Chapter 4 Marlena
0004 - Marlena
The first morning in my gilded cage came too early.
Light came in through the floor to ceiling windows, giving the penthouse a soft good colour but I couldn't appreciate it.
My body aches in ways I didn't think was possible. Every muscle of mine felt like it had been hammered, stretched and rebuilt overnight.
A sharp knock on the door pulled me out of my fog of sleep.
“Miss Rousseau?” A smooth professional voice called out.
I swallowed, “Yes, who is it?”
The door opened and a man stepped inside. He was broad-shouldered with a chiseled jaw and a physique that immediately made you aware of how weak your own body was.
“Good morning,” He said, his voice calm and commanding, “I’m Julian. Your personal trainer. I was informed that you start your programme today,”
I was not informed about a program.
Julian saw my confusion and spoke up, “A regimen. To polish your body, your posture and your endurance. Mr. Volkov insists you present the perfect image and that includes your physical presence,”
The words made my stomach knot. I wanted to protest and say I didn't need a personal trainer but the authority in Julia's voice made me shut up.
By the time I realised what was happening, I was in the gym that he had already set up on the Forty fourth floor.
It was larger than my entire Brooklyn apartment and filled with machines I didn't recognize.
“Start with warm-up,” Julian said. His eyes didn't leave me until I moved away from him and started jumping jacks, squats and lunges.
Each movement made me aware of the muscles I had not used in years.
Next, we started weight training. The exercises were not gentle suggestions. They were rude orders.
“Ten more,” he'd bark, “Push past your limit. Grace isn't just in posture. It's in discipline,”
And by the time an hour had passed, my legs were trembling, my arms were shaking and my pride had gone to dust.
Swear ran down my back, soaking the designer clothes that I was asked to wear.
Julian stepped back, observing me, “Good. You survived the first session. Tomorrow, we begin refining your walk, your presence, your carriage. Remember: appearance is power.”
I wanted to collapse right there on the polished floor, but instead, I nodded.
Later that morning, a knock echoed in my room.
I came face to face with a woman when I pulled the door open.
“Irina said you would be expecting me,” she said as
I moved out of the door, letting her in.
She was all sharp angles and elegance and she dragged racks of designer clothes behind her.
“I’m Colette,” she said. “Stylist. You will learn quickly that old money doesn’t stumble over fabric. You will move like wealth, breathe like wealth, and smile like wealth. Or you will fail.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to push away thoughts of Luka, Paris or Brooklyn.
She began pulling the outfits off the rack, draping them over my arms and instructing me.
“You need to hold your head higher. A tilt of two degrees to the left. Shoulders back. Chin forward. Eyes soft but confident.”
I fumbled through the poses and stumbled on the silk heels she forced me to wear.
She didn't correct me politely. She corrected me like she was sculpting stone.
My body ached again but this time, it was exhaustion mixed with humiliation.
“You’re stiff,” she said finally, arms crossed. “Polish isn’t given. It’s imposed. You will learn. You must.”.
I nodded silently, even though every fiber in me screamed at me to rebel – there was no room for here.
By afternoon, there was another knock. But this was gentle.
Marcus Sterling entered. He was well-dressed and charming, the kind of man who smiled with his whole face. “Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” he said as he offered a polite bow.
“Good morning,” I muttered, forcing a smile.
Marcus moved easily through the penthouse, surveying the space like it had always been his own.
“Impressive residence,” he said casually. His gaze lingered on me for just a moment too long.
“You’ve settled in well.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
He leaned slightly closer and lowered his voice, “I hope you don’t mind me asking… where are you from originally? Paris?”
I froze. My stomach tightened. The question was casual but there was an edge to it. “Yes,” I replied carefully. “Paris.”
His smile stayed in place, “And how long have you been in New York?”
I hesitated, knowing that any slip would betray too much, “Just a few weeks,”
He nodded, apparently satisfied, though his eyes lingered. “You’ve handled the move well. Not everyone adjusts to such… change so quickly.”
I forced a nod. Something about him made me nervous. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was weighing me, testing me.
Just then, Nikolai stepped in.
Marcus stood straighter now but his smile still remained. Nikolai’s sharp gaze locked on him.
Every inch of his posture radiated ownership, control, and threat.
“Marcus,” Nikolai said, hid voice cold and possessive. His gray eyes drilled into Marcus as if to stake a claim. “You may handle finances, but this is not your domain.”
Marcus’s smile faltered, just slightly, but he remained composed. “Of course, Nikolai. I meant no disrespect.”
I stood frozen, caught between two storms. One charming, one merciless, and I was the only thing standing in the middle.
Nikolai’s gaze finally shifted to me like a silent reminder of the rules I had already signed away.
And I understood again: in this world, I belonged to him.