Chapter 3: the formal interrogation

The Formal Interrogation

Leo Vance

The vehicle moved through the heart of the city's evening. My fingers dug tight into the leather of the chair, my reflection in the window showing an unsettling paleness beneath my careful composure. 

My true motivation was the gnawing dread that had been with me since morning, compounded by Sasha’s last text: “Pretend you’re auditing them, not the other way around. Keep the shame locked down.”

Shame. That was it now. Every muscle movement felt like a physical memory, a quiet, internal betrayal. I had allowed myself to be utterly consumed by a stranger, trading all my carefully boundaries for a single moment of heat.

The cab eventually arrived at the Volkov Tower. The building didn't just stand; it loomed. I paid, feeling the insignificant weight of my wallet, and crossed the lobby.

The private lift was swift, the silence of the cabin amplifying the uncomfortable pressure in my chest. When the doors silently opened, I stepped out.

“Leo, darling! You arrived!” Mom rushed forward, radiant and delighted. She gripped my arm, her eyes sparkling with happiness. “Arthur was just sharing details about the global acquisition strategy this week. It’s fascinating! Come, they’re waiting in the lounge.”

She pulled me toward the central observation area. The penthouse was breathtakingly minimalist. It was terrifying in its spareness. The view was overwhelming, the million lights of the city reduced to cold, scattered diamonds belonging to a different galaxy.

Arthur rose from a low sofa, a man of controlled energy. “Leo. Thank you for adjusting the time to join us,” he stated, his voice deep. His tone lacked warmth; it suggested he was merely verifying my presence on a roster.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Volkov,” I replied, ensuring my voice was low and steady.

“Arthur, please. Sit. Eleanor and I were finalizing the investment thesis for the Volkov Global Trust,” he instructed, gesturing toward a leather chair.

Mom settled across from me, her joy palpable. “It’s remarkable, Leo. They manage so much influence! Arthur is an extraordinary man.”

Arthur picked up a glass of dark liquor. His eyes, piercing and highly analytical, fixed entirely on me. This felt less like a family introduction and more like a formal evaluation.

“Eleanor speaks highly of your modest artistic ventures, Leo,” Arthur began, the word "modest" landing with soft, deliberate weight.

“Thank you. It is how I structure my life,” I replied, resisting the urge to cross my arms.

 “You manage a small exhibition space, I understand? In the DUMBO area?”

“Yes, a gallery for local, independent artists,” I attempted to project a sense of professional pride.

“Tell me, Leo. Do you intend to optimize, to leverage, or merely to remain a niche, decorative fixture?”

Decorative fixture. He reduces my identity, my sweat, my endless striving, to a piece of furniture. He is utterly correct by his metrics. The self-doubt was paralyzing, but I will not let someone who just met me a few minutes ago to walk all over me.

“I intend to expand my network of influence and secure larger institutional funding,” I countered, looking him directly in the eye, focusing on the dark liquid in his glass.

Eleanor interjected quickly, sensing the atmosphere shift. “He’s extremely dedicated, Arthur! He’s so focused on loyalty to his colleagues.”

Arthur offered a brief, thin gesture of approval. “Loyalty is an acceptable placeholder, Eleanor. But often, in the corporate theater, loyalty is merely unexecuted dependency. It is far more advantageous to embody ruthless necessity.” He looked back at me. “Are you capable of executing necessity, Leo?”

I met his gaze, my mind scrambling. “I operate with determination, Arthur.”

“A subtle difference,” he conceded, taking a sip of his drink. “Determination allows one to persist. Necessity compels one to dominate. My sons comprehend that distinction. They were meticulously built around it.”

My mother sighed happily. “Oh, the boys! They are such hard workers. I’m so eager for you to meet Dmitri and Ivan, Leo. They are such forces, but beneath all the business, they are just fine young men.”

Arthur checked the timepiece on his wrist. “They should be present at any moment. They had to finalize something with a former partner.” He sounded utterly relaxed.

As he finished speaking, the double doors leading from the private corridor swung open.

The atmosphere in the penthouse shifted immediately. It wasn't just a thickening of the air; it became palpably charged, like the intense static preceding a lightning strike.

Two figures entered the lounge simultaneously. They were perfect physical analogues: imposing height, aggressive shoulder width, radiating a synchronized aura of cold, focused authority that rendered Arthur merely wealthy by comparison.

They wore identical, flawlessly tailored charcoal suits, but the duality was deeper than their attire. It was in their controlled, deliberate gait, their uncompromising posture, and the single, cold, calculating focus in their eyes.

My ability to draw a breath failed. My lungs locked. The half-full glass in my hand suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

My vision snapped to the figure on the left. The profile was excruciatingly familiar. The sharp, unyielding line of the jaw, the penetrating, stormy gray eyes that held both contempt and absolute command, the dark, intense personal aura. The precise, hard curve of his mouth.

It was him.

The stranger from the club. The dominant entity whose name I had refused to acknowledge but whose demands my body had answered with shameful abandon. The man whose shoulder ink I had gripped desperately. The man I had abandoned less than twelve hours before.

Impossible. This is not reality. This is a cruel, malicious convergence.

My thoughts dissolved into a silent, catastrophic torrent of terror. I slept with him. I lost my composure to him. He is Arthur Volkov’s son. He is my future step-brother. He is here. He knows. He knows everything.

My perception of the room tilted, the breathtaking cityscape outside blurring into an abstract smear. I felt a dizzying pressure, anchored only by the sheer force of my dread.

“Ah, here are the titans!” Arthur boomed, rising from his chair, completely unaware of the nuclear reaction occurring near his future stepson. “Dmitri, Ivan, perfect timing! We were just about to move to the main dining room.”

The man on the left, Dmitri, allowed his gaze to sweep the room, an expression of blank corporate indifference firmly in place, before his eyes settled squarely on mine. The indifference shattered, replaced by a momentary, terrifying flash of intense recognition and something darker, more possessive. He did not smile, but a slow awareness radiated from him, confirming my deepest fear.

Then my gaze snapped to the second man. The one standing next to him.

He was a perfect mirror. The same commanding height, the same sharp, dominant jaw, the same chilling, mesmerizing gray eyes. Ivan.

Twins. My mother had mentioned twins. I hadn't internalized the complete, crushing truth of duality.

Dmitri and Ivan advanced, their synchronized movement making them appear like a singular, devastating entity.

Arthur gestured toward my paralyzed figure. “Boys, come meet the admirable people joining our family. Eleanor, you know. And this is her thoughtful son, Leo. He is an artist.”

Dmitri’s eyes, the same ones that had demanded my complete surrender in a sterile, high-rise suite, locked onto mine. There was no pretense, no residual shock, only a cold, focused recognition of ownership.

He stopped directly in front of me, his height forcing me to tilt my head back, feeling small and utterly exposed. He did not extend a hand. He simply held my gaze, and the air between us crackled with a silent, forbidden transmission.

Then, he executed a slight, arrogant inclination of his head. “Leo,” he intoned, his voice low and rich, the same demanding rumble from the night before. “A singular pleasure to finally make your formal, and lasting, acquaintance.”

I was incapable of any coherent response. My mind searched for air, for an escape route, for a denial, but found only a choke of sheer, frozen panic.

Ivan stepped smoothly alongside his brother. He offered a practiced, charming smile that failed to reach the cold depths of his eyes. His gaze, an identical twin of Dmitri's, was just as intense, just as knowing.

“The pleasure is a shared experience, Leo,” Ivan purred, extending his hand and closing his fingers around mine before I could retreat, his touch sending a sickening wave of déj

à vu through my body. “Welcome to the family.”