Chapter 11: Ivan's Interrogation

Leo Vance

Saturday felt less like a day of the week and more like a countdown to execution. I spent the afternoon pacing my studio, my suit bag hanging untouched on the easel. Dmitri’s midnight command, his casual dismissal of my pain as "emotional calibration," had cemented my humiliation. I hated them, but what was worse was the cold, paralyzing dread that settled in whenever I thought about not going. My life was compromised, and my mother’s happiness was the heavy chain around my neck.

I was fighting a losing battle against myself. I told myself I hated the submission, the loss of control, the way they stripped me bare with their eyes. But every time I saw my reflection, I saw the fatigue mixed with a desperate, unwelcome light—the anticipation of their presence. I felt like a coiled spring, ready to snap, ready to run, and ready to break all over again.

When the cab dropped me off at the base of Volkov Tower, the sheer height of the structure seemed to mock my small, pathetic attempts at independence.

The private apartment on the top floor was bustling with low-key chatter. The atmosphere was one of quiet, intimidating wealth, not the chaotic intimacy of a family dinner. Eleanor, radiant and oblivious in a new silk dress, greeted me with a fierce hug.

“Oh, darling! You look wonderful! A little tired, but focused! Arthur is so thrilled you could break away from your ‘consulting commitment’,” she whispered, pulling me into the room.

Arthur approached, offering a firm, paternal handshake. "Leo. Glad you made the necessary adjustment. Dedication is key to success in any field. I hear your... review is going well?"

"It's demanding, sir," I managed, instantly reverting to the corporate shell I'd built. "High-stakes. Requires absolute precision."

Just then, my blood ran cold.

Dmitri and Ivan emerged from a side room, identical in dark, custom suits, their energy immediately dominating the space. They weren't smiling for the room; they were simply there, an inescapable gravitational force.

Dmitri met my gaze first, his eyes confirming the command from the night before: Compliance is mandatory. He didn’t nod or offer a greeting, just a long, proprietary look that felt like a hand sliding down my spine.

Ivan, however, was playing the public role. He detached himself smoothly, walking toward me with that perfect, charming smile. He offered his hand.

“Leo. Welcome. We only just returned from Zürich. We trust your few days of essential autonomy were productive?” Ivan’s voice was warm for the room, but the word "autonomy" was laced with cold, subtle mockery.

I took his hand, unable to refuse the public gesture. His grip was firm, a subtle reminder that he held all the cards. “They were necessary, Ivan. Thank you.”

“Good. A necessary re-evaluation. Now, please, enjoy the champagne. Arthur needs you visible, Leo. We need to present a united front tonight.”

The dinner was torture. I sat next to Eleanor, across from a grim, humorless hedge fund manager and his impossibly bored wife. Dmitri sat diagonally across from me, speaking in clipped, technical terms about market leverage, while Ivan managed the social lubrication with dazzling ease.

Every time I looked up, Dmitri's eyes were fixed on me, an unwavering, silent claim. He wasn't participating in the dinner; he was maintaining perimeter security over me.

After the main course, Ivan caught my eye and offered the barest, most subtle tilt of his head toward the double doors leading to the private study. It wasn't a question. It was the next stage of the agenda.

I knew I couldn't refuse. I muttered an apology to my mother about needing to retrieve some "critical documentation" for Arthur's team.

"Oh, of course, darling! That's my dedicated boy!" Eleanor beamed, completely convinced.

I followed Ivan, feeling every guest's eye on my back. He led me not to the large study, but to a smaller, more intimate drawing room, lit by soft, indirect sconces. There was a low, velvet sofa and two armchairs.

Dmitri was already there, leaning against a large, antique chest, arms crossed, the picture of quiet authority.

“Sit down, Leo,” Ivan instructed, his charming veneer dropping instantly, replaced by a focused, analytical sharpness. He gestured to the sofa.

I remained standing, my hands clenched at my sides. “I’m not staying. Whatever this is, it can wait. I’m not going to be interrogated again.”

“Interrogation is counterproductive,” Ivan said gently, walking closer. “This is a required risk assessment. Sit.”

I shook my head, tears of frustration already welling up at the sheer arrogance of their command. “No. I told Dmitri last night—I hate this! I hate you both! You think I’m just going to sit here and let you dismantle me piece by piece? I won’t! Stay away from me! What I feel is disgust! I curse the night we met!”

Ivan paused, his expression softening slightly. He looked genuinely concerned, not predatory. “You are tired, Leo. And your internal conflict is consuming you. We see that. But your defiance here puts Eleanor at risk. You know that, don’t you?”

The shift in focus was immediate and devastating. My legs felt weak. “Don’t bring my mother into this.”

Dmitri’s voice cut in, sharp and low. “Your mother is the root liability, Leo. She is the reason you are here. If your continued emotional volatility compromises Arthur’s stability, what do you think the downstream consequences will be for her?”

I staggered back a step, covering my face with my hands, my body trembling uncontrollably. “Stop it! You can’t threaten her! That’s unforgivable!”

Ivan stepped closer, but he didn't touch me. He just lowered his voice. “We are not threatening her, Leo. We are detailing the reality. Arthur is proud of his cohesive family unit. If that unit is shown to be fractured—if his new stepson is shown to be hysterical, unreliable, or, God forbid, engaging in unauthorized conduct with one of his sons—it compromises Eleanor's standing completely. Do you want to see her happiness destroyed because you can’t manage your pride?”

I collapsed onto the sofa, the air leaving my lungs in a ragged sob. The shame of my own desires was nothing compared to the guilt of potentially ruining my mother's life. "You are obsessed," I wept, tears streaming down my face. "You're both monsters! Just leave me alone! Fuck your agreements!"

Dmitri finally moved, taking a slow step forward, his eyes fixed on my face. He looked... troubled, but still entirely dominant. “The level of self-hatred you exhibit is detrimental to our shared objective, Leo. We do not wish to cause you pain. We wish to establish trust.”

“Trust?” I choked out, pushing myself away from the arm of the sofa, rejecting the proximity of the air they breathed. “How can I trust the men who tear me apart and then schedule my recovery time? I hate the way I feel when you look at me! I hate that I can’t stop crying!”

Ivan knelt down, placing himself at eye level, his expression intensely personal. He didn't touch me, but the sheer, focused sincerity in his voice was overwhelming. “We know. And we regret the necessity of this process. But Leo, you are the only one who can’t see it: you don’t belong in that dusty Brooklyn studio. You belong here, with us. We are simply accelerating the inevitable integration. And we are possessive, yes. Obsessed? Absolutely. But it is an honest obsession. We just want you to admit what you crave.”

Dmitri remained standing, his voice a low counterpoint. "We are simply making you see the value of controlled surrender. It's safer here, Leo. You can stop fighting."

Before I could process the devastating softness in Ivan’s voice, the door to the drawing room opened slightly.

"Leo? Darling? Is everything alright?"

Eleanor stood framed in the doorway, her expression shifting from light concern to confusion, seeing me slumped on the sofa, tears streaming down my face, with Ivan kneeling before me and Dmitri looming protectively over both of us. The entire room—and my entire life—froze at the sight of

my mother's confused, uncertain gaze.