The moment I stepped into the penthouse, that suffocating feeling returned like it never left. The kind that curled around my ribs and squeezed until my lungs struggled to breathe. The place looked the same—clean, polished, every surface gleaming like it belonged in a magazine spread. But it didn't feel like home. It never did. Too sterile, too perfect. Like someone had scrubbed out any trace of warmth and left behind a museum piece of a life I never chose.
Prison. That's what it felt like. A quiet, luxurious prison.
The guards peeled off the moment we walked in, leaving just me and him. Of course he followed. Viktor. Quiet footsteps behind me, steady, unfaltering. I didn't need to look back to know he was still there. I could feel him.
I stopped and turned around sharply, body tight, hands clenched at my sides. "You know," I said, my voice low, sharp, "whatever deal my father shoved down your throat, you're still just a fucking dog. Barking and licking at his boots for a nice fat paycheck."
He didn't blink. Didn't twitch. Just stood there, tall and carved from stone. The same unreadable stare on his face.
"I won't interfere," he said coolly, like he was reading off a script. "Unless necessary."
God, his voice. Calm. Unbothered. Like nothing I said could rattle him. It made my skin crawl.
I scoffed, spun around, and stormed toward my room. The slam of the door echoed behind me, shaking the silence that man carried with him like a second skin.
I leaned against the back of the door for a second, breathing like I'd just come in from a run. My hand went to my jaw, rubbing the sore spot that still ached faintly from earlier. Fucking bastard.
My room wasn't any better than the rest of the penthouse. Just colder. Big, spacious, designed to impress—but sterile. Lifeless. Like someone decorated it with a checklist instead of a soul. I hated it. Hated how quiet it was, how the walls seemed to hum with all the things I wasn't allowed to say.
I let my body fall onto the bed, face-first, arms spread out like I wanted to sink into the mattress and disappear. But the bed felt cold too. Everything in this goddamn place was cold.
And I could still feel his eyes.
Viktor.
Even with the door closed, his gaze lingered sharp and unwavering, etched into the back of my skull like a ghost I couldn't shake off. It pissed me off.
I turned over and stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. I tried to exhale, to slow my heart down, but my thoughts wouldn't shut up.
He was tall, like, stupidly tall. Broad shoulders, hard frame, hair like fucking gold. Thick. Almost white in the light. His eyes were worse though. Icy. Not just cold, empty. Like nothing touched him. No guilt. No curiosity. Just pure, lethal indifference. Even his lashes were blonde. The kind of man sculptors imagined when they were thinking of gods and warriors and statues built to make you feel small.
I hated how perfect he looked. How clean. How he stared at me like he knew exactly what I was and didn't give a damn.
I reached for my phone. 4:02 PM. Aisha would be expecting me at 8, like usual. A little hotel outside the city, one of the few places I actually felt like I could breathe.
I could use a nap. Maybe sleep would shut my brain up for a while.
But then— a nightmare.
I was seven again.
My old room. The one in the Kurov-Shin estate. The same pale blue wallpaper. The same shelf stacked with toys I hadn't touched in years. For a second, it felt safe. Like before everything turned to shit.
Then I looked closer.
The wallpaper was peeling, revealing flesh beneath, raw, veiny, pulsing. The toys on the shelf were twisted and broken, melted into each other like they'd been tortured alive. My stuffed rabbit, the one I used to sleep with was hanging from the ceiling fan by its ears. Its button eyes were bleeding.
The bed was breathing. Each inhale made the frame creak.
Then I heard it. Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
I turned toward the door.
And he was there.
Or—it was there, wearing my father's face. Like a mask too big for the skull underneath. The eyes were voids. Nothingness.
"You should've stayed gone," it said.
But it wasn't just his voice. It was Aisha. Mika. Noah. My own voice, layered and wrong.
I tried to move, scream, anything, but my body didn't listen. I was dragged. The hallway stretched out in front of me, infinite and gray. Mirrors lined the walls, and in each one, I was dying.
Overdose. Gun to the head. Knife in the bathtub. Falling off the Kurov-Shin tower. Burned alive.
I watched myself die, again and again. No sound. Just the rush of blood in my ears.
They dumped me at a long table. Everyone I'd ever cared about sat there. Mika, laughing. Blood smeared on her lips. Noah, chewing on my fingers like candy.
Aisha raised a glass of red—my blood—and said, "To forgetting."
And Viktor was there too. Calm. Quiet. Cutting into me like I was a roast. His blade slid into my thigh, carving out a piece. He didn't even blink.
"No one's coming to save you," they all said, voices in sync, like a cult.
Then I was in my penthouse. Alone. Doors gone. Windows sealed. The walls started closing in, breathing like they were alive. I was running in circles, screaming—
But the only thing I heard was my father whispering in the dark:
"This is who you are. Nothing. A body waiting to rot."
I shot up in bed with a gasp so sharp it tore my throat raw.
Sweat clung to me. My shirt soaked. My chest ached like someone had held me down and caved it in. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Fuck.
I threw off the sheets and stumbled toward the wardrobe, yanking the door open, throwing clothes aside like they were on fire. My fingers found the little black box wedged between a hoodie and a pair of jeans. I popped it open.
Pills spilled. I grabbed one. Then another.
They slid under my tongue. My breath was shallow, fast, like I couldn't get enough air even though I was surrounded by too much of it.
I slumped to the floor. Back against the cold wall. My pulse was hammering behind my eyes. I was still shaking. The silence in the penthouse felt wrong. Like it was mocking me. Watching.
I curled in on myself. Waiting for the pills to kick in. Wishing I was someone else.