The preparations for the "Return of the Fulton Heir" gala were not merely arrangements for a lavish social occasion; they were funeral rites carefully orchestrated to execute what remained of the old "Ayla" upon a guillotine of silk and diamonds. That evening, the royal dressing suite in Alexander's palace transformed into a silent battlefield. I stood like a statue of pale marble, completely stripped of my dignity and my clothes, while Alexander's hand was the only one possessing the right to touch and sculpt my new form.
The air was charged with the scent of his heavy cologne mixed with the aroma of antique leather furniture. Alexander approached me, his grey eyes devouring every detail of a body exhausted by medical exams and sessions of psychological "taming." He did not utter a word; instead, he began to dress me in the black gown designed specifically for this night. It was made of delicate French lace that barely concealed what lay beneath, encrusted with onyx stones that glinted like the eyes of small demons in the dark.
When the silk touched my skin, I felt a shiver that did not come from the cold. His hands moved with calculated slowness, pulling up the long zipper that ran the length of my spine, creating a friction that ignited a poisonous fire in my veins.
"Today, you will be the most beautiful offering ever presented on the Fulton altar," he whispered close to my ear, his hot breath making my sick heart beat with a violence recorded by the monitor in the corner of the room. "You will stand beside me, smiling like an obedient doll, and you will look into the eyes of the man to whom you once gave your life... while he sees you as nothing more than an object owned by Alexander Volkov. I want you to feel every atom of humiliation as you realize that your sacrifice was nothing but a nail in the coffin of his memory."
He pulled me by the waist, pressing my back against his steel chest, and lifted my chin with his hand to force me to look in the mirror. "Look at this pale beauty... this body I repaired with my money, and these eyes that no longer see anything but my shadow. Do you wonder why I do not answer you about the past? Because if you knew who I really was, you would wish I had left you to die in that rainy alley."
(In the Ballroom: Confronting the Ghost)
We entered the grand ballroom, where the noise swallowed our breath. Crystal chandeliers, elite perfumes, and fake smiles... everything suggested grandeur, yet I walked as if marching toward the gallows. Alexander's grip on my waist held a veiled cruelty, pressing into living flesh to remind me every second that I was not here to celebrate, but to be a "brand" of his sovereignty.
Suddenly, a profound silence fell over the hall. From the top of the grand marble staircase, Adrian Fulton appeared. He was not the Alfred I knew; he was not that young man wearing tattered clothes and dreaming of changing the world. He was a man overflowing with cold power, with features carved with surgical precision that made him look like a Greek god arrived from hell. He descended the stairs with confident steps, his eyes roaming the place with an aristocratic coldness I had never known in him before.
We advanced toward him. I felt my knees trembling, and my heart began to make sounds audible in my own ears. Adrian stopped before us, and I looked directly into his eyes, searching for a single spark, a tremor of fear, a glimpse of nostalgia for those nights we shared the cold in the orphanage. But Adrian's eyes were like two pieces of unyielding ice; they were a deaf mirror reflecting only strangers.
"Mr. Volkov," Adrian spoke in his resonant voice—the voice that once whispered promises of love to me. "I thank you for everything you have done for me. Without you, I would not have regained the position I deserve." Then he shifted his gaze to me, scanning me from head to toe with a look completely void of soul, the look of a man seeing a stunning secretary and nothing more. "And this must be Miss Ayla... the mysterious secretary everyone whispers about. Your beauty is pale in a way that provokes curiosity, Miss."
He extended his hand to shake mine. I touched his hand, and in that moment, I felt an electric shock tear through my being. This was the hand that had crafted the copper ring for me, the hand that had wiped my tears for years... and now, it touched me with lethal formality. "Honored to meet you... Mr. Fulton," I spoke, the words tearing my throat like razor blades.
He withdrew his hand coldly and turned to speak with another guest as if I did not exist. In that moment, I felt a cosmic collapse within me. Alexander had succeeded; he had erased "Ayla" from the memory of the man she had died for.
(The Punishment of Obsession: Between Darkness and Tears)
Alexander grabbed my wrist and dragged me behind him toward the dark balcony, away from prying eyes. Anger and obsessive jealousy radiated from him like smoke. He pushed me against the cold stone wall and caged me with his massive body. "Did you see?" he asked, his voice dripping with poison as he pressed against my throat with deadly gentleness. "He looked at you and saw only a concubine. Alfred died in that dumpster, and the thing inside is a monster I created to kill you every time he looks at you."
He began to tear the delicate lace from my shoulder, his hands ravaging my body with a brutality intended to wipe away the touch of Adrian's hand. He was not making love; he was practicing "conquest." His touches were rough, reflecting the madness of possession that inhabited him. He lifted me to sit on the edge of the stone balcony, the cold biting my bare back while the heat of his body burned me.
"Alexander... stop... Adrian might see..." I whispered weakly, but he silenced me with a violent kiss in which the taste of blood was distinct.
"Let him see!" he shouted in a terrifying whisper. "Let everyone know you are my private property. I want him to see how you melt in my hands, so his subconscious realizes that what was lost to him will never return."
He continued to possess me there, under the pale moonlight and the sound of classical music drifting from inside, shredding what remained of my modesty. His hands clamped onto my waist with a force that would leave blue marks for days, and he whispered words into my ear that made my soul revolt and rejoice simultaneously: "You adore this pain, Ayla. You adore how I am the only man who dares to break your will. Alfred would have protected you, but I... I destroy you so that no one else finds anything in you suitable for use."
In the throes of this sensory violation, and under the weight of a poisoned pleasure beginning to creep into my nerves due to the drugs and his obsession, I knelt under his dominion and asked him once again, tears drowning my face: "Who are you really? From where do you know all those details? Were you that child who was punished with severe beatings instead of me when I stole bread? Are you the 'Shadow' who used to leave wildflowers on my windowsill?"
Alexander stopped suddenly. A frightening silence prevailed, broken only by the sound of our panting breath. He looked at me with eyes filled with abyssal pain, the pain of a child rejected and disfigured to grow into a monster. He did not speak my name; instead, he slapped me lightly, tilting my head, then pulled me close to kiss the spot of the slap with a sudden, painful tenderness that made me sob.
"The Shadow has grown up, Ayla... and he has become the one who owns the night and the day. Do not search the past, because the truth will make you wish I had killed you with my own hands that rainy night instead of saving you. I am not your savior... I am your inescapable black fate."
He pulled me by my hair slowly, forcing me to stand, and rearranged my torn clothes with sickening coldness. "And now, fix your makeup. We have one last dance with Mr. Fulton. I want you to dance with him, and to smell the scent of his body, so you realize that the man you thought you knew has become a complete stranger to you."
(The Cursed Dance)
We returned to the hall. Adrian was standing in the center, and by Alexander's order, I was forced to share a formal dance with him. Adrian placed his hand on my waist, and I felt my body shudder violently, the pulse monitor sending warning signals to Alexander, who watched us from afar, sipping wine coldly.
"You are trembling, Miss Ayla," Adrian said in a confident, arrogant tone. "Are you afraid of Mr. Volkov? Or are you so taken with him that you become nervous in the presence of strangers?"
I looked into his eyes. I wanted to scream: "I am Ayla! I am the girl you promised marriage with a copper ring! I am the one who sold her soul so you could stand here today!" But I settled for saying in a choked voice: "Mr. Volkov is all I possess in this world, Mr. Fulton."
Adrian smiled a mysterious smile, and a strange glint appeared in his eyes, as if he felt something but could not explain it. "You have eyes... eyes that remind me of something lost, something I cannot remember no matter how hard I try. But in any case, you are in safe hands... Alexander is a man who does not let go of what he owns."
The dance ended, and I returned to Alexander's side like an obedient bitch. He gripped my hand tightly and whispered: "Did you see? To him, you were just a fleeting moment of a dance. And now, let us return to the palace... for I have a special punishment for you because you allowed him to touch your waist for longer than necessary."
On the way back, I looked out the car window at the city lights beginning to fade, and I realized I had entered a maze with no exit. Alexander Volkov did not just want my heart; he wanted to erase every atom of dignity and memory connecting me to the outside world. He had become my god, my jailer, and my cure, and I had become addicted to this pain that gave me a false sense that I was still alive.
I closed my eyes as he placed his strong hand on my thigh, and I felt the mechanical pulse in my chest declare its total loyalty to the master of the palace, realizing that the journey into "Mercy without Mercy" had begun to take a path of no return, a path that would make the truth—when it revealed itself—the bullet of mercy I was waiting for.