Evelina's room was swallowed by silence, broken only by the sound of her ragged sobs. She had cried until her throat ached, until her eyes burned red and swollen. Her whole body trembled—not just from the fever that lingered after her collapse in the bath, but from the heaviness of Kairo's words still clinging to her skin like a poison.
I've been watching you for years.
The revelation would not leave her mind. Every shadow now seemed to hold the weight of his grey eyes. Every memory of her past felt contaminated, rewritten by the knowledge that he had been there, unseen, claiming pieces of her life that had never been his to take.
But crying alone was not enough. Evelina's mind raced feverishly, desperate for something—anything—that could give her the illusion of control. Her body was weak, but her spirit still clawed against the invisible bars that caged her. And in her desperation, a plan began to form.
If she could not escape the mansion physically, perhaps she could lure in someone who could help her. Someone from the outside.
So Evelina pressed her hand to her forehead, let her body slump heavier against the mattress, and forced her breaths to come in shallow, dramatic gasps. Her fever was real, but slight. She could turn it into a weapon if she pretended it had consumed her. Perhaps if Kairo believed she was truly ill, he would summon help. Perhaps she could beg for mercy from another human being—someone who was not shackled to his cold, merciless control.
She lay there for hours, trembling, moaning softly, letting her tears wet the pillow. Every sound was deliberate, calculated. She hated herself for playing the role of the weak, fragile doll, but what other choice did she have?
At last, she heard the faint creak of the surveillance screen activating on the other side of the wall. She knew Kairo was watching.
Moments later, the door opened. His footsteps entered first—measured, confident, the sound of a man who never rushed because he never needed to. He approached the bed, his presence filling the air like smoke. Evelina forced her body to curl tighter, her eyelids fluttering as though she were barely conscious.
Kairo stood over her, silent for a moment, studying her with those unblinking eyes. Then he leaned down, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek.
"You burn," he murmured. The softness in his tone was worse than cruelty. It made her chest tighten.
Without another word, he pulled out his phone, his voice low but commanding as he spoke in Russian. Evelina caught only fragments, but it was enough: he was calling for a doctor.
Her heart leapt. This was her chance.
---
The doctor arrived less than an hour later. Evelina heard the shuffle of footsteps in the hall, the rustle of a leather bag being set down. Her pulse raced with hope. She could already imagine herself whispering, Please help me. Please, get me out.
But when the door opened, her fragile dream began to crack.
The man who entered was not a stranger untouched by Kairo's influence. He was middle-aged, his posture neat, his expression sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. He bowed his head slightly toward Kairo before glancing at Evelina with a look that was not curiosity, nor sympathy—but loyalty. The kind that was absolute.
Kairo stood beside the bed, his arms crossed as though he were the one orchestrating a play. "She's been unwell," he said simply. "Check her."
The doctor nodded, moving forward with practiced calm. Evelina tried to sit up, to look him in the eye, but her body betrayed her, shaking from weakness and from fear. Still, she whispered hoarsely, "P… please…"
The doctor placed his bag on the nightstand and opened it with precise movements. "Mrs. Volkov," he said, his tone formal, almost detached. "Let's see what is troubling you."
The name hit her like a slap, but she bit her tongue, desperate not to react. She clung to the fragile thread of hope that he might still hear her plea.
He checked her pulse, her temperature, shining a small light into her eyes. His touch was clinical, efficient. Evelina tried to catch his gaze, her lips trembling as she whispered again, "Help me… please. Get me out of here. He's—he's keeping me—"
But the doctor didn't flinch. He didn't even glance at Kairo for instruction. His voice remained steady, unmoved.
"Mrs. Volkov," he said quietly, "the more you pretend, the more you will sink. Better for you to live in reality."
Her heart dropped into her stomach. Her lips parted in shock, but no words came out. He knew. He knew she was pretending. And he wasn't going to help her.
Kairo's shadow loomed beside her, silent, patient.
The doctor straightened, removing a small bottle of pills from his bag. He set them on the nightstand with a soft clink. "You have a slight fever," he continued, his voice the same neutral cadence as before. "It is nothing serious. Continue these medicines. Rest. Drink water. You will recover."
Evelina stared at him, disbelief and horror clawing at her chest. She wanted to scream at him, to demand why, to shake him until he admitted that he could see her suffering. But she didn't move. Because she already knew the truth: this man wasn't here for her. He was here for Kairo.
Every doctor he trusted, every servant who walked these halls—they all belonged to him. Just as she did.
Kairo's lips curved faintly as he picked up the bottle of pills, weighing it in his hand. "You see, Evelina?" His voice was smooth, amused. "Even your body betrays your lies. A fever, yes. But death's door? Hardly."
She turned her face away from him, shame burning hotter than her fever. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall in front of him.
The doctor packed his bag neatly, bowed once more toward Kairo, and left without another glance at her. The door shut softly behind him, and the silence that followed was unbearable.
Kairo remained by her bed, watching her as though she were the most fascinating puzzle. He set the bottle of pills on the nightstand and leaned down, his lips close to her ear.
"Do you understand now?" he whispered. "Even your performances cannot free you. I will always know when you lie."
Evelina's breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the earth would swallow her whole.
He chuckled softly, standing upright again. "Take your medicine, Evelina. Rest. Cry if you must. But remember—every tear, every sigh, every trick you attempt, I am here. I have always been here."
He walked to the door, his hand resting on the knob, and for a brief moment, Evelina thought he would leave. But then he turned his head, grey eyes glinting under the dim light.
"Pretend all you want," he said, his voice low, final. "But when the act is over, you will always return to me."
And with that, he left the room.
---
Evelina lay motionless on the bed, her heart pounding in her ears. The bottle of pills sat on the nightstand, a symbol of her failure. She had thought she could outwit him, that her weakness could become her weapon. But instead, her attempt had only proved how deeply his control ran.
Even the doctor had called her Mrs. Volkov. Even he had reminded her to live in a reality that wasn't hers to choose.
Her tears slipped silently down her cheeks, and for the first time, she wondered if the only reality left to her was the one Kairo carved with his hands.
To be continued...