I turn my attention to the door instead. Also locked from the outside, but I hear footsteps in the hallway periodically. Guards, probably, on rotation. The frequency of the passes tells me they’re thorough but following a pattern. Patterns can be exploited.
When a young woman arrives with a dinner tray an hour later, I smile at her and accept the food graciously. She seems nervous, avoiding eye contact as she sets everything on the small table near the window.
“Thank you,” I say warmly, making my voice soft and unthreatening. “I’m Serena. What’s your name?”
She hesitates, clearly uncertain whether conversation is allowed. “Anya,” she finally offers in accented English.
“It’s nice to meet you, Anya.” I gesture toward the food—some kind of roasted chicken with vegetables that actually smells delicious. “This looks wonderful. Did you make it?”
A tiny hint of pride flickers across her features. “Yes, miss.”
“You’re very talented.” I take a bite, making appreciative sounds that aren’t entirely fake. “How long have you worked here?”
Anya’s expression shutters immediately, recognizing the question for what it is: an attempt to gather information. “Ishould go,” she says quickly, backing toward the door. “Ring if you need anything.”
She’s gone before I can press further, the lock clicking decisively behind her.
Worth a try.
I eat mechanically, fueling my body while my mind continues cataloging details. The window faces west based on the sunset I watched earlier. The woods appear dense but not impassable. The driveway curves away from the house in a direction I estimate is northeast, which means the main road lies somewhere in that direction.
After finishing the meal, I explore the closet more thoroughly. Someone selected these clothes with frightening accuracy—not just my size, but my style. Fitted dresses, tailored pants, cashmere sweaters in muted colors. Everything tasteful and expensive, the wardrobe of a woman who belongs in powerful circles.
He seems to know exactly what I like, and exactly what style will fit my curvaceous frame.
The wardrobe of a Bratva boss’s wife.
My stomach turns, but I push past the nausea to focus on practical concerns. Most of these clothes would be useless for running, but there’s athletic wear too. Leggings, fitted tanks, even running shoes in my exact size.
I change into the darkest options—black leggings, a dark gray long-sleeve shirt, the running shoes. Then I return to the bed and wait, listening to the house settle around me as night deepens.
The guard rotations continue like clockwork. Every forty-five minutes, footsteps pass my door. At eleven thirty, thepattern breaks—longer gaps, quieter movement. Shift change, probably, with fewer personnel during the overnight hours.
That’s my window.
At midnight, I ease the door open as silently as possible. It’s unlocked from the inside, another test of compliance rather than actual security. The hallway is empty, dimly lit by fake sconces mounted along the walls at regular intervals. I can hear voices drifting up from downstairs—two men speaking Russian in low tones near what I assume is the main entrance.
I move in the opposite direction, toward the back of the house where I spotted a side entrance earlier during my supervised tour. My footsteps are silent on the plush carpet runner, every sense hyperalert for sounds of discovery.
The side entrance is located through a mudroom off the kitchen. One guard is posted nearby, but he’s facing away from me, attention focused on his phone rather than the empty hallway. Sloppy security, or maybe just boredom during what he assumes will be an uneventful shift.
His mistake.
I wait until he shifts position, then slip past while his back is turned, using the kitchen’s shadows for cover. My heart hammers so hard I’m convinced he’ll hear it, but he doesn’t turn around. I make it to the mudroom, through the door, and out into the cool night air without raising any alarm.
The grounds are darker than I expected, only a few exterior lights illuminating the immediate area around the house. Perfect. I stay low, moving quickly toward the tree line while keeping the driveway in sight. The main gate is visible from here.
Someone must be arriving or leaving soon. The gap is narrow but passable, and once I’m through it, the main roadcan’t be far. From there I can flag down a car, find a phone, and call the police.
I run for it.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I sprint down the driveway, lungs burning with exertion and fear. The gate looms closer, that narrow opening representing freedom, safety, escape from this nightmare. Almost there. Just a few more yards—
Headlights sweep across the driveway.
A black car pulls through the gate with perfect timing, blocking my path completely. I skid to a stop, momentum almost sending me into the side of the vehicle. The engine is still running when the driver’s door opens.
Pavel steps out.
