Chapter 2 The house of eyes
Anya felt the shift from her small, familiar world to the new reality with a jarring physical sensation, like stepping through a portal into a colder, denser atmosphere. The move to the Volkov estate was less a gentle transition and more a forced evacuation. They left early, before dawn, escorted by two silent, dark sedans whose drivers were indistinguishable from the black tint of the windows.
The estate itself was a monument to aggressive opulence. It wasn't merely large; it was overwhelming—a brutalist interpretation of luxury, all sharp angles, polished black granite, and imposing walls. Anya stared out of the car window as they drove through the primary gate, the heavy metal grating sliding back with a slow, grinding sound.
"Isn't it breathtaking, Anya?" Evelyn sighed from the seat beside her, her voice hushed with awe. "It's a fortress!"
"That's exactly what it feels like, Maman," Anya murmured, the sound catching in her throat. She inhaled deeply, but the air inside the car felt manufactured, sterile. Breathtaking is correct. It takes my breath away, but not with beauty.
The grounds were meticulously maintained, statuesque hedges giving way to vast, manicured lawns devoid of anything remotely cozy or inviting. The house loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the low morning sun in a way that felt hostile. It didn't feel like a home; it felt like a corporate headquarters, or perhaps, a museum designed for intimidation.
"The main house is simply enormous," Evelyn prattled on, her nervousness manifesting as relentless chatter. "Nikolai said he's assigned us the west wing suite. It has a magnificent view of the city skyline."
As the car pulled to a stop beneath a massive, concrete portico, Anya's attention was immediately seized by the sheer level of security. She saw no visible guards, but the integrated technology was everywhere: thermal lenses subtly embedded in the stone columns, tiny, humming sensors along the eaves, and motion-activated lights that tracked their approach with clinical precision.
"It's the aggressive opulence, isn't it?" Anya thought internally, anchoring her observation with a clear sense of the atmosphere. It’s not just wealth; it’s a deliberate assertion of absolute control.
They were met by a tall, skeletal man in a perfectly tailored dark suit who introduced himself only as Ivan, the house manager. Ivan's face was impassive, his eyes betraying no emotion as he directed the unpacking and led them inside.
The interior was stark, echoing the exterior's cold aesthetic. Vast marble floors, soaring ceilings, and minimalist furniture that looked too expensive to sit upon. The air inside smelled of dust and new leather—a scent that spoke of money and disuse.
"Welcome to your new home, Madame Volkov," Ivan droned, directing Evelyn toward a large, cavernous drawing-room.
Evelyn, still dizzy with the scale of the place, tried to inject warmth. "Oh, it's marvelous, Ivan! But where is Nikolai? And Dimitri?"
Ivan paused, the brief hesitation a flicker of imperfection in his robotic demeanor. "Mr. Volkov is attending to urgent matters. As for Dimitri Volkov, he is... occupied in his private wing. He requested that you be settled first."
Anya caught the nuanced hesitation, the subtle difference in addressing the father and the son. Nikolai was busy; Dima was purposefully aloof.
They were led to their suite in the west wing. It was huge, impersonal, and sealed off by a heavy, reinforced door. The view was, indeed, magnificent, but Anya felt less like she was admiring the city and more like she was observing her old life from a great, insurmountable distance.
"Oh, Anya, look at the closet space!" Evelyn gasped, immediately diving into the material distractions.
Anya walked immediately to the window, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on the fixtures. She started her private inventory of the surveillance architecture. She found small, almost invisible lenses in the corners of the ceiling, confirming her suspicion of constant scrutiny.
"Maman," Anya said quietly, running her hand along a highly polished mahogany bedside table. "This house is wired. I think we are under surveillance."
Evelyn laughed, a brittle, high sound. "Nonsense, darling. It's security! Nikolai is simply a very important man. He has enemies, naturally. It's protection."
"It's not just protection, Maman," Anya countered, turning to face her. "Protection allows movement. Surveillance enforces stillness."
Evelyn waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, stop being so dramatic, Anya. You're trying to find shadows where there is only sunshine and security."
Anya knew arguing was pointless. Her mother had already built her own fragile reality around the promises of this house.
"Very well," Anya said, giving up for now. "I'm going to unpack my books in the smaller sitting room. I need some quiet."
Anya deliberately chose the smallest, least adorned room in the suite. As she arranged her worn Renaissance texts on the cold glass shelf, she heard a faint, persistent humming sound. It wasn't the air conditioning. She moved slowly, her ears straining. She located a small, circular metal disc embedded perfectly flush into the marble molding behind a heavy curtain. She placed her ear against the wall; the humming was coming from the disc.
A microphone. This confirms it. The air felt charged with the electricity of constant monitoring.
Anya pulled her hand away quickly, her heart pounding. She knew she couldn't mention it to Evelyn again. She was trapped, and any attempt to communicate freely was now compromised.
She turned, taking in the full measure of her suite—the aggressive luxury, the high-tech security, the feeling of absolute isolation.
I am in a cage. I must find a way to navigate this without being detected.
A faint scent, sharper than the sterile air, reached her—sandalwood and something cold, like ozone, a sophisticated masculine fragrance. She had noticed it briefly in the car. It was the scent of the man who ruled this world.
As she stood there, trying to control the sudden chill of realization, a low chime echoed from the main living area. Ivan’s voice followed, perfectly modulated and cold, carrying no trace of humanity.
“Anya Petrova. Dimitri Volkov wishes to see you for a brief talk, immediately.”
The words hung in the air like a summons from another world. Anya’s breath caught, her pulse quickening. Dimitri Volkov—his name alone carried weight, the kind that pressed against her chest and made the room feel smaller. She glanced at the orchid Evelyn had left behind, its white petals trembling in the draft, a fragile contrast to the iron command that had just entered her life.
Anya felt the blood drain from her face. The heir had summoned her. She had been here less than an hour, and the confrontation she dreaded was already beginning. She instinctively wanted to recoil, but her inner defiance stiffened her spine.
Dima Volkov. The cold strategist’s sharper weapon.
The tension in the sterile, heavily monitored room was suddenly immense, charged with expectation. The brief reprieve of settling in was over.
Anya took a deep, steadying breath, tasting the dust and the cold air of the fortress. She knew this summons was not an invitation. It was a formal assessment.
"Where is his wing, Ivan?" Anya asked, her voice clear despite the tremor in her chest.
"I will personally escort you, Miss Petrova," Ivan replied, the door to the suite opening with a soft click.
Anya followed the house manager out into the vast, silent corridor, the cold, hard marble beneath her feet reflecting the stark certainty of her new captivity. She felt the suffocating presence of high-tech security, sensing the cage had snapped shut around her.