Chapter 90: The Secret Meeting

The kitchen of the Volkov mansion was the only place that ever felt alive, but even that was a stretch. It smelled of rosemary and roasted garlic, a sharp contrast to the cold, scentless hallways of the rest of the house. I sat at the small breakfast nook, picking at a piece of toast I didn't want.

I looked at the clock. 10:15 AM.

Viktor and Nikolai were in the study, arguing over guest lists for the gala. I could hear the low rumble of their voices through the floorboards. To anyone else, it was just the sound of brothers working. To me, it was the sound of my cage being reinforced.

I have to do it today, I thought, my fingers trembling under the table. If I don't do it now, there won't be another chance.

In my pocket, a small scrap of paper felt like it was burning a hole through my jeans. I had written it late last night, huddled under my covers with a flashlight. It didn't say much—just a plea for help and a phone number I remembered from a better time.

The back doorbell rang. It was a sharp, piercing sound that made me jump.

"I'll get it!" I shouted, standing up too fast. My chair scraped against the tile, sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"Leo?" Nikolai’s voice drifted down from the stairs. "Where are you going?"

I froze. I could see him leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking tired but alert.

"It’s just the grocery delivery," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "The chef is in the pantry. I thought I’d help."

Nikolai stepped down a few more stairs, his eyes narrowing. "We have staff for that, Leo. You should be resting. You looked pale this morning."

"I'm fine, Nikolai. I just want to feel useful. Please? It’s just boxes of fruit and water."

I tried to look annoyed, not scared. If he saw the fear, he’d know. He stared at me for a long beat, his hand gripping the banister.

"Fine," he said finally. "But don't lift anything heavy. And don't stay out there too long. The air is damp today."

I didn't wait for him to change his mind. I hurried toward the service entrance. Through the heavy glass door, I saw a young guy in a green uniform. He was leaning against a white van, looking at his phone. He looked normal. He looked like someone who lived in a world where people didn't have iron gates and armed guards.

I opened the door, and the cool air hit my face. It felt amazing.

"Hey," the driver said, straightening up. "Got a big one for you today. Lots of crates."

"I can help," I said, stepping onto the loading dock.

I looked back over my shoulder. The hallway was empty, but I knew there were cameras. I had to be fast. I grabbed a small crate of oranges and walked it toward the kitchen counter, passing right by the driver.

"Busy house," the guy muttered, wheeling a dolly inside. "Must be a lot of work keeping this place running."

"It's a prison," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

The driver stopped. He looked at me, really looked at me. "What was that?"

I felt my heart racing. This was it. I reached into my pocket and felt the paper.

"Listen to me," I said, my voice barely a breath. I leaned over a box of apples, pretending to check the label. "I need you to take something. Please. Don't let the cameras see."

The guy looked nervous now. He glanced toward the security hub at the end of the drive. "Kid, I just deliver the food. I don't want any trouble."

"Please," I felt tears stinging my eyes, and I hated it. I didn't want to beg, but I didn't have a choice. "They won't let me leave. Just take the note. Drop it in a mailbox. Anywhere. Just away from here."

I saw his hand hesitate. He was a kid, maybe only five years older than me. He looked at the mansion, then at the bruised look on my face.

"Okay," he whispered. "Quickly."

I faked a stumble, dropping a bag of flour. As he reached down to help me pick it up, I pressed the folded scrap of paper into his palm. I felt his fingers close over it. He tucked it into his glove in one smooth motion.

"Leo!"

Viktor was standing in the doorway. He wasn't smiling. He walked toward us, his footsteps heavy and rhythmic. He looked at the driver, then at me, then at the spilled flour on the floor.

"What's going on here?" Viktor asked. He stepped between me and the driver, his presence taking up all the space in the room.

"I dropped something," I said, wiping my hands on my pants. I felt sick. "He was just helping me."

Viktor turned to the driver. His eyes were cold, calculating. "Is that all he was doing? Helping?"

The driver nodded quickly, his face turning red. "Yes, sir. Just a spill. I'm almost done here."

Viktor reached out and gripped the driver’s shoulder. It looked like a friendly gesture, but I saw the way the man’s jacket bunched up under Viktor’s strength. "We appreciate the hard work. But my brother is a bit clumsy. He doesn't need to be out here. Go on, Leo. Go back to your room."

"I was just—"

"Now, Leo," Viktor’s voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a request.

I looked at the driver one last time. He gave me a tiny, almost invisible nod. He moved back to his van, his movements hurried.

I walked past Viktor, my head down. I felt his eyes on my back the whole way. I didn't stop until I reached my bedroom and locked the door. I leaned against the wood, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

He has it. He actually has it.

I went to the window and watched the white van drive down the long, winding path. I watched it pass the gates and disappear into the trees.

For the first time in months, I felt a tiny spark of hope. It was a small thing, a piece of paper in a delivery driver's pocket, but it was a bridge. I had finally reached out. Now, all I could do was wait and see if anyone would reach back.

"Please," I whis

pered to the glass. "Please don't lose it."