Chapter 22: Dmitri's Demand

Leo Vance

I spent the next morning in the small, glass-walled studio the Volkovs had built into the residence—a space designed for inspiration, but which felt like another type of cage. I was trying to sketch, trying to find the emotional truth of the last few days, but all I could produce were fractured lines and violent, meaningless bursts of color. The internal chaos was still there, now overlaid with the cold, absolute certainty of Ivan's confession: my survival was contingent on their control.

Around noon, Dmitri entered. He wasn't wearing a suit, just a dark, fitted sweater, which somehow made him seem even more physically formidable. He carried a small folder, but his eyes weren't on the papers; they were entirely on me, assessing the quality of my distress.

"The stagnation is unacceptable, Leo," Dmitri stated, walking over to examine the canvases stacked against the wall. He moved with a heavy, proprietary grace. "Four days of guaranteed financial security and a complete elimination of emotional distractions, yet your creative output is low-grade friction. Why?"

I threw my charcoal stick onto the table in frustration. "It's because I'm not a machine, Dmitri! I can't just flip a switch and feel inspired! I need space to process the fact that I abandoned my best friend and watched you casually fire seven thousand people! That horror is what's fueling the art right now, not some neat, orderly inspiration."

Dmitri turned, leaning against the edge of the large work table, his gray eyes unwavering. He didn't dismiss my anger; he simply analyzed it.

"Your anger is a powerful energy source. We approve of its intensity. But it must be directed," Dmitri instructed. "You lack the focus to choose a path for this energy. Therefore, I will define the choice for you."

He opened the folder he carried. Inside were two photographs. One was a grainy image of a dark, abstract painting, angular and violently chaotic. The other was a crisp, high-resolution photo of a minimalist, serene sculpture—smooth marble, flowing lines, purely classical.

"These represent two paths for your next major installation," Dmitri explained, pushing the photos across the table toward me. "The gallery requires a strong show to cement the new capital structure. You will choose between these two creative directions, effective immediately."

I stared at the images, confused and insulted. "You're joking. You're trying to force my style? These are completely opposite. The abstract work is pure feeling—my natural direction. The sculpture is... cold, calculated elegance. It’s what you would buy."

"Precisely," Dmitri confirmed, his expression entirely serious. "The Abstract is the internal chaos you currently possess. The Sculpture is the external order we are imposing. Both are powerful, but only one is aligned with the Volkov future. Your compliance is necessary, but your true surrender must extend to your creative core."

"My art is the last thing I control!" I exclaimed, jumping up from my chair. "You have my body, my money, my mother—you will not touch my art!"

Dmitri stood up too, his presence immediately dominating the small space. He didn't raise his voice, but the low quality of his command was deafening.

"Your art is now funded entirely by Volkov capital, Leo. It is protected by Volkov power. It is no longer an independent venture; it is a high-value cultural asset within our portfolio. Therefore, your creative decisions are now subject to my strategic oversight."

He took a slow step toward me, forcing me back against the cold stone of the wall. "This isn't about crushing your spirit. This is about channeling your exceptional talent into a structurally sound future. You are too valuable to be left to the whims of emotional improvisation."

He placed the two photos side-by-side on the stone ledge right next to my head, trapping me. "The Abstract path is high-risk, low-return, emotionally draining, and confirms your internal resistance. It is the art of the old, broken Leo."

"And the Sculpture?" I whispered, my breath catching in my throat, overwhelmed by his proximity.

"The Sculpture," Dmitri murmured, leaning in, his breath warm against my ear, "is the art of controlled power. It is clean, eternal, and perfectly aligned with the aesthetic of our dominance. It is beautiful, and it signals to the world that you are no longer a struggling artist, but a protected master. It also signals your acceptance of my will."

He pulled back slightly, forcing me to meet his gaze. There was no coldness now, just a terrifying, intense desire for my complete spiritual surrender.

"I need you to choose, Leo. This is your final test of compliance. You can choose the chaos that will drain you, or the order that will sustain you. But know this: every choice you make now is a confirmation of where your loyalty lies. Choose the Sculpture, and you choose us. Choose the Abstract, and you choose a costly, painful failure."

I stared at the two images. The Abstract piece felt like scratching myself raw, a desperate scream of pain. The Sculpture felt like silence, like the deep, heavy security of their touch. The choice wasn't about art; it was about survival. It was about choosing the painful freedom of my old life or the terrifying, suffocating safety of my new one.

My mind was a furious war: Don't do it. Don't give him your art! But if you choose the Abstract, he will make your life a living hell. He will find a financial flaw, he will withdraw the capital, and Sasha will lose everything. The Sculpture keeps everyone safe.

I finally reached out, my fingers trembling, and gently slid the photograph of the chaotic, angry Abstract painting off the ledge, letting it drop to the floor. It was a complete surrender of my artistic soul.

I picked up the photograph of the serene, cold Sculpture. I held it up, my eyes locked on Dmitri’s.

"The Sculpture," I stated, the word tasting like defeat. "I choose the order. I choose the stability."

A slow, profoundly satisfied look spread across Dmitri's features. It was the most human expression I had ever seen from him—a terrifying mix of triumph and relieved possession.

"An excellent choice, Leo," Dmitri approved, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vow. He reached out and cupped the back of my neck, pulling me closer. "You have acknowledged my influence. You have chosen the path of longevity over the path of self-destruction. This is proof that you are ready for the next level of integration."

He kissed me then, a deep, victorious kiss that wasn't demanding, but accepting—a seal on my total, complete artistic and personal subjugation. The Sculpture would be my most successful work, and every clean, perfect line of it would be a testament to the fact that I

was owned by Dmitri Volkov.