Lila’s first night in Nikolai Volkov’s compound passed in a blur of exhaustion and hyper-awareness.
The room they gave her was luxurious—a guest suite on the second floor of the sprawling Westchester estate. King bed with silk sheets, en-suite marble bathroom, even a small balcony overlooking snow-dusted pines.
But the door locked from the outside.
And the collar stayed on.
She’d showered—hot water easing the tension in her shoulders—but sleep came in fits, haunted by pale gray eyes and the click of that buckle.
Morning brought no reprieve.
A soft knock at 8:00 a.m. sharp.
She opened the door to find a woman—mid-forties, severe bun, black dress—waiting with a tray.
Breakfast: black coffee, yogurt with berries, a single croissant.
The woman introduced herself as Irina—house manager
