All Chapters of THE PRICE OF THEIR NAME : Chapter 1 - Chapter 9

The Reckless ExchangeThe bass vibrated against my eardrums and bones. I held my glass of gin, "Sasha," I leaned toward her, shouting to bridge the gap of noise. "Why did we even come here?"Sasha Chen, my best friend and resident free spirit, just flashed a confident smile. "To exist, Leo! It's called existing!" She took a gulp of her cocktail. "Plus, you needed a distraction. Mission: Evict Future-Stepfather Anxiety from Leo's Brain is fully operational!"I let out a breath, my mother, Eleanor Vance, was currently finalizing arrangements for her impending marriage to Arthur Volkov, a name linked with ruthless power and wealth.I wasn't opposed to her happiness, Mom deserved every good thing. But the notion of being yanked into that lifestyle was nerve cracking. All I craved was my quiet studio, my sketchpads, and the sanctuary of my own mind. "I wish I could just disappear," I murmured. "Away from the ceremony, the scrutiny, the... Volkov dynasty."Sasha immediately clutched my arm

The Formal InterrogationLeo VanceThe 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

The Terms of EngagementThe air in my small studio was thick and cold, mirroring the heavy dread settling in my chest. I woke on the couch, my limbs stiff and my mind fuzzy, the expensive cologne from last night still faintly clinging to the threads of my charcoal suit, which lay discarded on the floor. I hadn't even attempted my bed. I'd collapsed right here, a physical attempt to distance myself from the terrifying reality of the Volkov penthouse.It was real. Every cold, demanding moment was real.I dragged myself up, the floorboards complaining beneath my weight. I needed coffee, something hot and bitter, to scour the lingering shame and the unwanted thrill from my memory. I went through the motions—grinding beans, filling the kettle, a pathetic imitation of my normal routine.My phone was charging beside the kettle. As I waited for the water to boil, it vibrated with a text message. A knot tightened in my stomach. It was an unfamiliar number, but my heart instantly recognized the

The WeaknessLeo PovThe library smelled oppressively of aged paper and new, expensive leather, and the scent felt too heavy, too solid for me to breathe properly. We were supposed to be reviewing the final draft of the Thorne Legacy Foundation grant, but the discussion had been hijacked the moment Arthur Volkov stepped out to take a "critical international call." Now, I was the one under critical evaluation.“Functionally, the proposal is sound, Leo,” Ivan stated, dismissing the hundred hours of work with a flick of his wrist as he set the document down. His tone was not critical, but profoundly unimpressed. “But it lacks a certain necessary disclosure. It doesn’t showcase the raw, compelling vulnerability that draws the deepest investment.”I felt the familiar heat of defensive anger. “Vulnerability is not a metric for investment, Ivan. We are seeking professional funding, not sentimental contributions.”Dmitri remained perfectly still in the high-backed leather chair, a statue carv

The Artist's LieLeo PovIt had been four days since I ran out of Volkov Tower. Four days of trying to rebuild the walls of my life, only to find the mortar was crumbling, poisoned by shame and obsession. I was back in my studio in DUMBO, a vast, messy space overlooking the bridge, but the familiar grit and dust of my working life felt alien. The air here was supposed to be cleaner, yet all I could smell was the faint, lingering trace of Dmitri’s cologne clinging to the cuff of the shirt I’d worn that night.My latest canvas was supposed to be an architectural study of the bridge supports—solid, grounded, objective, but it was a disaster. I stood back, scrubbing my hands clean of the charcoal, and stared at the mess. I hadn't been painting; I had been fighting. Every frantic brushstroke was an attempt to overwrite the memories of the twins, but instead, I kept seeing their faces, their cold, identical gray eyes mocking my struggle.The worst part—the part that made me punch the canvas