บททั้งหมดของ MINE TO OWN : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Zane had learned not to ask questions. Not because he lacked them—he had plenty. But because the answers never came from mouths. They came from silence. They came in riddles. From the flash of a glance. The shuffle of footsteps. The shift of weight in a room. That morning, the house was louder. The air smelled of ironed suits, imported perfume, and nerves. Something was happening. And by midday, Zane found himself standing at the edge of the second floor gallery, looking down at the great hall where staff rearranged chairs and rolled out thick rugs over the marble floor. Andrei’s men moved like a machine—efficient, quiet, unthinking. Joana drifted beside him without warning. She leaned over the rail beside him, a porcelain cup balanced delicately in her hand. “They’re setting up for a private summit,” she whispered. Zane didn’t look at her. “More delegates?” Joana sipped her drink. “Anastasiya brought leverage. Katherina wants to keep hers. Andrei will play both until they b

It began with a knock. Not a guard. Not a servant. But Mikhail. He stood outside Zane’s door like a monument of war. His expression was unreadable, his voice clipped. “You’re wanted.” Zane didn’t ask where. He didn’t need to. He followed. They walked in silence through corridors that twisted like veins—passing tapestries of that reeked of old wealth, past doors that held screams and secrets behind them. The room they entered was underground. Cold, wide and lit by a circle of overhead lights that made the shadows look alive. Zane had been in this house for almost a month now, but the majesty and beauty and wonder the ancient building held within its walls still left him in awe. This was the life these horrible people were accustomed to... 'why them?' He wondered. 'Why did they get to have this life and not him?' His reverie was disrupted and he was brought back to reality by the sight of a man that knelt in the center of the room. Hands bound. Head bowed. Blood dripping down his

Zane started small. He didn’t interrogate. He didn’t demand. How could he? He had no power, no real power. Not yet. He watched. The servants moved on instinct—silent, habitual. They cleaned, they delivered, they vanished. Some barely looked at him. Others bowed with clipped greetings. One even dropped a tray when Zane entered the corridor. That one—her name was Karina. He remembered because she wore a bracelet with initials engraved into it. He followed her first. From a distance. She didn’t lead him anywhere unusual. Kitchen. Courtyard. Linen closets. But she looked over her shoulder too often. Flinched at sudden noise. And one afternoon, she didn’t show up at all. She was gone. When Zane asked the older cook where Karina had gone, the woman just said, “Gone. Not here. Quietly done.” Her Russian accent heavy on each word. Zane didn’t press. Because pressing got people killed. That night, a folded note appeared under his door. Don’t look for ghosts. They always find you f

The estate didn’t sleep. It never really did. And Zane had learned to listen to the silence. But now, what he heard was… absence. One of the guards—a lean man named Yuri, always stationed near the cellar—wasn’t at his post. At breakfast, no one spoke of it. But the seat at the staff table stayed empty. Zane found Joana in the library. She was seated cross-legged on the floor, painting directly onto an ancient looking scroll. The ink bled into shapes that looked suspiciously like Andrei’s silhouette. “Yuri is gone,” Zane said. Joana didn’t pause. “Then Yuri was useful to someone else.” “Gone like Karina?” Joana’s smile flickered, hollow. “Gone like anyone who gets careless.” Zane crouched. “Tell me something real for once.” She looked at him, really looked. And for a moment, Zane saw something move behind her eyes. Grief or maybe memory. “Andrei trusted someone once,” she said. “A boy. Not from here. Not born into this. But strong. Sharp. Beautiful... not as beautiful as

They released Zane at dawn. No words. No warning. Just cold hands unlocking chains. His legs barely worked and the ground shifted under him like a ship at sea. But he didn’t fall. He wouldn’t give them that. He walked out of that cellar only a ghost of his former self. He felt different and not just in his body— that was barely holding on—but in his spirit, his very soul. His anger, his rage, had taken a life of its own and he was just a vessel harbouring it, a riffle loaded, waiting to open fire. Back upstairs, the estate was warm again. The hallways smelled of cinnamon and cedar. Servants smiled too brightly. As if nothing had happened. As if the cage hadn’t swallowed him whole. He passed no guards on the way to his room. But someone had left a black shirt and pants on his bed. A bowl of fruit. A note. "Dress. Meet me downstairs." — A.D. Zane stared at the paper for a long time, but his mind was somewhere far, somewhere dark, somewhere where his humanity did not exist—only