Chapter 25: The Jealous Gaze

Leo Vance

The Integration Phase was nearing its end, and I was allowed a brief, supervised return to the city. It wasn't freedom; it was a field trip. I had to attend a high-profile dinner for art patrons—a necessary social event to signal the gallery's new financial stability, thanks entirely to the Volkov capital.

I felt like an exhibit myself. I was perfectly dressed, perfectly composed, and I carried the weight of my surrender like an invisible cloak. Ivan was my escort for the evening. He stood a discreet distance away, observing, ensuring my performance was flawless. His presence was a silent leash, restraining my every movement.

The entire evening felt surreal. People who had ignored me for months suddenly flocked to me, drawn by the scent of Volkov money. I was polite, articulate about the "new artistic structure," and utterly hollow.

Then, I saw Marcus Thorne, a gallery owner from a smaller, rival establishment. Marcus was earnest, slightly chaotic, and genuinely passionate about emerging artists—everything I used to be. He walked right up to me, his face alight with excitement.

"Leo! You're back! The rumors are insane—that you landed Volkov backing. Congratulations! You look... different, but great. Listen, I wanted to tell you, your 'Abstracted Futures' idea? It was brilliant. I'm so glad you got the chance to do it."

My mind was a painful jolt. The Abstracted Futures show. The one Dmitri made me abandon for the cold, clean Sculpture.

For a fleeting, reckless moment, I forgot the cage. I forgot Ivan’s watchful eyes. I just talked art with someone who genuinely loved it, someone who reminded me of the man I used to be.

"Thanks, Marcus," I said, a faint, genuine smile finally touching my lips—the first real smile in weeks. "It would have been a great show, yes. A lot of feeling. But I'm moving toward something more… structurally sound now. The Sculpture."

Marcus wrinkled his nose in genuine artistic disgust. "The Sculpture? The minimal, white marble thing? But Leo, that's what everyone expects! Where’s the raw emotion? The fire? You always said art had to scream!"

I laughed then. It wasn't a nervous laugh, but a small, honest burst of amusement at Marcus's pure, unedited reaction. I reached out, resting my hand briefly on his arm in a familiar, friendly gesture.

"Maybe I decided screaming is inefficient, Marcus," I replied, the amusement fading quickly, replaced by a deep, weary sadness that only another artist could understand.

It was just a moment—two old colleagues sharing a fleeting, honest moment of professional disagreement. But it was enough.

My mind was suddenly filled with icy dread. I felt a change in the atmosphere, a shift in the temperature of the room. I turned my head slowly, knowing exactly what I would see.

Dmitri had just entered the ballroom. He was across the room, talking to a major political donor, but his eyes were not on the conversation. His gaze, cold and surgical, was locked entirely on me.

He had seen the smile. He had seen the brief, familiar touch on Marcus's arm.

His possessiveness was a tangible force, crossing the expanse of the room like a physical shockwave. He looked less like a corporate executive and more like a predator who had just spotted another animal near his carefully stored kill. His expression was dangerously still, the anger not hot, but cold, absolute, and terrifying.

Ivan, realizing the shift, immediately moved to my side, his hand lightly gripping the small of my back—a subtle, proprietary claim meant only for Dmitri’s eyes.

“That was inefficient, Leo,” Ivan murmured, his voice tight with warning. “You allowed unnecessary emotional volatility with an external asset.”

“It was just Marcus,” I defended, the sudden, paralyzing fear making my voice weak. “He’s harmless. We were talking about the old exhibit.”

“Harmless?” Ivan scoffed. “He saw you smile with genuine, unburdened pleasure—a pleasure that belongs only to us now. You will excuse yourself immediately.”

I didn't need to be told twice. I mumbled a hasty farewell to Marcus and moved quickly to Ivan’s side, feeling Dmitri's unwavering, jealous gaze burn into my back all the way across the room.

We were back in the Residence late that night. Dmitri had been silent during the drive, his quiet rage far more terrifying than any shouting. He hadn't touched me or Ivan. He simply radiated the cold certainty of coming vengeance.

I was in my room, sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind a mess of frantic apologies and self-recrimination. I shouldn't have laughed. I shouldn't have touched him. I forgot the rules.

The door opened without a knock. Dmitri walked in alone. He closed the door silently, deliberately, and stood before me. He looked magnificent, dangerous, and completely focused.

“Why did you smile like that?” Dmitri demanded, his voice low, intense, and shaking with a raw, unexpected emotion. It wasn't the voice of a businessman; it was the voice of a man betrayed.

I flinched, folding my hands in my lap. “It was nothing, Dmitri. I was just talking about the art I used to make. He reminded me of the past.”

Dmitri took two slow, purposeful steps closer, his eyes fixed on mine. “The past is a debt we paid for, Leo. You do not smile with that kind of reckless joy at a man who has no claim on you. You do not extend a casual, easy physical familiarity to an unauthorized variable.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the word tasting of ashes. “I forgot myself. It won’t happen again.”

Dmitri’s hand shot out, not striking me, but gripping my jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the nerve behind my ear. He forced my head up, making me look directly into the fierce, possessive storm in his eyes.

“Forgetting yourself is a luxury you no longer afford,” Dmitri stated, his voice barely audible, thick with rage and desire. “Your composure, your attention, your pleasure—it all belongs to us. You broke the terms of the shared ownership tonight.”

He released my jaw and grabbed my wrists, pulling me up and crushing me against his chest. His heart was hammering hard against mine.

“Ivan claims your mind, your compliance. But I claim your body, your raw, unedited reaction,” Dmitri hissed, his mouth near my ear. “And tonight, your body laughed for a stranger. You will spend the rest of this night proving exactly where your true, absolute loyalty lies, Leo. You will acknowledge me.”

I felt the last thread of my resistance snap. The fear was immense, but it was mixed with the paralyzing, dark relief of being overwhelmed. This raw, jealous rage was more honest than any business transaction, and in its terrifying heat, I finally stopped fighting completely.

“Acknowledge me, Leo,” Dmitri commanded, his hands moving to claim my waist, lifting me effortlessly. “Tell me who owns your smile.”

“You do,” I choked out, the words a desperate, broken confession of my final surrender. “Only you. Only Ivan. Only you both.”

He didn't wait. The ensuing encounter was fierce, dominating, and absolute—a violent, demanding reassertion of his singular claim on my physical being. It was brutal, possessive, and stripped bare of all pretense, confirming to me, physically, that every movement, every smile, every breath I took was now his property.

When it was over, I was a wreck of trembling nerves, lying panting on the bed. Dmitri was breathing hard, looking down at me with a gaze that had softened slightly—the dangerous satisfaction of a possessive man whose territory had been defended.

He leaned down, pressing a rough, possessive kiss to my forehead. “Good. Don’t forget again. Your joy is our scarcity. It is not for general consumption.”

He then pulled the heavy duvet over me, treating me with the proprietary care one would give a high-value, fragile asset. He walked to the door, opened it, and spoke a single word into the hallway.

“Ivan. He is stable.”

He didn't wait for a response. He closed the door, leaving me alone in the oppressive silence, utterly destroyed, utterly claimed, and knowing with agonizing clarity that the Golden Cage now ex

tended even to the expression on my face.