Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED DOOR
The transition from kitchen maid to personal attendant was not a promotion; it was a cage transfer. By sunrise, Alina’s sparse quarters in the servants' wing had been cleared out, her few belongings packed into a single canvas bag. Viktor escorted her up to the second floor—dangerously close to Damon’s private master suite—assigning her a small, windowless room that smelled faintly of old paper and bleach.
"The Pakhan's private quarters are off-limits unless summoned," Viktor barked, handing her a brass master key ring. "You clean his study, his library, and his private parlor. You touch nothing on his desk. You speak only when spoken to. Understood?"
"Understood," Alina murmured, clutching her bag tightly.
Her first task began immediately. Armed with a duster and a bucket of cleaning supplies, she unlocked the massive double doors of Damon’s private study. The room smelled intensely of him—that rich mix of tobacco, cedar, and dark coffee. Morning light poured through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
As she worked, wiping down the mahogany shelves and aligning the heavy leather-bound books, her eyes drifted toward the large oak desk at the center of the room. It was meticulously organized—a laptop closed, a sleek Montblanc pen resting beside a leather folio, and a locked iron drawer embedded into the side of the desk.
Curiosity killed the cat, a voice in her head warned. But survival in the Vulkoff mansion required more than obedience; it required information. If she was going to be trapped in this lion's den, she needed to know what teeth she was dealing with.
She spent two hours cleaning the outer perimeter before daring to approach the desk. She wiped the surface carefully, her breath hitching when her rag brushed against the corner of the iron drawer. To her absolute shock, the small brass key resting on her new ring—the one Viktor had casually tossed to her—caught her eye. One of the smaller keys matched the old-fashioned lock of the desk drawer.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Don't do it. Drop the rag and walk away.
Her fingers betrayed her mind. She slid the small key into the iron lock. It turned with a soft, metallic click.
She pulled the drawer open just an inch. Inside sat a heavy black ledger, a stack of encrypted flash drives, and a 9mm Walther pistol resting next to a folded velvet photograph frame. Driven by a morbid, unstoppable compulsion, Alina lifted the velvet frame.
The photograph inside showed a young woman with dark hair and striking green eyes, smiling brightly against a backdrop of a snowy European city. Across the corner of the photo, written in bold black ink, was a single word: BETRAYED.
"Looking for something, Alina?"
The voice echoed from the doorway, cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins.
Alina dropped the frame. It hit the edge of the desk with a sharp clatter, the glass shattering against the hardwood floor. She spun around, her face instantly draining of all color.
Damon stood in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't made a single sound entering the room. His grey eyes locked onto the shattered glass on the floor, then slowly rose to meet her terrified, wide-eyed gaze.
"I... I was just cleaning," she whispered, her voice trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "The glass... it slipped."
Damon pushed off the doorway and walked toward her. Each step sounded like a death knell. He didn't look angry; his expression was far worse—it was entirely, terrifyingly blank.
May you like
He stopped right in front of her, looking down at the open drawer, then back into her pale face.
"That's my sister," he said softly, the calm in his voice more lethal than any shout. "And touching her photograph... is a very good way to ensure you don't see tomorrow's sunrise."
