Chapter 3 The Petrova key
Anya followed Ivan through the labyrinthine corridors of the Volkov estate, the movement of her own feet echoing unnaturally loud on the vast, polished marble. The estate's aggressive opulence was physically chilling; the walls were clad in cold stone and dark wood, swallowing all light and sound. Ivan moved with the silent, efficient gait of a man who belonged utterly to this fortress, never once glancing at Anya, confirming his role as her cold, impersonal warden.
"Dimitri Volkov's wing is located on the eastern side, separate from the primary residential suites," Ivan explained in his unnervingly precise monotone. "He prefers absolute privacy for his work."
Of course he does. A predator prefers his lair to be undisturbed. Anya’s inner thoughts were sharp and dismissive, fueling her quiet defiance. She focused on the cold, sterile smell of the estate, contrasting it with the faint, sharper scent of ozone and sandalwood she now recognized as emanating from Dima's domain—a scent that was both clean and dangerously intense.
They passed through a series of internal checkpoints—heavy, seamless doors that slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss only after Ivan’s silent palm print identification. The feeling of being processed, not welcomed, was overwhelming, stripping her of any sense of personal space or freedom.
Finally, Ivan paused before a door that was darker and more heavily reinforced than the others. He pressed a discreet button, and the wall panel glowed faintly.
"Dimitri Volkov," Ivan announced formally into the intercom, "Anya Petrova has arrived."
A deep, controlled voice answered immediately, devoid of inflection: "Send her in, Ivan. And close the door."
Ivan stepped aside. "Proceed, Miss Petrova. I will await you here."
Anya took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of fresh, unforgiving leather hitting her nose. She pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside the inner sanctum.
Dimitri Volkov's office was a masterwork of intimidating design. It was a vast room, but every surface was dedicated to intense, singular focus. The dominant feature was a massive, dark wood desk, clean save for a trio of monitors displaying complex, shifting financial data. The window behind him looked out over the rest of the estate, positioning him literally above everything else—a visual assertion of dominance.
Dima himself was seated behind the desk, framed against the morning light. He was indeed younger and sharper than his father, but equally intimidating. His suit was impeccably tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean physique. His hair was dark and precise, falling slightly over a brow that was currently furrowed in concentration.
His most striking features were his eyes—a penetrating shade of light grey that seemed to absorb the light, giving him an unnerving, analytical gaze. The silence between them stretched, heavy and deliberate. Anya felt the weight of that gaze pressing against her composure, stripping away the shield she carried so carefully. It was not cruelty she saw, nor kindness—only calculation, as if every flicker of her breath was being measured, catalogued, and judged.
“Anya Petrova,” Dima stated, the name rolling off his tongue with a precise, cold finality. He did not stand. He did not smile. His characteristic trait, Anya realized instantly, was his intense, analytical stillness. It was more unnerving than shouting.
Anya remained standing just inside the doorway, unwilling to approach the massive desk that felt like a deliberate, psychological barrier. "Dimitri Volkov," she replied, matching his formality, refusing to be intimidated by his seated position of power.
Dima’s lips barely twitched, a minuscule imperfection in his control. "Take a seat. Or remain standing if you prefer to maintain a defensive posture."
Anya chose the latter, tightening her posture. "I will stand, thank you. I find standing allows for clearer thought."
He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment of her defiance. He then steepled his fingers, leaning back slightly, still scrutinizing her with an unnerving, deliberate slowness that stripped her of any social mask.
"I requested this meeting not for introductions, which are socially tedious, but for clarification," Dima began, his voice deep and controlled. "My father's arrangement with your mother is finalized. My concern is exclusively with the assets brought into this... arrangement."
"And what assets are those, specifically?" Anya countered, determined to keep the dialogue professional and cold, masking the fierce flutter of nerves in her chest. He's trying to treat me like a quarterly report, but I won't let him.
Dima’s eyes narrowed slightly, betraying a flicker of unwelcome interest in her immediate pushback. "Standard familial liquidity is secondary. More critically, I am concerned with the status of your father's estate. Specifically, the transfer details concerning the Petrova Key."
Anya felt a spike of icy realization. The Petrova Key. The line item she’d only glimpsed in her own imagination. Her inherited, quiet life was collapsing not for money, but for something her father had possessed—a secret weapon.
"I am not privy to the details of my father's legal legacy beyond the standard inheritance disclosures," Anya lied smoothly, maintaining eye contact. She injected a touch of bewildered innocence into her voice, hoping it would deflect him.
Dima leaned forward, his gaze boring into her, ignoring her carefully constructed facade. "Standard disclosures are inefficient. Let me be clear, Miss Petrova. We do not engage in inefficient arrangements. Our investigation into the Petrova assets suggests there is a substantial, unlisted informational asset—something beyond mere currency. Your cooperation is now mandatory."
Anya felt the cold, intellectual tension radiating off him. He wasn't demanding information about her father's wealth; he was demanding the truth behind her father's secrets, and he would use any means to extract it.
"I assure you, Mr. Volkov, you are wasting your considerable time with me," Anya insisted, wishing she could wipe the sudden sheen of nervous sweat from her palms.
Dima finally moved, rising slowly from his chair. His height was surprising, forcing Anya to tilt her head back slightly. He walked around the edge of the desk, stopping just a few feet from her. His movement was fluid, quiet, and dominating. The sharp scent of sandalwood and ozone, his specific, masculine presence, suddenly enveloped her, overwhelming the sterile air.
"I do not waste time," Dima stated, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more personal and dangerous. He looked her up and down, a terrifyingly analytical gaze that felt less like undressing her body and more like dismantling her mind, cataloging her vulnerabilities.
"I see a young woman who is intelligent, highly controlled, and currently carrying a burden of fear she is actively attempting to conceal," Dima continued, his tone a cold, clinical observation. "I also see someone who, judging by the slight shift in your pupils and the shallowing of your breath when I mentioned the 'Petrova Key,' knows precisely what I am referring to."
Anya's carefully maintained composure cracked. She swallowed hard, realizing that every physiological reaction was being weaponized against her. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and intensely violated by his perfect analysis. Her fear tasted metallic on her tongue.
He sees everything. He is dissecting me. He knows I am lying.
Dima paused, allowing the tension to coil tight between them, savoring her momentary breakdown. He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile—a predator's expression of cold satisfaction.
"You are not going to be a friend, Miss Petrova," Dima said, his voice a low promise of conflict. "You are going to be a liability, or an instrument. Choose wisely."
He extended his hand, not in greeting, but to point at the closed, reinforced door behind her. "You may go. I expect a much less theatrical performance next time we speak." As Anya reached the door, Dima's voice cut through the silence, sharp and chilling: "And start being honest, Anya. Your deceit is the first thing I will expose.”