The distance from the hospital to Alexander Volkov's estate was more than just kilometers traveled by a luxury car; it was a funeral procession for my soul, which I had left suspended on life-support machines beside Alfred. I sat in the farthest corner of the cold leather seat, striving to ensure my body did not brush against the man beside me. Alexander remained entirely silent, staring through the window at the fading city lights. His features were carved from cold stone, and his sharp jaw was set with a ruthlessness that brooked no mercy. The scent of expensive tobacco and a cologne reminiscent of a forest after a lightning storm filled the cabin, suffocating me and reminding me every second that I no longer even owned the air I breathed.
When the car stopped before the massive iron gates, a shudder went through my core. The gates opened with a low, mechanical hum, like the mouth of a legendary beast preparing to swallow me whole. The palace rose through the mist like a medieval fortress. Alexander stepped out without a backward glance, his confident stride compelling the lined-up guards to bow their heads in absolute silence. I stumbled after him, my rain-soaked dress heavy and mourning against the polished marble of the foyer. Everything here screamed of obscene wealth and absolute power: crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen clusters of light and ancient oil paintings whose subjects seemed to watch me with mocking eyes.
"Go to the East Wing," Alexander finally spoke, his voice deep and terrifyingly calm. "Martha will be waiting for you. I do not want to see you again carrying the filth of the alleys where you stood."
Martha was a woman in her sixties, dressed in a strict black uniform, her features devoid of emotion. She led me through long corridors lined with red carpets that swallowed the sound of footsteps, until we reached a suite that surpassed any fantasy of luxury, yet felt like a golden cage. The walls were draped in silk the color of dark wine, and a massive bed sat in the center of the room. "The Master set these clothes out for you," Martha said, pointing to a black silk robe, "and these papers on the desk must be signed immediately. There is no room for delay."
I moved toward the antique wooden desk with trembling legs. The papers bore the gilded Volkov crest. I pulled them closer and began to read the words that slaughtered what remained of my pride. It was not a medical contract; it was a deed of total ownership. "Clause One: The Second Party (Ayla) grants full ownership of her body, time, and decisions to the First Party (Alexander Volkov)...""Clause Two: The Second Party has no right to demand departure or contact with the outside world..." I felt a lump in my throat. I was signing away Ayla's very existence. Remembering Alfred's broken body, I took the pen and signed my name in ink that felt like lifeblood.
The ink had barely dried when the door opened. Alexander entered, having removed his suit jacket. He walked toward me with the predatory grace of one ensuring the prey is firmly in the trap. He took the papers, checked the signature with chilling detachment, and then placed a small white pill on the desk. "Take it. Now," he commanded.
"What is this? Is it for my heart?" I asked, my voice choked with fear.
A short, mocking laugh escaped his lips. "It is an emergency contraceptive," he answered brutally, his grey eyes piercing my paleness. "I want no accidents tainting my lineage. You are here for one purpose only. Swallow it while I watch."
I swallowed the pill with cold water, the taste bitter like the betrayal of my promise to Alfred. Alexander watched me with the long gaze of a possessor inspecting his prize. He slowly unfastened his gold watch and placed it on the desk. "I have paid a hundred thousand dollars to save that boy you naively think you love. Now... it is time to collect the price we agreed upon."
He moved me firmly toward the bed. I began to shake like a bird in a storm, and my heart—that traitorous, sickly organ—beat with a painful violence. I tried to close my eyes to escape the grim reality, but his strong hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "Open your eyes," he growled. "I want you to realize exactly who owns you now. I want you to erase the image of any other man from your mind."
There was no room for mercy. He claimed his prize with a coldness intended to shatter my identity and erase my past. I felt the connection to my old life, to that copper ring, snap forever. The Ayla who dreamed of a small home and a quiet life was gone; in her place was someone existing only by her master's command.
When it was over, he offered no word of comfort or look of pity. He rose with total indifference, walked to the high window where the rain lashed the glass, and lit a cigar. I lay there, tears drying on my pale cheeks, feeling the weight of shame more than the velvet covers.
"Tomorrow at five in the morning," he said, his voice as sharp as a guillotine blade without turning to face me, "a team of the best specialists in the country will arrive. The first stage of clinical trials to strengthen that weak heart will begin. I do not do this out of kindness, but because I intend to use this body for a very long time, and I will not have your heart failing before I am finished with you."
I stared at his broad back—at the man who had destroyed my life and saved Alfred in the same breath. I felt a terror beyond words, not just of him, but of a flickering shadow in my memory suggesting I knew this darkness, that those grey eyes were not entirely foreign.
I closed my eyes as he left the room and locked the door, leaving me alone in the silence of the palace—a silence that whispered that my journey into "Merciless Mercy" had only just begun.