Chapter 16: The Lunchtime Trap

Leo Vance

I woke up in a room I didn't recognize, though it was instantly familiar in its stark, expensive silence. The bedroom was enormous, overlooking a gray, windswept lake. The walls were covered in a muted silk wallpaper, and the furniture was heavy, dark, and imposing. This was the Volkov Residence, a gilded cage miles from the city, and the reality of my capture settled on me like a slab of cold marble. My mother did not question why I was here because she feels we are getting to know each other better, if only she knew.

I was alone, but the sense of being watched was overwhelming. The memory of my surrender—the pathetic, broken request to Dmitri and Ivan to take away my choices—was a fresh, agonizing wound. The shame of that concession burned hotter than any pleasure they had forced from me. My body was their territory now, but my mind was still fighting a desperate, losing war.

I pushed myself out of the absurdly large bed. I was trapped. There were no keys, no cell service, just this suffocating, isolated luxury. The fear was thick, but it was mixed with the deep, insidious calm I had confessed to craving. I don’t have to decide anything. That thought was the most dangerous kind of poison.

A soft knock came at the door. I flinched, expecting one of the twins.

It was a housekeeper, silent and professional, carrying an immaculate, pressed shirt and trousers, along with a small, typed note.

The note was from Ivan: “Lunch with Arthur is at 13:00. This is a private, family assessment. We require perfect composure and compliance. Dress appropriately. Dmitri will collect you at 12:55.”

A family assessment. It wasn’t enough for them to dismantle me alone; now I had to perform the role of the integrated stepson for the patriarch.

I dressed in a blur of anxiety, trying to plaster the Step-Sibling Mask back onto my face. The biggest challenge wasn't the uniform, but the knowledge that I was walking back into the fire, and this time, my compliance was not feigned.

At 12:55, the door opened, and Dmitri entered. He was dressed in a gray suit that looked as if it had been forged onto his body. He looked rested, controlled, and utterly lethal. He didn't smile, but his eyes held a dark, knowing glint that acknowledged my surrender.

“Ready, Leo?” he asked, his voice low and devoid of unnecessary inflection.

“I have no choice,” I stated flatly, clinging to that bitter truth.

He didn't correct me. He simply walked toward me and stopped, lifting his hand. He didn’t touch my skin; instead, he adjusted the collar of the shirt Ivan had chosen, making sure the angle was perfect, the fabric smooth. It was a calculated, subtle show of ownership—an adjustment, not a caress.

“Correct. Your efficiency is improving,” Dmitri confirmed. “Today’s objective is simplicity. We are the unified family unit. You will be polite, articulate about your ‘new consultation,’ and you will not break the façade, regardless of the stimuli.”

I met his gaze, my heart hammering. “Stimuli? What are you going to do?”

“We are reinforcing the terms of the agreement,” Dmitri said, finally letting his fingers brush the back of my neck, sending a sharp, possessive signal down my spine. “You asked us to remove your choices. We are ensuring you understand where your body now belongs. Now, we walk in together.”

He didn't offer his arm. He simply led the way, and I followed, the total isolation of the house amplifying my terror.

The dining room was magnificent, featuring an immense, polished black table set for four. Arthur Volkov was already seated at the head, reading a document. He was a cold, imposing man who barely glanced up as we entered. Ivan was seated to his right.

Ivan looked up, offering a professional, charming smile that didn't quite reach his intense gray eyes. He was already playing the role of the amiable heir.

“Leo. Glad you are feeling sufficiently recovered from the city stress,” Arthur stated, his voice a gravelly rumble. He didn’t ask if I was okay, only if I was functional.

“Thank you, sir. The change of pace was necessary. The work is deeply engaging,” I responded, the corporate jargon sliding off my tongue easily now.

The table arrangement was immediately clear: Arthur at the head. Ivan to his right. Dmitri gestured for me to take the final seat, right between him and Ivan, facing Arthur. I was surrounded.

The lunch began—a painfully formal affair of light conversation about market futures, political donations, and international acquisitions. Arthur, as always, was cold but engaged, believing he was assessing the capacity of his stepson.

I spoke when prompted, maintaining my careful mask of focused professional. But below the table, the torture began.

Ivan was the first to strike. We were talking about the Thorne Foundation’s next move into Asian markets when his knee, slow and deliberate, brushed against mine. It wasn't accidental; it was too sustained, too warm. The contact immediately sent a wave of electric panic through me. I shifted, trying to pull away, but the table was too narrow.

No. Not here. Not in front of Arthur. My internal monologue screamed, but externally, I was nodding politely at a comment about asset leverage.

Ivan pressed his knee again, gently, insistently, maintaining the contact as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I felt a humiliating flush rising up my neck, and my hands, resting stiffly in my lap, started to tremble.

Then, Dmitri joined the fray. We were discussing my "consulting" work—the elaborate lie I’d created—when I felt a sudden, proprietary weight settle on my lower back, just above my hip. Dmitri’s hand. It was a subtle, hidden touch, but the heat of his palm was a brand, claiming my body beneath the table.

He wasn't squeezing. He was simply resting it there, a constant, heavy reminder of my subjugation. The hand was a promise and a threat.

I choked slightly on my water. Arthur looked at me, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.

“Are you quite well, Leo?” Arthur asked, his tone demanding perfection.

“Perfectly, sir,” I managed, forcing a steady gaze. “Just… the intensity of the latest data sets, they require absolute focus.”

Beneath the table, Ivan’s knee pressed harder against mine, and his foot casually slipped out of his shoe, the bare arch of his foot gently rubbing against my ankle. It was so intimate, so forbidden, that a sharp, involuntary tremor ran through my core. The line between panic and pleasure was dangerously thin.

They are doing this on purpose. They want to see if I break. They want to see if the shame of the forbidden touch outweighs the submission I already conceded.

I tried to focus on Arthur’s words, on the conversation about interest rates, but every molecule of my focus was dedicated to the three points of contact:

Dmitri’s hand, heavy and solid on my back, claiming my posture.

Ivan’s knee, insistent and warm, claiming my attention.

Ivan’s foot, intimate and predatory, claiming my desire.

My breath became shallow. My heart was racing so hard I was sure Arthur could hear it. I was trapped in a silent, sensual torture chamber, forced to play the role of the polite, attentive stepson while being privately owned by his twin sons.

I felt a sudden, sharp, almost painful surge of craving. The forbidden nature of the touches, the risk of exposure, the silent knowledge that only we three shared this secret—it was a devastatingly potent cocktail. My hatred was still there, but it was being drowned out by a wave of sick, exhilarating surrender. I desperately wanted Dmitri’s hand to squeeze. I wanted Ivan’s foot to move higher. I hated myself for it, but the desire was a hurricane.

“And your current assessment, Leo?” Arthur asked, snapping me back to reality. “Do you see immediate, high-yield opportunities in the new structure?”

I forced a deep, calming breath, ignoring the hot brand on my back and the slow caress of the foot on my ankle. I had to prove my competence, my perfect compliance.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, my voice clear and steady, the Step-Sibling Mask perfect. “The potential for synergy is significant. We just need to manage the integration risk efficiently.”

Dmitri’s hand pressed gently, a silent, proprietary approval. Ivan’s knee nudged mine, a soft reward.

I finished the meal in a state of hyper-awareness, every nerve ending screaming. When Arthur finally concluded the meal, I stood up on wobbly legs. The immediate absence of the twins’ contact was startling, leaving my body cold and desperate.

I had survived the lunch. I had maintained the mask. But below the surface, my surrender was total, and the line between hatred and dangerous craving had been completely erased. The most terrifying place in the world was no longer alone in my studio, but right next to them, where th

e public mask and the private truth collided.