The door to Aleksei's bedroom closed behind her with a soft click, but to Elira, it sounded like an exhale—like the room itself was releasing her from its grip.
She lingered outside the door for a moment, gathering herself, smoothing her palms down her arms as though brushing off the residue of his gaze. The hallway stretched in both directions, long and dimly lit, painted in muted hues of cream and taupe, the kind of palette that whispered wealth without flaunting it.
The firelight from wall sconces flickered against the marble floors. She hadn't noticed them earlier—gold leaf around their iron bases, twisting like ivy, mimicking vines clinging to ancient stone. Whoever designed this house had a flair for the old world. She would almost have found it charming, if not for the faint, unnerving silence that accompanied every corner of this mansion.
A sharp movement snapped her from thought.
One of the guards stood nearby, silently watching.
He was tall, muscular in that thick-necked way that spoke more of brutality than athleticism. His jaw was tight, clean-shaven, and his expression unreadable behind unreadable eyes.
Without a word, he stepped forward, holding out her phone.
"Your device," he said simply.
Elira took it with a muttered "Thank you," the cold edge of the phone oddly comforting in her palm. It was like reclaiming a small part of herself—her voice, her identity, her tether to the outside world.
The guard didn't respond. Instead, he gestured for her to follow.
They moved together down the hall, her bare feet silent against the rugs while his shoes clicked in measured, militant rhythm. Elira's eyes roamed curiously. Each corridor looked the same—grand paintings, closed doors, large windows with heavy drapes, and yet it all felt… empty. Like no one really lived here. Like the air hadn't been stirred in years.
Finally, they arrived at a door—white, with golden embellishments shaped like delicate feathers branching from the center. The guard reached out and opened it, revealing a spacious guest bedroom inside.
"This will be your room for the duration of your stay," he said. "Your suitcase is already inside."
Elira stepped in slowly.
The room was breathtaking—far grander than her shoebox apartment in the city. A high ceiling arched above her, decorated with a subtle fresco of clouds and birds, like something out of a European palace. A large, four-poster bed stood at the center, its canopy curtains drawn back like theater drapes. Plush velvet in a deep emerald shade spilled over the mattress, matched by a thick rug that made each step sink and sigh.
To the left, a fireplace crackled softly. To the right, there was a writing desk with an antique lamp, and across from the bed stood a full-length mirror. Elira glanced at it warily, her own story still lingering in her mind. Her reflection stared back—normal, tired, tense.
The guard remained in the doorway.
"Breakfast is at eight a.m.," he said. "In the dining hall. You will have breakfast with him."
Her brows lifted slightly. "With him?"
He gave a curt nod. "You'll be informed of your session times by Mr. Volkov directly. Morning, afternoon, and evening. Be ready when summoned."
There was something almost medieval about the way he said it. Summoned. Like she was in a castle, and Aleksei was some dark prince ruling from his tower.
Elira nodded slowly. "Alright. Thank you."
The guard said nothing else. Just pulled the door closed behind him with a firm but not unfriendly click.
As soon as the door shut, Elira let out a long breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
It felt like she had slipped into some kind of story herself. One of the dark fairy tales she told Aleksei, where the heroine didn't know if the walls around her were gilded or gnarled, sanctuary or prison.
She sank down onto the edge of the bed, phone still in hand, and stared at the screen.
There were no notifications. No missed calls. Just her own reflection in the darkened screen.
Still you, she thought. Still Elira.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she opened her messages and tapped on Dianna's name.
Elira (8:42PM):
no cult or weird activities yet. no chanting in circles. no sacrificial altars. at least not that i've seen.
She hit send, then sighed.
The room was warm, the fire crackling gently, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the whole house was holding its breath. Waiting for something.
She wandered around for a bit, opening the antique wardrobe on the far side of the room. Inside were fresh linens, plush robes, and slippers with the initials AV embroidered in gold thread. There was even a vanity set with crystal perfume bottles that smelled like rose and sandalwood. Elira didn't touch them. Not yet.
Her suitcase sat at the foot of the bed, zipped and untouched. She crouched and unzipped it, pulling out her pajamas, her toothbrush, a worn paperback novel, and a small photo of her and Dianna from college—half-drunk, eyes crinkled with laughter, arms slung around each other at some rooftop party neither of them could remember.
Elira set the photo on the nightstand beside the bed and plugged in her phone. She glanced toward the fireplace. Still glowing. Still real.
And yet it all felt like a dream she hadn't woken up from.
She padded into the attached bathroom—floor-to-ceiling marble, gold faucets, a clawfoot tub that looked more like a swimming pool—and quickly brushed her teeth. She barely even registered her own face in the mirror. She didn't want to.
Back in bed, she lay beneath the emerald green comforter, her phone glowing beside her as she waited for Dianna to respond.
She didn't have to wait long.
Dianna (8:45PM):
YOU'RE ALIVE 😭😭😭 thank GOD
but also wtf elira??? three sessions a day? with HIM? does he work? is this normal??
Elira (8:46PM):
he's rich. rich people don't need jobs. they need... entertainment i guess.
and apparently I'm it.
Dianna (8:47PM):
or he's a vampire. or a demon. or a lonely billionaire sadboy who collects women and stories like dolls.
send pics.
Elira smiled for the first time that evening. She thought of the man's face—the eyes like ice and fire at once, the voice like velvet scraped over gravel.
Elira (8:48PM):
you'd love him.
he's sarcastic. brooding. insane. and probably 80% villain.
Dianna (8:48PM):
so my type 😌
be careful, babe. i mean it.
if ANYTHING feels off, call me. code word "maple syrup."
Elira snorted into the silence.
Elira (8:49PM):
...why maple syrup??
Dianna (8:49PM):
bc if you ever say it mid-convo i'll know it's NOT normal and you need help 😤
Elira (8:50PM):
deal.
i'll survive.
night.
Dianna (8:50PM):
i better hear from you in the morning. don't make me call the Russian mafia hotline.
Elira laughed softly, then tucked the phone under her pillow.
The fire crackled, and she curled beneath the sheets, eyes drifting toward the ornate ceiling.
This was her life now.
Breakfast at eight. Sessions three times a day. Trapped in a fairytale mansion with a man who smiled like a wolf and listened like a priest hearing confessions.
But at least tonight, she had her phone. Her friend. Her words.
Her stories were keeping her alive.
For now.
--------
The first morning light filtered in through sheer curtains, a golden glow casting soft lines across the velvet bedding. Elira stirred, momentarily disoriented. The bed beneath her was too soft, the silence too complete, and the room too luxurious to be her apartment.
Then it hit her.
The mansion. The stories. Aleksei Volkov.
She blinked up at the frescoed ceiling, still unsure if this was a dream or the beginning of something out of a dark fairytale. Rolling onto her side, she glanced at her phone. 7:03 AM.
A full hour before breakfast.
With a groan, she stretched, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling into the plush rug. The floor was warm—probably heated from beneath. Of course it was.
She padded over to the ensuite bathroom, yawning. The mirror greeted her with a familiar face, one still foggy with sleep, curls slightly tangled, and eyes rimmed with remnants of a restless night's thoughts.
She stepped into the shower—an oversized glass cubicle with rainfall settings and luxurious body jets that sprayed from the sides. The water was hot, nearly too hot, and Elira stood beneath it with her eyes closed, letting the warmth work the tension from her shoulders.
As she washed, her mind wandered.
Three stories a day.
Living here.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner.
With him.
It still didn't feel real.
After toweling off, she dressed in a simple pair of high-waisted jeans and a cream-colored blouse with bell sleeves. Her hair was still damp as she braided it over one shoulder. She kept her makeup minimal, just a touch of mascara and tinted lip balm. No need to dress up like she was heading to a gala. She was, after all, here to talk.
She glanced at the time—7:58 AM.
Two minutes.
As if the estate operated on invisible gears, a knock sounded on her door exactly at 8:00.
She blinked, eyebrows raising slightly. These people don't miss a beat.
Walking over, she opened the door.
A different guard from the one last night stood outside. This one was younger, maybe mid-thirties, with a neatly trimmed beard and kind hazel eyes, though his stance remained rigid.
"Good morning, Miss Elira," he said politely. "I've been asked to escort you to the dining hall."
She nodded, stepping out of the room. "Lead the way."
As they walked through the hallway, the estate remained just as grand, but in the soft morning light it felt… a little less intimidating. The halls were brighter, the shadows not quite as heavy. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the chirp of birds through open windows and the rustle of leaves in the wind.
The dining hall was at the end of a long corridor with two tall oak doors. The guard pushed one open, and Elira stepped in.
Her breath caught for a moment.
The room was massive. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers that glittered like falling stars. The floor gleamed with polished dark wood, and the walls were lined with intricate molding and old oil paintings in gilded frames—landscapes, portraits, still lifes.
But what caught her attention most was the table.
It was absurdly large. Long enough to seat two families, just as she'd imagined. The kind of table where political strategies were probably discussed, deals made, or maybe just breakfast served for one very strange man and his reluctant storyteller.
Aleksei Volkov sat at the head of the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His hair was tousled like he hadn't bothered with a comb, and he looked as effortlessly dangerous as always.
He glanced up as she approached.
"Elira," he said, voice smooth and even. "Punctual. Good."
She offered a small smile and took the seat next to him, even though every instinct in her body wanted to sit at the far end, an entire world away from his piercing gaze.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.
"I did," she replied. "The room is beautiful. And… surprisingly quiet. No weird sounds in the middle of the night. Definitely no signs of cults."
Aleksei chuckled, the sound low and unexpectedly warm. "Disappointed?"
She smirked. "A little. I was expecting at least one mysterious whisper or moving shadow."
His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Give it time."
Breakfast was already laid out—fluffy scrambled eggs, warm croissants, an assortment of fresh fruit, smoked salmon, and a spread of jams and cheeses that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel.
Elira hesitated, then reached for a croissant. "So… about this schedule of yours."
Aleksei nodded, setting down his cup. "Yes. Let's go over that now."
She listened as he spoke, each word deliberate, paced like a man used to issuing instructions and being obeyed.
"Every day," he began, "breakfast is at 8:00 a.m., here in the dining hall. We'll eat together. Immediately after breakfast, you'll tell me a story. That's your morning session."
Elira nodded, chewing slowly. "Okay. Morning storytime. Got it."
"After the session, you're free to do as you please," he continued. "You may take a walk around the estate—there's a garden, a small library, a piano room, even a greenhouse if you like plants. Or you may leave the grounds entirely if you have somewhere to go. Your phone will be returned to you between sessions."
Her brows lifted slightly. "Wait—I can actually leave?"
He glanced at her. "You're not a prisoner, Elira. Just under contract."
"Well," she muttered, "I've read enough dark fiction to know those two things can overlap."
He smiled faintly but didn't argue.
"Regardless," he went on, "you are expected to return to the dining hall by 1:00 p.m. for lunch. After we eat, you'll tell me another story. Then you're dismissed again. Dinner is at 6:00 p.m., followed by the final session of the day."
"And then I'm free to go back to my room?"
"Correct. Your schedule will remain the same every day until further notice."
Elira leaned back slightly, processing. "Three meals a day, three stories, and freedom in between."
He nodded.
"No forbidden wings of the house? No locked doors?"
"You're allowed to roam," he said simply. "If there's a door you can't open, it's because it doesn't concern you."
She hummed thoughtfully. "That's not ominous at all."
Aleksei gave her a look. "You're already in the heart of the house, Elira. If there were secrets, you'd be telling stories in the cellar."
"Comforting," she said dryly.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, save for the occasional clink of silverware. Elira studied the details of the room, letting her thoughts drift as she finished her fruit and tea. It was still strange, all of this. Too quiet. Too perfect. Too well-organized.
Yet, there was something about the predictability that comforted her.
After days of uncertainty, of wondering what the catch was, knowing that she had a schedule—even if it was built around pleasing a broody Russian eccentric—felt like regaining a bit of control.
She finished her tea and set the cup down.
"So," she said, glancing at him, "shall we start today's morning story?"
Aleksei leaned back in his chair, resting his arm on the table, his face unreadable.
"I'm listening."