The screams of the guests still echoed in Anya's ears as she stumbled blindly away from the grotesque spectacle in the ballroom. Her perfectly coiffed hair was disheveled, her emerald gown now felt like a lead weight, and her carefully constructed world had imploded. She pushed through a swinging door, finding herself in a quiet, luxurious washroom, thankfully empty. The cool, tiled walls offered a small, temporary sanctuary. She leaned against a gilded mirror, gasping for air, her chest heaving. Tears streamed down her face, blurring the reflection of her own terrified eyes. The image of her parents, fractured and violent, played on a loop in her mind.
Meanwhile, back in the ballroom, chaos was swiftly being brought to heel, not by Vikram's overwhelmed security, but by the silent, efficient movements of the Krasnaya Bratva.
Rohan, ever the opportunist even in the face of disaster, had managed to latch onto Andrey, whose charming smile hadn't faltered even amidst the screams. The music, surprisingly, had resumed, albeit at a lower volume, and a few guests, numbed by shock or emboldened by alcohol, were trying to regain a semblance of normalcy. Rohan, seizing the moment, was already grinding enthusiastically against Andrey, who, far from repulsed, seemed mildly amused, his eyes twinkling. "Darling, you dance like a dream!" Rohan cooed, oblivious to the simmering tension. Andrey merely chuckled, allowing Rohan's flamboyant energy to wash over him, a disarming tactic of his own.
Across the room, Sia found herself cornered, albeit elegantly, by Mikhail. His intense gaze never left her face, and his grip on her hand as he pulled her onto the impromptu dance floor was firm, unyielding. "You move like a flame," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down Sia's spine, not entirely of fear. She tried to pull away, a polite refusal forming on her lips, but his hold tightened just enough to convey an unspoken command. She found herself dancing, or rather, being danced with, by a man who radiated a palpable, dangerous power. His eyes, fixed on hers, seemed to promise both allure and menace.
At the main bar, Viktor Volkov stood, observing the scene with chilling detachment. A woman, stunning and impeccably dressed, approached him, her smile a seductive invitation. Her name forgotten but he had dismissed her as one of the many socialites who flocked to power. She complimented his suit, her hand lingering on his arm, her eyes promising delights. As she handed him a fresh glass of amber liquid, her thumb subtly brushed against the rim, depositing a fine, almost invisible powder.
Viktor took a sip, his expression unchanged. But even as the first drop touched his tongue, his senses, honed by years of surviving poison and betrayal, registered the subtle, acrid bitterness beneath the expensive whiskey. An aphrodisiac. A crude attempt. A flicker of cold contempt crossed his eyes. He lowered the glass, his gaze locking onto the woman. His hand subtly gestured to two of his silent enforcers, who had appeared seemingly from nowhere.
"Handle her," Viktor stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Make sure she understands the gravity of such a mistake."
The woman's seductive smile froze, then twisted into a mask of sudden fear as the two hulking men closed in. She tried to protest, to scream, but they moved with brutal efficiency, half-carrying, half-dragging her out of the ballroom through a discreet service exit. Her muffled cries faded quickly, leaving only the chilling silence of their departure. The remaining guests, who had briefly witnessed the scene, quickly averted their gazes, pretending not to notice.
The drug, even from a single sip, began to work, a subtle heat spreading through Viktor's veins, a dull throb behind his eyes. It was an annoyance, a disruption to his precise control. He needed a moment, away from the lingering scent of chaos and the calculating eyes of his rivals. He strode towards the discreet corridor leading to the private washrooms.
He pushed open the door to the men's washroom, but found it empty. A light shimmered under the door of the adjacent women's restroom. He pushed it open, his heightened senses immediately registering the faint scent of jasmine and salt.
Anya was still there, leaning against the sink, her face wet with tears, her makeup streaked, her carefully constructed composure utterly gone. Her mask of the perfect, sheltered daughter was completely shattered. She looked fragile, utterly exposed.
Viktor stopped. His eyes, usually cold and analytical, were now tinged with an unfamiliar heat from the drug, making her raw vulnerability even more striking. The innocence, the sheer, unadulterated fear in her eyes, resonated with a strange, dark fascination. He felt an animalistic pull, a desire to assert himself, to claim. He took a step closer, and then another. Anya flinched, her eyes wide with terror, her hands coming up weakly.
"No, please," she whispered, her voice a pathetic choke. "Don't... don't touch me."
Her plea, her fragility, sparked something in Viktor, a brutal turn-on that conflicted sharply with a flicker of something else—a fleeting, almost forgotten recognition of pure innocence. The raw, desperate plea for mercy, the sheer, unadulterated fear in her eyes, was intoxicating, yet the very fragility of it stopped him. He saw a broken bird, not a challenge. The drug coursed through him, urging him forward, but his core, that cold, calculating center, recognized the inherent weakness, the lack of fight, the sheer, helpless vulnerability. It wasn't the kind of conquest he desired, not truly. This wasn't power, it was destruction. He stopped, inches from her trembling form.
He clenched his jaw, the drug battling with his iron will. "Get out," he commanded, his voice hoarse, rougher than he intended. He took a step back, visibly reining himself in. "I... I need this room. Send my men to my suite. And... get out." The heat in his body burned, but a different kind of anger flared – at himself, at the crude attempt to control him, at the moment of weakness he'd just shown.
Anya stared at him, bewildered, then relief, cold and sharp, flooded her. She didn't hesitate. She scrambled out of the restroom, her heart pounding, the terrifying image of his unreadable face seared into her mind. As she fled, her mind raced, not towards escape for herself, but towards rescue for her family. Her father, even in his madness, was still her father. She had to find him. She had to get help. Her first thought was for her father's own security detail, then for her friends. The volatile Volkovs were a presence that changed everything. She rushed back towards the fading sounds of the party, desperation overriding fear.
________________________________________________________________________________
What would you like to happen next?
Will Anya manage to find help,
or
will the Volkovs make their move?
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