Now, Call Me Mother

Chapter 4: Getting to Know Each Other

The massive wrought-iron doors of the Romanov estate groaned open like the jaws of a leviathan, swallowing us into a world of shadowed grandeur.

Maxwell stepped out of the rain and into the foyer, his boots echoing against the black marble floors with a rhythmic, heavy finality. I was a broken bird in his arms, shivering and half-naked, the shredded lace of my gown a mockery of the frozen opulence surrounding us.

"Welcome home, Sir," a chorus of voices whispered in eerie unison.

I flinched, burying my face into the crook of Maxwell’s neck as I realized a dozen servants were lined up in the periphery, their heads bowed.

They were like marble statues, ghosts in a palace of glass. The shame of being carried like a prize, my skin still smelling of the limousine and his sweat, made my stomach turn.

"M-Maxwell, please... put me down," I whispered, my voice cracking with a desperate shyness. "They’re all looking... I can walk."

"They aren't looking at anything unless I tell them to," he rasped, his grip tightening as he bypassed the staff without a single glance. "And you aren't walking anywhere. You've forgotten your place already, Veronica. You move when I move you."

He marched toward the grand staircase, his heart beating a steady, terrifying rhythm against my ear. He didn't take me to a guest wing or a side room. He bypassed every door until he reached the heavy mahogany entrance of the Master Suite.

He set me down in a bathroom that was larger than the entire room I had shared with Thaddeus. It was a cathedral of white marble and gold fixtures. Without a word, he began to turn the taps of a sunken tub. The roar of the water filled the silence, and the steam began to rise, smelling of sandalwood and expensive oils.

"M-Maxwell, I can do it," I whispered, clutching the ruined fabric over my chest as I looked at the floor. "I can wash myself. You don't have to... I'm not a child."

"I didn't ask for your opinion on the matter, Veronica," he rasped, turning toward me. His gloved hands reached for the remains of my dress. I tried to pull away, but he stepped into my space, his massive frame blocking the light. "Stand still. I’m not in the mood for a struggle."

I stood paralyzed as he undressed me completely. He didn't look at me with the frantic, clumsy lust I had grown used to from Thaddeus. Instead, he handled me with a firm, terrifying reverence. When I was bare, he lifted me and lowered me into the scalding water.

The heat was a shock, but his hands were the true focus.

He took a sponge and began to scrub my skin, his calloused palms moving over my soft curves with a possessive intensity.

"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he scrubbed the curve of my shoulder. "How does it feel to be sold for fifty million? Does it make you feel valuable, or does it make you feel like dirt?"

"I feel like I’m in a nightmare," I choked out, the steam making my head light. "Why buy me for fifty million just to... to wash me? You could have had anyone. You could have had a queen for that price."

"Because the Hudsons treated you like trash, Veronica," he said, his voice a low vibration that hummed through the water. He leaned in, his silver mask inches from my face.

"You were covered in the scent of a boy who didn't know your worth and the filth of men who thought they could bid on your soul. I am washing the stain of them off you. I want to know everything they did to you—or rather, everything they didn't do."

"Why do you care?" I snapped, a spark of my old self flickering through the fear. "You bought me. You own me. Isn't that enough?"

"I care because I want to know exactly how much of you is left to break," he corrected, his voice as sharp as a razor. "Did he ever look at you when you were naked, Veronica? Or did he just look through you?"

"He... he didn't look at me at all," I whispered, my voice breaking.

"Pathetic," Maxwell hissed. "And the auction? When they stripped you on that stage, did you want someone to save you, or did you want it to just be over?"

"I wanted to die," I admitted, a fresh tear trailing down my cheek.

"Well, you didn't die. You were reborn the moment I raised my hand. Here, in this house, you have no history. You have no name unless I speak it. You will never wear cheap lace again. From now on, only the finest silk will touch you, because you are a Romanov asset now. And I do not allow my assets to be tarnished by the past."

"Is that all I am to you? An asset? Like a car or a piece of land?" I asked.

"You are whatever I decide you are," he replied. He lifted me from the water and dried me with a towel so plush it felt like a cloud. Then, he wrapped me in a heavy, black silk robe. It was his. The hem pooled around my feet, and the scent of him—leather, cedar, and power—wrapped around me like a second skin.

He led me to the edge of the massive bed and sat me down, picking up a brush to stroke through my damp hair.

"Did you ever love him?" he asked suddenly, the brush stopping for a second.

"I thought I did," I whispered. Then, my voice hardened. "But it’s hard to remember that feeling when the person you 'loved' hands you over to a monster to pay off a debt."

"A monster?" He chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "You haven't seen me be a monster yet. But I am curious... if I gave you the chance to leave right now, back to that empty house and your empty life, would you go?"

I looked at the gold-leafed ceiling, then at his powerful hands. "I have nowhere to go, Maxwell. You know that."

"Good. You’re learning," he said quietly. "You won't be cooking here. You won't be cleaning. You will spend your time learning how to please me. You will eat what I provide, sleep when I command, and open your legs when I feel the need. Tell me, do you think you can handle being a bird in a cage if the cage is made of gold?"

"I think I don't have a choice," I whispered.

"Choice is a luxury for people who aren't owned," he countered.

Maxwell’s attention shifted to the amber liquid in his glass, but mine remained locked on the cold, unyielding metal that hid his truth. It had become a wall between us—one I was dying to tear down.

'​Who are you behind that shine?' I wondered, my breath hitching as the lamplight danced off the polished silver.

I found myself tracing the etched lines of the mask with my eyes, imagining the skin beneath. 'Was it smooth? Was it ruined?'

My hand moved before I could talk myself out of it. My fingertips reached up, trembling, and grazed the cool, polished edge of the silver mask.

The reaction was instantaneous.

His hand was a vice, catching my wrist mid-air. His grip was sudden and bruising, pinning my arm back against the mattress. He didn't yell. He leaned in until the cold metal of the mask pressed against my forehead, his whisper a terrifyingly quiet chill that turned my blood to ice.

"Don't. You haven't earned the right to see my face. You haven't even survived your first night in my bed, Veronica. Until you belong to me in every way that matters... the mask stays on."