Chapter 3 Marlena
I woke up hoping it was a nightmare.
The morning light filtered in through my apartment window and for one beautiful moment, I thought maybe I'd dreamed it all.
The contract. Nikolai. The signature that sold my life.
Then my phone buzzed.
Wire transfer confirmed: $10,000,000.00 to Klinik Hoffnung, Zurich.
My hands shook as I stared at the screen. It was real.
A second text came through from an unknown number.
Car arrives at 9 AM. Bring only personal items. Everything else will be provided. - N
I looked at the clock. Six-fifteen.
I had three hours to pack up my entire life.
I called Luka at seven, before the hospital got too busy.
His face appeared on my phone screen, pale but smiling. "Mar? It's early for you."
"Couldn't sleep." I forced brightness into my voice. "I have news. The treatment's paid for. You're going to Switzerland next week."
His smile faded. "What? How?"
"A benefactor took care of it. Like I mentioned before,”
"Marlena." His voice dropped. "What did you do?"
"Nothing illegal." The lie tasted bitter.
"Someone just wanted to help. That's all."
"You're lying to me."
"I'm saving you." My voice cracked. "Please, Luka. Just get better. That's all I need you to do."
He looked at me for a long moment, sick and suspicious and too weak to push harder. "I'm scared, Mar."
"Me too." At least that was honest. "But you're going to be okay. I promise."
After we hung up, I sat on the floor of my empty apartment and sobbed until my whole body shook violently.
This was the price. This was what saving him cost.
By the time the knock came at nine, I'd pulled myself together. Well, barely.
The man at my door was built like a tank with cold eyes that assessed me.
"Anton," he said. "Mr. Volkov sent me."
He didn't wait for a response before picking up my single suitcase like it weighed nothing.
I followed him down to a black Mercedes that probably cost more than I'd made in my entire life.
We drove through Manhattan in silence.
Anton didn't speak and I didn't have the energy to try.
The tower in Tribeca was all glass and steel, the kind of building that screamed money.
Anton pulled into an underground garage and led me to a private elevator.
He pressed my thumb to a fingerprint scanner without asking.
The scanner beeped and a green light appeared.
My print was already in the system.
"Top three floors," Anton said as the elevator climbed. "All Mr. Volkov's."
The doors opened directly into the penthouse.
My breath caught.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked all of Manhattan. There were mordern art hung on white walls.
Everything was perfect. Beautiful, like a museum.
A woman in her fifties stood waiting. She had gray hair pulled back and a very strict face.
"I'm Irina," she said. "Mr. Volkov's housekeeper. I'll show you to your quarters."
‘Your quarters’ as if I was a soldier reporting for duty.
"Mr. Volkov has specific expectations," Irina said as we walked through the penthouse.
She spoke like she was reading from a manual.
"Your bedroom is on the forty-fourth floor. Mr. Volkov's private residence is on the forty-fifth. You are not to enter his floor without permission."
"Separate floors?" I couldn't hide my surprise. "Not just separate rooms?"
"Mr. Volkov values his privacy." Her tone made it clear this wasn't up for discussion. "The forty-sixth floor is his private office. You are forbidden from entering. No exceptions."
She handed me a printed schedule.
Breakfast at seven. Personal trainer at eight. Stylist appointments throughout the week. A list of dos and don'ts that made my head spin.
"Mr. Volkov requires you to be camera-ready at all times," Irina continued. "You represent him now. Everything you do, everything you wear, reflects on him."
She stopped at a door and fixed me with a hard stare.
"The staff has been with Mr. Volkov for years. Our loyalty is to him, not you. Remember that."
Then she left me alone.
My bedroom was bigger than my entire Brooklyn apartment. The closet was already full with designer dresses and shoes in my exact size. Jewelry lay in velvet boxes. Everything still had tags attached, the prices made my stomach turn.
A note card sat on the dresser in sharp, angular handwriting.
Burn your old clothes. You're someone else now.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.
I saw the same face, same dark hair. The same green eyes that my mother used to say were too honest for my own good.
But the woman staring back at me was living in a gilded cage.
My old leather jacket was stuffed in my suitcase. The one thing from my real life. I shoved it in the back of the closet, behind the thousand-dollar dresses.
I was going against Nikolai’s orders but I didn't care.
At eight PM, Irina knocked on my door.
"Dinner. Mr. Volkov is waiting."
The dining room was on the forty-fifth floor.
A table that could seat twenty, but only one place setting at the head.
Nikolai sat there, reading some papers. He did not even look up as I entered.
I stood there, waiting.
One minute passed, then another. Finally, without raising his eyes, he said, "Sit."
I sat at the opposite end of the table, as far from him as possible.
Dinner was brought out by silent staff but I didn't touch anything.
Nikolai ate without speaking. I tried to make conversation.
"The penthouse is beautiful." I said but got no response. "Thank you for the clothes."
Nothing.
"Is this how it's going to be?"
He finally looked up, assessing me with those cold gray eyes. "Is what how it's going to be?"
"If you're going to treat me like a ghost," I snapped, "why go through this charade?"
"Because ghosts serve their purpose," he said quietly. "And so will you."
Then he went back to his reports.
I left without finishing my meal.
Back in my room, I found a gift box on my bed.
Inside was a massive diamond ring, the kind that belonged in a vault.
There was a note in the box too. It read:
Our engagement announcement runs in tomorrow's Times. Memorize this story: We met at a gallery opening six months ago. It was love at first sight. You'll need to sell it.
Beneath the note was a photo.
It was of me, sitting at that dining table, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Someone had photographed me without my knowledge.
My phone buzzed.
Smile for the cameras tomorrow, wife. The whole world will be watching
. - N
I looked up at the ceiling.
He was one floor above me. Always watching, always in control.
I'd moved into a prison that looked like paradise.
And there was no way out.