Alia retreated from the bustling café area, her nerves still frayed from the encounter with Anna's husband. She wandered down a secluded, dimly lit corridor lined with exclusive VIP rooms. The silence here was absolute, thick enough to swallow the sound of her own footsteps.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the stillness a melody so sweet, so hauntingly ethereal that Alia froze in her tracks.
She tilted her head, straining her ears. It wasn't the sound of a radio; it was a voice. A woman's voice, singing a melancholic Russian folk tune in a hushed, trembling whisper. The sweetness of the melody was laced with an underlying sorrow that felt disturbingly familiar, striking a chord deep within Alia's own guarded heart.
Driven by an inexplicable pull, Alia crept closer, her footsteps silent on the plush carpet. She reached the door at the end of the hall, which was left slightly ajar.
Holding her breath, she leaned in. The voice was clearer now, vibrating with a raw, broken beauty that sent a shiver down her spine. It sounded like a soul crying out from a place of absolute isolation.
With trembling fingers, Alia pushed the door just a fraction more. She didn't know what she would find inside or who was singing in this hidden corner of the world but her intuition screamed that this sound was a piece of a puzzle she wasn't supposed to touch. Alia snapped her eyes shut, her pulse racing as the realization hit her. The melody the sweet, haunting voice she had been so captivated by simply vanished, replaced by the silence of the corridor.
She let out a shaky breath, her face flushing with embarrassment at her own gullibility. "Sry... bye," she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely audible. "That wasn't even a song... it was just... nothing."
It hadn't been a voice at all. It was some trick of the acoustics, perhaps a high-frequency resonance from the building's ventilation or a stray piece of digital audio looping in the shadows. But for a fleeting second, it had felt like a ghost calling out to her.
She pulled back from the door, her hands trembling as she smoothed her coat. The corridors of this place felt heavy, suffocatingly full of secrets that weren't meant to be discovered. She turned on her heel and began to walk away, her steps quickening as she put distance between herself and the VIP room.
Back in the bustling café, the noise of the crowd felt like a cold splash of water. She realized how easily her mind had been playing games with her, distorted by the stress and the overwhelming intensity of the life she led. She wasn't just losing her sense of self; she was beginning to hear things that weren't there.
She needed to leave. The weight of being Viktor's wife, the constant vigilance, the lingering physical pain it was all becoming too much. As she walked toward the exit, she didn't look back, desperate to escape the phantom melody that had briefly lured her into the darkness. Alia was moving so fast, her mind still clouded by the strange events in the VIP corridor, that she didn't see the man rounding the corner. The collision was sharp, sending Alia stumbling back as her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.
The man, towering and dressed in dark, expensive-looking gear, didn't offer a hand. Instead, he leered at her with a look of pure, toxic arrogance. His voice was a grating, low rasp, dripping with disdain.
"Eyes in your pocket, or are you just too drugged up from your morning session to walk straight?" he sneered, his gaze raking over Alia's body with an offensive, lingering intensity. "You look like you've been thoroughly used and discarded, doll. Maybe you should find a master who knows how to keep you on a leash."
Alia's blood ran cold, then surged with a sudden, sharp heat. She wasn't just offended; she was dangerous. She had spent months under Viktor's shadow, learning that fear was a choice she didn't have to make.
She stood up slowly, her movements deliberate and cold. She didn't cower. Instead, she fixed the man with a gaze so dark and devoid of emotion that the smirk on his face faltered for a fraction of a second. He had no idea what he had just provoked, or whose territory he was currently standing on.
"You should really watch where you're going," Alia said, her voice eerily calm and steady, despite the adrenaline flooding her system. "And even more importantly... watch who you're talking to before you find yourself wishing you never spoke at all." The man's smirk didn't last another second. As he reached out, thinking he could intimidate her, Alia moved with the cold, lethal precision of a warrior.
She didn't hesitate. With a sharp exhale, she pivoted and unleashed a lightning-fast Taekwondo roundhouse kick. Her foot connected perfectly with his jaw, the sound of the impact echoing through the corridor like a gunshot. The man stumbled back, disoriented, crashing into a nearby table with a loud clatter of glass and metal.
Before he could regain his footing, Alia was on him. She didn't look like the fragile woman Anna had been teasing moments ago. She looked like a predator. She grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back with such force that he gasped in agony, his face pressing against the hard floor.
"You have no idea who you're talking to," Alia hissed, her voice vibrating with a dangerous, icy calm. "And you have no idea what it costs to insult me. The next time you feel the urge to speak about me, remember the feeling of your jaw breaking."
She shoved him away with contempt, dusting off her hands as if she had just touched something filthier than mud. The bystanders in the café stood frozen, eyes wide with shock. Alia didn't look at them; she fixed her gaze on the man shivering on the floor, her eyes reflecting the same darkness she had learned to wield in Viktor's shadow.Alia didn't let him recover. She stood over him, her silhouette looming large in the dim corridor light. Her posture was perfectly balanced, a striking contrast to the man cowering on the floor.
She leaned down, her voice a sharp blade slicing through the silence. "Who are you? And who gave you the authority to stand in my way, let alone speak about me?"
The man was trembling, his hand still clutched over his bruised jaw. He looked up at her, and for the first time, he saw the truth the cold, unyielding lethality that Viktor had cultivated within her. He was staring at a woman who lived by the rules of the underworld, a woman who didn't just defend herself; she destroyed threats.
Alia pressed the toe of her boot firmly against his chest, holding him pinned to the ground with minimal effort. Her voice was a chilling whisper, devoid of any mercy.
"Tell me," she murmured, her eyes dark and void of emotion. "Are you that eager to meet your end? You clearly have no idea whose territory you're stepping on or exactly who I belong to. My name is Alia, and I am Viktor's wife. Remember that, because if you ever cross me again, you won't have a voice left to insult anyone with."
She looked down at him with pure disdain, waiting for an answer or a plea. Alia didn't flinch. She let a cold, mocking smile spread across her face, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying intensity. She loomed over him, her presence filling the narrow corridor like a storm gathering strength.
"Have you ever heard the name 'Symbol of Beauty'?" she asked, her voice calm, clear, and absolutely lethal. "Probably not. Someone like you doesn't get to hear that name and live to repeat it."
She stepped closer, her tone shifting into a sharp, commanding rasp. "I am the Russian Godmother. The wife of the Lord who owns the very air you're breathing right now. My beauty isn't an invitation for your filth; it's a warning of the empire I rule."
The power in her words paralyzed the man. The arrogance that had fueled his earlier insults had vanished, replaced by the sheer, crushing weight of realization. He knew exactly who Viktor was, and he knew that by insulting Alia, he had essentially signed his own death warrant.
Alia pulled her boot back, watching him with a gaze of utter disdain. "You haven't just insulted a woman today. You've insulted the crown of the underworld. Now, crawl away while your legs still work... before I decide that 'beauty' requires a sacrifice."
She turned her back on him, not even bothering to see if he obeyed. She knew he wouldn't dare move until she was long gone. The Russian Godmother had spoken, and the corridor fell into a deadly, obedient silence. The man didn't run. Instead, he lunged with the desperation of a cornered beast, his eyes burning with a manic, vengeful hunger. Before Alia could react, he had pinned her against the cold stone wall of the corridor, his massive arms barring any escape. He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin, and whispered directly into her ear.
"The Godmother? The Lord's wife?" he rasped, his voice dripping with twisted amusement. "You're brave, I'll give you that. But you're forgotten one thing—even the strongest empires have cracks. And if I take the Lord's prized 'beauty' for myself, it won't just hurt him—it will shatter him from the inside out."
He leaned even closer, his grip tightening just enough to be painful. The air between them was thick with malice.
"Your Russian Lord has no idea who is standing in front of his queen right now. You think you're untouchable? Today, I'm going to give you a lesson that will haunt that husband of yours forever. In the underworld, the rules don't apply when the prize is this sweet."
Alia was trapped, the stone wall biting into her back. Yet, she didn't show an ounce of fear. She stared straight ahead, her mind already calculating the next strike, her blood turning to ice. He was a professional, a predator sent to destroy Viktor through her.
She turned her head just enough to catch his gaze, a chilling, sharp smirk forming on her lips. "You think I'm a prize to be stolen?" she whispered back, her voice lethal. "You're not kidnapping a queen; you're walking into a slaughterhouse." Alia froze, her breath hitching in her throat. The man had pinned her to the wall, his frame imposing and dangerous, but it was his final act that shattered her composure.
As he leaned into her ear, his voice shifted. It wasn't the grating, arrogant rasp anymore. It was deep, velvet-smooth, and chillingly authoritative. It was Viktor's voice exact in every tremor, every ounce of dominance, and that specific, heavy Russian accent.
"When the hunter thinks he is the tiger, Alia, remember the hunter must always fear the one who taught the tiger how to bite. I am coming back."
It was impossible. The pitch, the tone, the lingering darkness of the command—it was unmistakably Viktor. But the man holding her was a stranger, a ghost in the shadows of this café.
He pulled back, releasing her with a mocking bow, and melted into the darkness of the corridor before she could even summon the strength to strike.
Alia remained pressed against the stone wall, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hands trembled violently. She could still feel the phantom heat of his breath on her skin, and she could still hear Viktor's voice echoing in her mind but it wasn't him.
"How..." she whispered, her voice cracking as she clutched her head. "How did he mimic him? Is this a game? Or is there something about Viktor... something about his reach... that I've never understood?"
The corridor felt like a labyrinth now. She felt less like the Godmother and more like a pawn in a game she didn't know the rules to. She didn't move for a long time, staring into the spot where the man had vanished, terrified that the next shadow to emerge would be the real Viktor or something even worse.