ELENA
Olga's fingers work the laces at my back, pulling them tighter with each tug. The corset presses against my lungs, forcing shallow breaths. The edges of the room blur slightly, like I'm looking through water.
My pulse is slow, and everything feels heavy. My arms hang at my sides like dead weight, and when I try to lift my hand to brush the hair out of my face, it takes three full seconds for my brain to send the command.
I took the pill forty minutes ago, and the relief is starting. My mind is entering the disconnected state I wait for every day.
Olga mutters something in Russian, and Anya, my personal helper as Maxim calls her, steps forward with a pin. She slides it through the seam of the dress, and the sharp point catches my skin.
Anya's hands tremble as she pulls back. "Oh, so sorry, Mrs. Volkov." She only cares because he's watching.
I slowly turn to see the drop of blood on my skin in the reflection of the mirror. It's bright red against the white dress.
I stare at it and know I should feel some type of pain. I should flinch, do something, but I don't. I just watch it like it's happening to someone else.
Anya continues apologizing, her voice frantic, as she wipes it away with a cloth, but the words don't land right. They float around me in the air, my brain unable or unwilling to process them.
"Enough."
Maxim's voice cuts through my fog.
He sits in his velvet chair near the window, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and his cigar in the other.
He's watching me. He's always watching me.
Olga and Anya step back immediately, their hands folded in front of them.
Maxim takes a slow sip of his drink as his pale eyes slide over me, analyzing.
"The necklace," he says, gesturing with the glass. "Change it. Bring the one with emeralds."
Anya scurries to the jewelry box, her hands shaking as she pulls out the heavy emerald collar. They take off the one I'm wearing and fasten it around my throat. It feels heavier than the previous one.
Maxim nods. "Better. Fix her hair. I don't want a single strand out of place."
Olga moves behind me again, her fingers rough as she pins my hair back into an intricate updo. She's rough, but I don't care.
I'm good at this now. The not reacting part. Granted, the pills help. The beatings, I took those, but the pills. That's something that helps make this hell bearable.
Maxim sets his glass down and stands. He adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket and takes a big drag of his cigar.
He looks like a man who owns the world, and given everything, maybe he does.
"This is how I want her to look at the event. Just like this," he says, his voice firm. He then looks at me in the mirror. "We leave for the ambassador summit next week. You will wear this and the other two dresses you tried on when I tell you to. You will wear your hair just like this, and you will be on your best behavior. Do you understand?"
I nod.
"With words."
"Yes, I will be on my best behavior," I say.
"Good. You've been there before, so you'll know what to expect. Though this time you'll be upstairs," he says with a smirk.
It takes me a second, but I remember what he told me the other day. We are going to the Swiss Alps soon.
The chateau.
Not just any, I know now by his comment. He's referring to where they brought me after the crate. After the needle. After everything went dark.