Chapter 13: The Step-Sibling Mask

Leo Vance

It had been an agonizing week of silence, a period of supposed autonomy that felt exactly like waiting for the executioner to arrive. Four days had passed since I was forced to collapse in that guest suite, allowing my mother to believe my tears were over ethical allocation of resources instead of my own shattered self-control. The silence from Dmitri and Ivan was a tactical decision, a way to let my own paranoia build the cage for them. I checked the lock on my studio door three times before leaving, even though I knew a physical lock meant nothing to them.

I tried to work. I tried to forget the weight of Dmitri’s body and the surgical precision of Ivan’s words. But every single brushstroke was haunted. The worst betrayal was my own body’s relentless, humiliating anticipation. I hated the twins, hated their ownership, but I couldn't stop wondering when the key card would slide, when the next command would drop. That insidious craving for the overwhelming authority they represented was the source of my deepest, most corrosive self-hatred.

Tonight, I was required to be visible. This wasn't a private Volkov event, but the Thorne Foundation Arts and Commerce Mixer, a major networking opportunity that could genuinely save the gallery. I was dressed in a suit that felt like a costume, my "professional artist" mask pulled tight over my exhaustion.

I was working the room, trying to sound knowledgeable about the emerging trends in kinetic sculpture, when the air turned heavy. It wasn’t a sudden noise or light; it was an invisible, visceral shift—the immediate, psychic chill that signaled their presence.

I stopped talking mid-sentence and slowly turned my head.

They were thirty feet away, entering the main gallery hall. Dmitri and Ivan, identical twin monoliths in black, generating their own gravitational field. They were talking to a group of investors, and even from this distance, their control over the conversation was absolute. They commanded attention without seeking it.

Ivan, effortlessly, lifted his gaze, scanning the room as if checking a spreadsheet. His eyes found mine, and he offered a brief, polite, social smile—the perfect, impersonal step-sibling mask for public consumption.

“God, those Volkov boys,” a collector next to me sighed, oblivious. “Look at them. Pure power. Too bad they only collect property deeds, not paintings.”

I managed a tight, fragile smile. “They are very focused on structural stability, yes.”

Ivan neatly concluded his conversation and started walking toward me, Dmitri trailing like an expensive, highly lethal shadow. The crowd instinctively eased aside. There was nowhere to run.

Ivan extended his hand, his eyes warm and completely insincere. “Leo. We didn’t expect to find you mingling so effectively. We trust the required period of emotional calibration proved useful?”

I took his hand, my own grip firm—a small, desperate assertion of equality—but his fingers tightened instantly, a subtle, possessive squeeze.

“I’m here for the gallery, Ivan,” I stated, injecting a deliberate coldness into my voice. “I’m here to network, not to calibrate. I have a professional life outside of your… structure.”

“Of course you do,” Ivan replied smoothly, his smile never faltering. “But a professional life requires professional oversight, particularly when the resource is so prone to volatility.”

Dmitri stepped up, planting himself right beside me, close enough that I could feel the residual heat from his jacket. He didn't look at me; he looked out at the room, asserting his territory.

“The efficiency of your energy usage remains sub-optimal, Leo,” Dmitri murmured, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. It was a private message, direct and chilling. “You are still wasting focus on internal conflict. We noted the erratic quality of your work earlier this week. The tension in your shoulders is unacceptable.”

My blood ran cold. How did he know about my shoulders?

Ivan leaned in conspiratorially, his voice maintaining the light, social volume required for the room. “We also noted your poor dietary choices this morning. That tiny, charming cafe on Jay Street? They use a substandard bean, and your double espresso lacked the necessary density for optimal neurological function. You barely touched your protein bar.”

The words hit me like physical blows. They hadn't just checked in on me; they had placed eyes on me at the one time I thought I was completely alone. The surveillance wasn't subtle; it was total.

I stared at Ivan, the professional mask shattering into pure, raw panic. My voice was a choked whisper. “You—you were watching me? You’re stalking me? I went there because it’s a tiny, quiet place no one knows about!”

Ivan’s gaze remained perfectly steady, utterly devoid of guilt. “It’s called asset risk mitigation, Leo. We cannot allow our most valuable acquisition to sabotage itself with inadequate nutrition or environmental stress. Your life is no longer an unstructured improvisation. It is managed.”

“This isn’t management! This is sick! It’s absolute obsession!” I felt tears stinging my eyes again, the shame of being so exposed pushing me to the edge.

Dmitri shifted, his massive frame completely boxing me in, momentarily blocking the view of an approaching patron. He lowered his voice, his command cutting through my distress.

“Your internal resistance is high-cost, Leo. Ivan and I are ensuring your externalities do not compromise the system. Your anger, your shame—these are merely transitional frictions. They will be eliminated through repeated exposure.”

He pressed his thumb firmly against the small of my back, a quick, intense point of pressure that ignited a desperate, humiliating flush of heat. It was a hidden, physical command, a reminder of the midnight encounter.

“Now, stop the uncontrolled emotional output,” Dmitri finished, removing his thumb.

Ivan smoothly took over, his voice instantly charming again. “Enough of the technical talk, Leo. Arthur specifically requested that you greet the CEO of Trident Global. He’s right over there, talking to the foundation head. It’s critical that you present as a strong, emotionally regulated member of the family.”

He nudged me lightly toward the target. “Go. And remember: a seamless transition is vital. If you fail to comply, and Arthur is embarrassed, your mother will lose the one thing she values in this cold city: her stable future. You wouldn't want to compromise her position now, would you?”

I fixed the dead, polite smile back onto my face, every muscle aching with the strain of the lie. I walked away from the twins, every step feeling like a surrender. I could feel their identical, cold gazes fixed on my back, watching their controlled asset move exactly where they commanded. The Step-Sibling Mask was fully in place, and the

public humiliation had begun.