The silence in the room was thick enough to choke on.
Anna sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the soft fabric of the sheets wrinkling beneath her fingers as she gripped them tightly. Her wrists ached where the zip ties had rubbed raw, but she barely noticed the sting. Her mind was racing—thoughts crashing into each other with no clear exit.
Ivan Astra.
She'd heard the name before, though never in a way that felt real. He was a whisper. A myth used to scare people into silence. "The Beast," they called him. A man who owned cities without ever showing his face, whose name was enough to make seasoned men disappear into the ground.
And now… she was in his house. In his room. On his bed.
Her chest rose and fell quickly, panic threatening to push her into another wave of tears—but she blinked them back. She couldn't afford to fall apart. Not here. Not now.
She stood and crept across the carpeted floor, testing the door handle.
Locked.
Of course.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, then turned and scanned the room again, slower this time. The place looked like it had been pulled out of a luxury magazine—tall ceilings, a chandelier dripping with glass, floor-length curtains the color of blood, and furniture that whispered money with every curve.
But it wasn't the beauty she noticed.
It was the control.
Nothing personal. No pictures, no clutter. Even the color scheme—deep charcoal and sharp ivory—was cold. Unforgiving. Like the man who'd just left.
She checked the windows next, parting the heavy curtains. Behind them was thick glass—reinforced, probably. Beyond that, a drop to what looked like a private courtyard. Too far to jump.
No phone. No clock. No way to tell how long she'd been there.
Her stomach turned with quiet dread.
She took a seat at the edge of the chaise by the window and hugged her knees to her chest. Her thoughts kept circling back to the same question: Why her? What had she done? What did Ivan Astra want from a hospital nurse who lived alone and didn't have so much as a parking ticket?
There was a knock.
Soft. Two beats.
Then the door opened.
Anna shot to her feet, her heart slamming against her ribs.
But it wasn't him.
A woman stepped inside—tall, elegant, and stone-faced. Her black dress was crisp, her posture sharper than a knife. She looked like she belonged in a place like this. Controlled. Controlled by him.
She carried a tray.
"Sit," she said, nodding toward the table in the corner. Her voice was flat, accent clipped.
Anna didn't move.
"I'm not hungry," she said carefully.
The woman didn't blink. "He said you'd say that."
Anna hesitated, then crossed her arms. "And what else did he say? That I should be grateful?"
The woman's eyes flicked over her, unreadable. "Eat. Or he will come."
That got her attention.
Anna looked at the tray. Soup. Bread. Water. Simple. No silverware.
She sat slowly.
The woman placed the tray in front of her, then stood by the door like a sentry.
Anna picked up the bread with trembling fingers. She didn't trust the food—but she didn't want to find out what Ivan Astra did to people who refused him, either.
She took a small bite.
Warm. Fresh. Not poisoned, at least not immediately.
"What's your name?" she asked.
The woman didn't answer.
Anna looked up. "You work for him?"
Still nothing.
"He's not a god," she said, sharper now. "You don't have to act like he is."
That got a reaction. A tiny flicker—barely a twitch at the corner of the woman's mouth. Was it pity? Disgust? Amusement?
Before Anna could ask again, the woman turned and left without a word.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Anna stared at it for a long time, chewing slowly, silently. Her throat burned with every swallow, but she kept eating.
If she was going to survive this, she'd need her strength.
Because something told her this wasn't just about being taken.
This was a test.
And Ivan Astra? He was watching.
---
Elsewhere in the mansion...
Ivan stood in front of a large screen, watching her.
Her expressions. Her choices. The way she touched the curtain. The way she barely flinched when she found the door locked. Most women panicked, screamed, broke things. Not her. She was calculating. Wary.
He liked that.
"She didn't scream this time," said the voice beside him. Aleks, his right hand.
"She's adapting."
"She's analyzing," Ivan corrected.
Aleks nodded, but said nothing else.
Ivan kept his arms crossed as he studied her.
Anna Kimberley.
Not chosen at random.
Not a pawn.
She was the daughter of a man he once destroyed—a man who had lied, stolen, betrayed, and vanished. She didn't know that, not yet. She thought she was just a nurse with a quiet life.
But her last name—Kimberley—wasn't always hers. And names had power.
She was a key. To the past. To debts never paid.
To control.
And she was going to learn, in time, that everything in this world had a price.
Especially freedom.
Ivan turned from the screen. "Has she asked for anything?"
Aleks shook his head. "Just questions. No demands."
"She will," Ivan murmured. "Soon."
---
Back in the room, Anna pulled the tray aside and stood.
She wasn't tired, not really, but she lay down on the bed anyway—fully dressed, her shoes still on. The room was too quiet. The silence scratched at her brain like static. She stared at the ceiling, heart still thudding in her chest.
What did he want?
Why her?
And why did the look in his eyes haunt her more than the abduction itself?
He hadn't touched her.
He hadn't even threatened her.
That was the worst part.
He didn't need to.