Three weeks had passed since Lila’s arrival at Nikolai Volkov’s compound, and she had begun to map the invisible lines of her captivity.
The estate was a fortress disguised as luxury—rolling snow-covered grounds ringed by high walls topped with cameras and motion sensors, guards patrolling in shifts, dogs in the kennels that barked only when strangers approached.
Inside, the house was all dark wood, marble, and silence.
Her days followed a rhythm she hadn’t chosen but had learned to navigate.
Mornings: breakfast served in the formal dining room on fine china—always alone unless Nikolai joined her.
The staff—Irina the house manager, a cook, two maids—were polite but distant, eyes averted.
Afternoons: she was free to roam the guarded grounds.
The library became her sanctuary—floor-to-
