Evening at the Volkov mansion was unlike any other. Usually, a majestic silence, saturated with the scent of cigars and mystery, wrapped around the corridors of this great edifice. But tonight, the air was heavy with something entirely different. It wasn't fear, and it wasn't a threat; it was an intoxicating blend of anticipation and a "devotion" that bordered on madness.
In the East Wing, Ayla stood before the full-length mirror, contemplating her reflection. She didn't see the broken girl who had emerged from the orphanage, nor the victim tattooed by compulsion. What she saw was a princess crowned upon the throne of a man who saw nothing in the universe but her. The dress Alexander had chosen for her was not an "offering," as she had previously imagined. Instead, it was a masterpiece of dark blue velvet silk—a color rivaling the depth of oceans—designed specifically to embrace her skin gently, revealing only enough to stir the imagination with a sacred respect.
The door opened quietly, and Alexander entered. He didn't burst into the room as was his custom; rather, he entered as if stepping into a sanctuary. His grey eyes, which she was used to seeing filled with storms of anger and control, were now shining with a completely different look... a look of emotional "hunger" mixed with childish wonder, as if he couldn't believe this beauty was a tangible reality.
He approached her slowly, and Ayla's breath hitched in her chest. She didn't feel fear, but rather that strange turbulence that had begun to grow in her vitals whenever he drew near—a feeling of paradoxical safety. He stood behind her, and his large, warm hands rested on her bare shoulders, not to press down cruelly, but to draw warmth from them.
"Do you know, Ayla..." his resonant voice whispered near her ear, a voice devoid of any commanding tone, filled only with reverence, "sometimes I fear to blink, lest you disappear. Your beauty tonight is painful... so painful that I want to hide you from the entire world, even from mirrors."
Ayla tilted her head back slightly, leaning involuntarily against his solid chest. "Alexander... is Sofia alright? Will I really see her?"
Alexander turned her gently to face him, raising his hand to brush his thumb against her cheek with the softness of rose petals. "She will be here in minutes. Ivan... well, Ivan treats her like a rare perfume bottle he fears the breeze might break. Do not worry about her; she is in absolute safety, just as you are with me."
There was no mockery in his voice. He was sincere. Alexander Volkov, the emperor everyone feared, saw his protection of Ayla as a sacred duty, and his possession of her was not enslavement, but a comprehensive sanctuary.
The Arrival of the Lover and His Shadow
In the main hall, the massive doors swung open. Ivan's black car pulled in, but this time, the stern bodyguard didn't just step out. Ivan exited first and hurried to open the back door himself, acting like a devoted servant to the queen of his heart.
He extended his hand inside, and Sofia emerged.
Ayla gasped as she watched from the top of the marble staircase beside Alexander. Sofia looked stunning, but in a different way. She wore a soft, peach-colored gown, long and modest, with her hair styled with meticulous care. But what caught Ayla's attention wasn't her appearance; it was the way Ivan moved around her.
Ivan encircled her with his arm without touching her forcefully, as if creating an invisible shield around her. He watched her steps, nudging an uneven rug edge with his foot before she reached it. His blue eyes never left her face for a moment, filled with the anxiety of a lover and the obsession of an adorer who saw his beloved as the center of the universe.
"Sofia!" Ayla called out with a trembling voice, running down the stairs.
No one stopped her. Alexander remained standing, watching with a calm smile, while Ivan paused, making a bit of space, though his eyes remained fixed on Sofia with clear possessiveness.
The two friends met in the middle of the hall and embraced tightly. It wasn't a desperate embrace, but one of overwhelming longing.
"Ayla... Oh my God, you look wonderful," Sofia whispered, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Does he treat you well?"
Ayla stepped back slightly to scan her friend's face. "I'm fine, Sofia... believe me, he is... he is different from what we thought. And you?"
Sofia looked back toward Ivan, who stood with majestic stillness, but his features softened the moment his eyes met hers. Sofia gave a small, shy, and reassuring smile. "Ivan... he doesn't leave me for a moment, Ayla. He brushes my hair, chooses my food, reads to me before bed... He is obsessed with me to a frightening degree, but... he hasn't hurt me with a single word. He treats me as if I am the only sacred thing in his life."
Dinner Under the Gaze of Wolves
They moved to the royal dining room. The table was set with the finest dishes, and candles provided a warm, intimate atmosphere. Alexander sat at the head of the table, with Ayla to his right. Ivan sat opposite them, with Sofia beside him, nothing separating them.
Dinner was not a display of power, but a display of excessive care.
Ayla noticed that Alexander wasn't eating so much as he was watching her. He cut the meat into small pieces for her, placing the best portions on her plate, watching every bite she took with satisfied eyes, as if he were feeding off the sight of her eating.
"You must eat more, my flower," Alexander whispered, filling her glass with fresh juice. "Your face still needs some color... and I will not allow any exhaustion to come near you."
On the opposite side, the scene was even more pronounced. Ivan hardly touched his plate. He was entirely occupied with Sofia. He wiped the corner of her mouth with a silk napkin before it could get soiled, whispering faint Russian words to her that made Sofia's cheeks flush with shyness.
"Are you cold, 'Anya'?" Ivan asked in a deep voice, using a Russian diminutive. "The air conditioning might be too strong for you."
"I'm fine, Ivan, really," Sofia replied softly, placing her small hand over his massive one resting on the table. Ivan froze for a moment at her touch, then turned his hand over to interlock his fingers with hers very gently, as if she were his lifeline.
Silence reigned for a moment, but it wasn't an awkward silence. It was a silence saturated with intense emotions. These men, who ruled empires of money and influence, were just helpless lovers at this table before their women, trying to express their love the only way they knew how: possession, overprotection, and infinite giving.
Suddenly, Sofia sighed deeply, and a fleeting cloud of sadness appeared in her eyes as she looked at Ayla.
Ivan caught that look immediately. His body tensed, and he leaned toward her with genuine concern. "What is it? Did something upset you? Did you not like the food? I'll fire the chef immediately if—"
"No, no, Ivan!" Sofia interrupted quickly, squeezing his hand. "The food is delicious, and you are wonderful... It's just... I missed Ayla. We haven't been apart a single day since childhood, and sleeping alone... or away from her, still makes me feel lonely despite your presence."
Ivan looked into her slightly withered eyes and felt a pang wrenching his hardened heart. He wanted her for himself alone; he wanted to be her world, her morning, and her evening. But he could not bear to see a shred of sadness in her eyes.
Ivan raised his head and looked at Alexander. A silent dialogue passed between the two men—the language of eyes that only they understood. Ivan's gaze held a rare request, a difficult concession for a man of his pride.
Ivan cleared his throat, breaking the silence with his resonant voice, directing his words to Alexander, though his eyes never left Sofia.
"Alexander... I think the girls need some time."
Alexander raised an eyebrow in slight disapproval, his hand instinctively tightening on Ayla's under the table. "What do you mean? They are together now."
"I mean real time," Ivan continued seriously, his voice carrying a hidden note of plea. "Sofia is sad. And I cannot stand to see sadness in her eyes. She needs Ayla tonight... and perhaps for several nights. I suggest we let them sleep together in the East Wing."
Ayla and Sofia froze, looking at each other with unbelievable hope.
But Alexander didn't seem happy. His eyes narrowed, and a frown appeared on his handsome face. The idea of Ayla sleeping away from his arms, even if in the next room, drove him mad. He was addicted to her breath beside him, addicted to her warmth, and addicted to watching her sleep every night to ensure she was real and not a dream that would vanish.
"Impossible," Alexander replied coldly, the tone of possessiveness dripping from his voice. "Ayla sleeps where I sleep. Their place is beside us."
"Alexander..." Ayla whispered, and for the first time, she found the courage to squeeze his hand and look into his eyes with soft pleading. "Please... I missed her too. We haven't talked like girls in a long time. And we won't run away, I swear to you... We are in your palace, under your protection."
Alexander looked into her wide eyes and saw that spark of hope. A violent internal conflict raged behind his mask of coldness. His dark side wanted to lock her in his chest forever; his lover side was ready to burn the world to see her smile.
Alexander sighed deeply, as if surrendering his weapon. He looked at Ivan and nodded slowly.
"Fine," Alexander said in a husky voice, as if the word came out with difficulty. "But on one condition."