Chapter 33: The Secret Savings

The desperate resolve to run—to sacrifice my own life for Mom’s peace—was a cold, hard stone in my chest. The tears from the breakdown were dry now, leaving my skin feeling tight and raw. I had the will to go. Now, I needed the impossible: resources.

I couldn’t just walk out with the clothes on my back. I needed a train ticket, maybe three nights in a cheap motel far enough away that the Volkovs couldn't sweep the city in an hour.

My mind was clear now, running on pure, terrified adrenaline. Where? Where did I hide anything before the takeover?

I started the frantic search in the only space I could call my own: the massive walk-in closet they had assigned me. It was filled with beautiful, tailored coats and luxurious sweaters. I ripped through the pockets, feeling nothing but expensive silk linings. The clothes were a costume, and the closet was a display case.

I moved to the desk again. I found the leather box from the night before, the one with the small allowance. It held three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. A meaningless offering in this world of private jets and billion-dollar deals.

My mind started screaming at me. Think, Leo! The gallery! The old place!

Before the Volkovs, I had lived and worked in a tiny, chaotic studio apartment above the gallery. When Dmitri had insisted I move into the Residence, I had only taken personal artwork and clothing. The rest—the debris of my failed independence—had been boxed up and put into storage, supposedly "at my convenience."

I pulled out the tablet the twins had given me—the highly encrypted one that Ivan used for our communications. I knew it was monitored, but I needed information fast. I tapped out a message to the Residence staff coordinator.

Leo Vance: I need the location of the storage unit containing my gallery archives. The one where my personal boxes were moved.

I stared at the screen, heart hammering, expecting the response to be blocked or rerouted to Dmitri's security team.

But the response came instantly, cold and automated.

Volkov Estate Services: The unit is ID V-44. Located at 55th Street Climate Vault. Access requires your biometric signature, which has been pre-authorized. We have initiated the access process for your arrival at 03:00 tomorrow.

My mind was paralyzed. They didn't block it. They anticipated it. They were so confident in their security that they allowed me access to my own pathetic past. The humiliation of their silent permission burned hotter than any denied command.

I don't have time for tomorrow.

I typed back, desperate: I need the access codes now. I will go tonight.

Volkov Estate Services: Access codes are not used. Mr. Volkov insisted on biometrics for your protection. The unit is being prepared for your arrival at the scheduled time. A driver will be dispatched.

I threw the tablet onto the bed. It landed silently on the thick duvet. Trapped. Every door, every window, every file was secured.

I started tearing through the room again, ignoring the expensive furniture, desperate to find anything hidden before the Volkovs came into my life.

I remembered a small, old, wooden box I used to keep under my mattress—a small emergency fund for when the gallery was completely dry.

I rushed to the heavy, king-sized bed, threw off the custom-made silk bedding, and hauled the massive mattress up. It was heavy, too heavy for me to lift easily. Panting, I finally saw the space beneath the frame.

There, tucked deep into the corner, was the box. It was a cheap, stained wooden cigar box I had found years ago.

I pulled it out, my hands shaking so violently I almost dropped it. This was it. The last bastion of my financial independence. I fumbled with the latch and snapped it open.

Inside, there was a tiny, faded velvet bag. I upended it onto the rug.

A few old coins. A sentimental movie ticket stub. And four twenty-dollar bills, worn soft from years of storage. Eighty dollars.

I stared at the two bills, my mind absolutely blank. Eighty dollars. Enough for maybe three hours on a bus heading nowhere, or a meal that wouldn't make me sick.

My mind was instantly assaulted by a memory of Dmitri. We were sitting in his office, signing documents for the 'Sculpture' contract.

Dmitri's Voice (Memory, cold but clear): "Leo, we need absolute certainty on capital. Your previous accountant was... sloppy. We've shut down all peripheral accounts. It's safer if all operating funds flow through the core Volkov structure. It's for efficiency. Don't worry about the small details."

And another memory, this one of Ivan, during one of his manipulative, probing conversations about my history.

Ivan's Voice (Memory, amused): "You lived off of nothing, Leo. That desperate frugality—it was admirable. But so exhausting. Do you really feel safer with eighty dollars hidden under a mattress, or with ten billion securing your name? Choose permanence, Leo. It's far less tiring."

I felt the immense, terrifying weight of their planning. They didn't miss this box. They simply allowed it to remain, a pathetic monument to my previous struggle. They left it because they knew it was useless. They knew that eighty dollars was a joke in their world, and that the sight of it would crush my last shred of hope.

I picked up the worn bills, crushing them in my fist. The crushing realization was this: I wasn't just broke. I was financially nullified. They had absorbed my debt, my future, and my ability to sustain myself. My financial dependency was total, absolute, and designed to prevent exactly this moment.

My mind was a terrifying mix of defeat and rage. I slumped back against the bed, letting out a heavy, rattling breath.

"Eighty dollars," I whispered to the empty, quiet room. "I can't even get out of the state with this."

The logical part of my brain screamed: Stop. It’s impossible. You will be found and humiliated within hours.

But the emotional part of my brain, the part still burning with the memory of Mom’s trusting face, countered: It doesn't matter. The money is irrelevant. You run because you have to break the lie. You run because if you are found, at least she will know you tried to save her.

The despair was so heavy it felt like I was drowning, but the resolve to protect Mom was the only oxygen left. I would run with eighty dollars and an antique cigar box. It was pathetic, but it was the only weapon I had left.

I stood up, moving toward the closet, not toward the beautiful, new suits, but toward the corner where I had shoved the ugly, worn-out gym bag—the only piece of luggage that wasn't registered with the Volkov inventory system.

The plan w

as foolish, desperate, and imminent.