. The cold was gone, but the adrenaline remained.

​I looked at the black dress on the bed.

The mystery girl was inside. Nikolai was inside. And according to Sasha, I was never going to laugh again after tonight.

​I should have stayed in the room. I should have waited for the maids, strapped the knife to my thigh, and played the part of the obedient doll. But curiosity is a dangerous liability, and mine was currently overdrawn.

​I crept down the stairs, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. The house was a tomb. No guards in the hallway, no servants in the foyer. The "Black Castle" had pulled its shadows inward.

​Rasta kaha se hai exit ka? I thought, my eyes darting toward the heavy oak doors. Then, it struck me.

The Gala.

Tonight, Nikolai wasn't just branding me; he was opening the cage. He had to transport me from this fortress to a public venue.

​Golden chance, I whispered to the silence. That transit was my window of opportunity.

​My stomach cramped adrenaline and hunger fighting for space. I slipped into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. It was gleaming, sterile, and seemingly abandoned. I moved toward the fridge, my hand reaching for the handle, when the air in the room shifted.

​The temperature didn't drop, but it felt like it did.

​I turned.

​She was there.

The girl with the amber eyes and the jagged silver scar. She wasn't wearing the white fur anymore; she was in a deep crimson gown that made the mark on her face look like a badge of war. She didn't move. She just leaned against the counter, watching me with a look of pure, concentrated disgust.

​It wasn't the "hired help" kind of anger I got from Sasha. This was personal. This was the look of someone who saw me as an infection in her home.

​There’s no way she’s an ally, I realized, my heart hammering against my ribs. In a house of sinners, she looked like the one who handled the penance.

​Wrong move, Aastha.

​I ignored the shadow by the counter and peered into the industrial-sized fridge. My "CA brain" was looking for something quick, something high-energy, but all I saw was shelf after shelf of raw, marbled proteins.

​"God, why so much maas?" I murmured, my nose wrinkling in immediate protest. The heavy, metallic scent of raw meat was overwhelming in the enclosed space. It smelled like a butcher shop or a crime scene. And why always apples? I found a bowl of them tucked in the corner.

I didn't take one; I grabbed three in one go, clutching them to my chest like they were precious stones. They were the only things in this fridge that didn't feel like they belonged to a predator.

​I turned around, squeezing my nose with my free hand to block out the smell of the meat, only to realize the girl with the scar hadn't moved an inch.

​She was watching me handle the apples as if I were a thief caught with the crown jewels. Up close, the scar on her face was even more intimidating it didn't just mark her beauty; it gave her an air of permanent, frozen violence.

​I looked at her, my fingers tightening around the cold skin of the apples.

"Hello," I said.

​A basic introduction. A polite, civil overture in a house that was anything but.

​She didn’t answer. She didn't even acknowledge that I had spoken. She simply stared through me, her amber eyes reflecting a hatred so ancient and deep it felt like it belonged to the soil of Russia itself.

​Before the silence could swallow me whole, a heavy shadow fell across the kitchen doorway. Fedya.

​"Alisa Baladin," Fedya said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space. "Nikolai’s sister."

​"Oh... okay."

​The pieces clicked into place. The cheekbones, the arrogance, the icy intensity it was all there. She looked at me with the same disdain Nikolai did, but hers was sharpened by a woman’s intuition. She didn't just see a captive; she saw a complication. Without a word to either of us, she turned and swept out, her crimson gown trailing like a streak of blood on the marble.

​I turned to Fedya, expecting his usual bored expression, but for once, his eyes were unreadable. There was a flicker of something there caution? Warning?

​Before I could audit his face, he reached out and snatched one of the apples right out of my hand.

​"Small people shouldn't eat this much," he grunted, taking a massive, crunching bite. "It will stunt what little growth you have left."

​"You... giant!" I hissed, reaching for my fruit. "Give it back! That’s my dinner."

​He held the apple high above his head, a distance I couldn't bridge even if I stood on a chair. He looked down at me, his expression shifting back to that annoying, stoic boredom.

I slammed the two remaining apples onto the marble counter, the sound echoing in the sterile kitchen.

​"Are you guys beggars?" I hissed, looking at Fedya with genuine bewilderment. "Is the Baladin empire so broke that you can’t afford a single vegetable? Why only apples? And the meat..." I gestured toward the fridge with a face of pure revulsion. "Like, eww. It’s a butcher shop in there, not a kitchen."

​Fedya didn't flinch. He just leaned his massive frame against the doorframe, looking at me with that infuriating, "funny" expression the one he reserved for particularly loud ants. He took another massive, crunching bite of the stolen apple, his jaw working slowly.

​"It is minus five degrees outside, girl," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "In Russia, we do not survive on salads and spices. Meat is fuel. Meat is heat."

​He looked at the apples on the counter and then back at my small frame.

"Maybe if you ate some 'meat' instead of fruit for horses, you would finally grow tall enough to reach the top shelf."

​"Bhakk," I snapped, snatching my apples back from counter top "I’d rather be a dwarf than a carnivore with no taste buds  . And this place is a Five-Star prison with a One-Star pantry."

"If you want to eat something specific, tell Nikolai," Fedya said, his jaw working as he finished the apple he’d stolen from me. He leaned back, the casual strength of his posture a constant reminder of my captivity. "He will arrange it for you. Anything you want."

​"Oh... really?"

​The words tasted like dust. The duality of this man of this entire house was insane. Nikolai  would shoot a man in cold blood, burn a car to a husk, and trade lives like currency. Yet, he would play the thoughtful host, ensuring his 'guest' wasn't offended by the smell of raw beef.

​It was a classic Hostile Takeover tactic: break the spirit, then provide the comfort so the victim forgets they're in a cage.

​"He’ll arrange it," I repeated, a dry, bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. "Will he arrange to bring back the dead, too? Or is his 'concierge service' limited to organic salads and pasta?"

​Fedya’s eyes darkened, the 'funny' look vanishing instantly. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The silence in the kitchen grew heavy, thick with the things we didn't talk about.

"Go and eat," Fedya said, his voice breaking the heavy silence like a tectonic shift. "Have your stomach full. You will need the energy for tonight."

​Before I could snap back a retort about not being a farm animal he was fattening up for slaughter, he turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows of the hallway.

​I stood alone in the center of the gleaming, sterile kitchen, clutching two stolen apples to my chest.

​"I’m going to develop an apple allergy," I hissed at the empty air, the tart, repetitive scent already cloying in my nose. "God... so much apple. It’s like living in a tech giant’s fever dream."

​I looked at the industrial fridge the graveyard of marbled proteins and "meat-as-heat" philosophy. My stomach gave a treacherous, hollow growl. I had two choices: I could play the "honored guest" and ask Nikolai for a vegetarian meal, or I could survive on fruit and spite.

​For me, the math was simple. Asking Nikolai for a favor wasn't just a request; it was a liability. It was an entry on a ledger I could never balance. He’d provide the food, and in return, he’d own a piece of my gratitude.

​Never.

​Some might call it ego. Some might call it stupidity in the face of a five-degree-below-zero Moscow winter. I named it self-respect.

In this house, they could control the locks, the temperature, and the guest list, but they didn't get to control my appetite.

​I took a defiant, aggressive bite of the first apple. It was cold, crisp, and tasted like nothing but stubbornness.

​I leaned against the marble counter, my eyes drifting back to the door where Alisa had stood. The "Black Castle" wasn't just a fortress; it was a theater.

And tonight, at the Gala, the curtain was going up. I wasn't just going to be a "complication" in a crimson dress I was going to be the glitch in Nikolai Baladin’s perfect system.

​I finished the first apple, core and all, and tucked the second one into the hidden fold of my robe.

​Time to put on the ink-black cage, I thought. Let’s see if the shadow-man is ready for an auditor who refuses to settle the debt.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Moscow

6:20 pm

I left the kitchen with the taste of stolen fruit on my tongue and a new objective in my head, spending the next hour in my room sharpening my resolve until it was as thin and lethal as the blade I intended to hide."

​The minute hand of the mahogany wall clock twitched like a dying insect.

​Tick.

Tick.

​Forty minutes.

In forty minutes, the heavy oak doors would groan open, and the two Russian girls would enter to "prepare" me. To them, I was a mannequin to be painted and draped. To Nikolai, I was a debt to be collected.

​I looked down at the blue knit dress. The fabric was soft, expensive a mockery of the scratchy, blood-soaked silks I had worn in Kolkata. My fingers, still tinged with a fading purple from the frostbite, gripped the hem.

​Rip.

​The sound of the high-quality wool tearing was the most satisfying thing I had heard in days. I didn't just want to escape; I wanted to destroy the version of me he was trying to build. I shredded a long, thin strip of the navy fabric, the edges jagged and raw.

​I hiked up the dress, my breath catching as the freezing air hit the sensitive skin of my left thigh. I positioned the paring knife the small, silver tooth I’d scavenged against my flesh.

​As I wound the strip of cloth around my leg, I pulled it tight.

Tighter.

I wanted the pain.

I wanted the bite of the fabric to remind me that I was still solid, still real, even in this house of ghosts. I tucked the handle of the blade into the wrap, securing it until the steel felt like a part of my bone.

​I smoothed the woolen knit dress back down. To anyone else, I was just Aastha, the "forced bride" with the hollow eyes and the broken spirit. They wouldn't see the slight bulge of the weapon. They wouldn't feel the fire of the "My mother's blood" finally starting to boil under the ice.

​I walked to the window, watching the Siberian sunset bleed orange across the snow. My father had left me with nothing but a name and a debt. Nikolai had taken my future and turned it into a gallery of corpses.

​"The math is simple now, Nikolai," I whispered, my breath fogging the glass. "You taught me where the carotid is. Now, I’m just waiting for the opening."

I stared at the obsidian dress. It was a masterpiece of temptation, the kind of garment designed to make a woman feel like a queen and a captive all at once.

​"And there's no way in hell I'm wearing it," I thought.

​My reasoning wasn't about fashion; it was about sovereignty. This was his choice. His aesthetic. His brand on my skin.

​I wasn't a puppet, and I certainly wasn't a character in one of my favorite Wattpad author Vaidehi’s novels. I wasn't some female lead who would spend three pages describing her transformation just to "look hot" for my foe. I didn't want his jaw to drop; I wanted his empire to crumble.

​I didn't need to be a "smoke-show" in a predator’s gallery. I needed to be a ghost.

​I moved toward the bed, my footsteps heavy and deliberate. I reached down and snatched the dress from the duvet. The fabric felt like water expensive, treacherous water.

​Rip, love.

​I didn't hesitate. I gripped the elegant, off-shoulder neckline and yanked. The sound of the silk giving way was a violent, jagged scream in the quiet room. I tore it from the neck down, the obsidian ink splitting open to reveal the hollow lie inside.

​I tossed the mangled remains back onto the bed, a ruined heap of thousands of dollars.

​"No one tells me what to do," I muttered, my voice trembling with a cocktail of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated spite. "And especially not a sinner."

​I looked down at my ruined blue knit dress, the frayed hem, and the knife hidden against my thigh. I looked like a mess. I looked like a disaster.

​I looked exactly like the one thing Nikolai Baladin couldn't control.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, letting the darkness behind my lids drown out the 'Black Castle.' I did the math of my own heartbeat fast, irregular, and desperate and forced it to slow down, piece by piece, until the fire in my blood felt less like panic and more like a cold, calculating resolve."

​I opened my eyes, the sterile white lights of the "Black Castle" stinging like a fresh slap. My knuckles were white, my fingers clutching the frayed hem of the navy dress as if it were the only anchor left in a world gone adrift.

​The fabric was ruined, the silk on the bed was shredded, and my life was a smoking wreck but for the first time since Kolkata, the math finally made sense.

​I looked at my reflection in the dark window glass, a ghost of the woman I used to be, and felt the cold bite of the steel hidden against my thigh. It wasn't a burden; it was a down payment on his destruction.

​"You're going to suffer, Nikolai," I whispered, the promise tasting like iron and winter.

​It wasn't a threat. It was an audit. And I was going to make sure that by the time this night was over, Nikolai Baladin was left with a deficit he could never, ever repay..

As the door hissed open, the two girls entered, their arms laden with vanity cases and steaming garment bags. The lead girl, a blonde with eyes that had seen too much and said too little, stopped dead.

​Her gaze dropped first to my hands, still white-knuckled around the frayed, navy hem of my ruined dress. Then, her head snapped toward the bed.

​The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the sound of her dropping a can of hairspray.

​"Jesus..." she murmured, her voice thin with a terror that had nothing to do with God. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the shredded obsidian silk as if she could stitch the thousands of dollars back together with a wish. "This was for hundred thousand... Nikolai will..."

​"Nikolai will have to adjust his expectations," I cut in, my voice as flat and emotionless as a balance sheet.

​I didn't move. I didn't apologize. I simply pulled out my best poker face the one I used when a client tried to hide a million-dollar discrepancy in a 'miscellaneous' column. I met her eyes, my expression a wall of stone.

​"Basic hairstyle and leave," I commanded.

​The authority in my tone wasn't borrowed; it was reclaimed. To them, the dress was a fortune. To me, it was just a bad debt I’d decided to write off..

​"But the dress " the second girl started, her hands trembling.

​"The hair," I repeated, my voice dropping an octave, cold enough to rival the Siberian wind outside. "Now."

I sat on the vanity chair, the cold, clinical steel of the knife biting into the skin of my thigh. Every time I moved, the blade reminded me that I was armed. It was a grounding pain the only thing in this room that felt honest.

​"Be quick," I commanded, my voice echoing off the marble walls. "Just brush it. A basic half-up, half-down. Nothing else."

​The lead girl nodded, her hands shaking as she gripped the comb. She worked with a frantic, desperate speed, her eyes constantly darting toward the shredded obsidian silk on the bed as if she expected the fabric to start bleeding.

​The second girl stepped forward, clicking open a professional makeup kit. The scent of expensive powders and synthetic roses filled the air the smell of a lie.

​"No need," I said, my gaze fixed on my own reflection. I looked tired. I looked pale. I looked like a woman who had been kidnapped.

​"But... your skin, the lighting at the Gala is very "

​"No," I snapped, the word hitting like a gavel.

​"But Bratva specifically requested "

​"I said no!" I raged, my voice cracking the fragile silence of the room.

​I didn't just want to be plain; I wanted to be a provocation. There was no way I was going to look tempting for him. No way I was going to let his guests look at me and see a willing, beautiful bride. I wanted them to see the dark circles under my eyes ,my acne on my cheeks . I wanted them to see the raw, unpolished truth of what he had stolen.

​I wasn't a canvas for his vanity. I was the evidence of his crimes.

"It’s done," the stylist whispered, her voice a mix of relief and dread as she gave a final, cautious touch of spray to my hair.

​As the other girl reached for a crystal perfume bottle, I raised my palm, a physical barrier between me and her "finishing touches."

​"I have a migraine. Don’t," I said, my voice clipped. Every artificial scent in this house felt like a layer of Nikolai’s skin I didn't want on mine.

​"It’s organic and cold-pressed, not the chemical ones," she murmured, her eyes pleading. She didn't want to get in trouble for an "unfinished" job.

​I gave a stiff nod.

She pressed the atomizer, and a fine mist settled over my neck and forearms. The liquid was ice-cold, the sharp, botanical scent making the hair on my arms stand erect. It felt like being marked.

​"Leave."

​The voice didn't come from the room; it came from the doorway, a low, calm vibration that carried the weight of a death sentence. It was the sound of the "Black walls" itself speaking.

​The two girls didn't just move; they flinched, their bodies physically recoiling from the sound. They bowed, their eyes fixed on the floorboards, and scurried out like mice fleeing a predator.

​Me?

​I didn't move. I stayed seated in the vanity chair, my back to the door, watching him in the mirror. My heart was hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs the only thing in the room that wasn't under his control.

​Is he going to get mad?

​The question flickered in my mind, but I extinguished it. Fear was a liability I couldn't afford to carry tonight. This this confrontation was exactly what I had calculated for. I wanted him to see the ruined hem. I wanted him to see the pale, unpainted face.

​I wanted him to realize that while he could own my location, he would never own the ledger of my soul.

─