Serena Kosta
Chrome Echo

Prologue

The vernissage was her triumph. Her last.

The “L’Art et L’Âme” gallery hummed, a low vibration, like a harp string stretched taut, seconds from snapping—anxiety masked as anticipation. The air was thick, almost tangible: Veuve Clicquot hissing with bubbles of vanity; expensive perfumes—clouds of Chanel No. 5, heavy trails of Tom Ford, sharp hits of oud—twisting into a suffocating cocoon. And above it all, the scent of success, thin as gunpowder before the shot. It always smelled the same: tanned leather from new shoes and the printer’s ink on fresh euros.

Olivia Duran glided through this crowd—bankers with waxy faces polished by Botox to an inhuman sheen; collectors with hungry eyes and nervous fingers instinctively reaching for frames; art critics whose jaws simultaneously ground canapés and reputations. She moved with the measured grace of a ballerina in a minefield—the proprietress, whose control over this small world was absolute.

Every detail was subjugated. The sculptures stood with the precision of surgical instruments. The Sancerre breathed at a perfect eight degrees. The light—warm velvet on the walls, an icy blade on the metal—sculpted drama from the shadows.

She wasn't just the owner. She was the main exhibit. A flawless installation titled, Olivia Duran, Thirty-Four, Absolute Success.

Cold perfection.

And she didn't know that in twenty minutes—or was it an eternity?—a hammer would strike that perfection. Methodically. Ruthlessly. With the quiet triumph of an expert discovering a masterful fake beneath a layer of varnish.

He appeared from nowhere. Or rather, from her blind spot—that space to her right and rear where the brain stops registering threats.

Amidst the colorful, animated crowd, he was an island of absolute stillness. A sculpture of flesh. His impeccably tailored dark suit—not black, but something deeper: the color of wet asphalt, of a starless midnight—seemed less like clothing and more like a second skin, stretched taut over danger.

He held no glass. He wasn't speaking. He wasn't pretending to study the art.

He simply stood by her centerpiece—an abstract sculpture of intertwined chromed-metal ribbons titled Echo—and looked.

Not at the sculpture.

At his reflection in it.

Olivia caught him with her peripheral vision—that special radar a gallerist develops to distinguish a serious buyer from a tourist. This man radiated money. Old money, the kind that didn't announce itself. Dangerous money.

She moved toward him, activating her professional smile. The one that sold Rothkos and Giacomettis to the most skeptical clients.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” she began, her voice modulated to the room's acoustics. “The artist wanted to explore the idea of how the world is reflected in us, and we in the world. The concept of the mirror as—”

The man slowly turned his head.

And the smile froze on her lips. Froze. Cracked.

He was nothing like the other guests. Nothing at all.

His eyes—the color of the Mediterranean in January, when the water takes on that specific, deadened shade of green—held no idle collector’s curiosity. No greed. Nothing human.

They held an intensity, almost physical, like the pressure before a thunderstorm. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking through her, seeing something invisible to the rest. An x-ray of the soul.

“You’re mistaken,” he said.

His voice was low, quiet, yet it sliced through the room’s hum like a scalpel through tissue. The French was flawless, but with a barely perceptible accent. Not Parisian. Southern. Marseillais, perhaps. From where words are meant to cut.

“I’m sorry?” Olivia blinked, thrown. People did not interrupt her during a pitch. Ever.

“It doesn’t reflect the world,” he continued, gaze fixed on the gleaming metal. His fingers tensed—barely perceptible, but Olivia caught it—as if physically restraining himself from touching it. “It absorbs it. The light. The sound. The people. And it shows not a reflection, but its own, ruthless essence.”

He paused. His gaze slid over the metal curves like a hand on a lover’s body.

“This isn’t an echo. It’s a perfect cage. So beautiful, the victim enters it willingly.”

His words struck her like a blast of the icy mistral off the sea.

A cage.

No one had ever spoken that way about her favorite piece. A sculpture she had chosen as the manifesto of her philosophy: beauty as defense, form as content, steel as a metaphor for control.

He wasn’t talking about the art.

He was talking about her.

“An interesting choice for a centerpiece, Madame Duran,” he added, and now his gaze locked onto hers. Green ice. Arctic. “Such flawless, polished beauty. And so fragile. One wrong strike—and the reflection shatters into a thousand shards. You know what happens to broken mirrors, don't you? Seven years of misfortune. Or seven lives. Depends on how you count.”

Olivia froze.

He knew her name.

She had not introduced herself.

Her instincts—the ones that warned her of market crashes, forged certificates, and clients who wouldn't pay—screamed an alarm. Adrenaline seared her veins.

He noticed her reaction.

And smiled.

Barely perceptible. Like a predator catching the scent of fear. Like a sommelier identifying a perfect vintage. Like a master seeing the first chisel-strike land exactly as planned.

“Your father understood the fragility of beautiful things, Madame Duran.” He took one step closer. One. But it was enough to make the air between them dense. “Jacques Duran was a genius at destroying what seemed unbreachable. He taught me an important lesson: the most valuable things don’t break all at once. They must be taken apart. Slowly. With pleasure. Like dismantling a mechanical watch—screw by screw, spring by spring—until nothing is left but a pile of metal, incapable of telling time.”

His voice dropped, becoming quieter. More intimate. Deadlier.

“With relish.”

A cold dread—not a chill, but recognition—slid down Olivia’s spine. Her reptilian brain, that ancient part responsible for survival, screamed: Run.

But her legs wouldn't obey.

Her father. He was talking about her father. Jacques Duran had died three years ago, leaving behind a real estate empire, lawsuits, a long list of enemies, and a daughter who had spent her life trying to prove she was not him. That beauty could exist without brutality. That one could build something without destroying.

And now, the past had materialized into a man in a midnight-dark suit, staring at her with eyes the color of a drowned sea.

“You… you knew my father?” she forced out, struggling to maintain her professional calm. Her voice almost didn't tremble. Almost.

“I knew him.” He looked back at the sculpture, as if seeing something in it the rest couldn't. A blueprint. A plan. A prophecy. “He taught me that beauty is the best camouflage for cruelty. That the most dangerous cages are made of gold and crystal. And that the people who build such cages for others always forget to build an exit for themselves.”

He turned to her one last time.

There was something ancient in his gaze, patient, inevitable. The stare of a glacier that moves a millimeter a year but flattens mountains in the end.

“He destroyed something very precious to me, Madame Duran. Something that cannot be bought, restored, or replaced. And now, I am here to remind you of a simple truth: debts are always collected. Sometimes in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes, generations later.”

His gaze slid over her face, lingering on her hands, which were clutching the exhibition catalog so tightly her knuckles were white.

“You have his eyes.” A pause. “And his arrogance.” Another, heavier pause. “I wonder, did you inherit anything else? His talent for destruction, perhaps. Or his inability to see consequences until they’re ripping your throat out.”

She wanted to object. She wanted to call security—Laurent, who was always by the entrance, massive, reliable. She wanted to scream that he was insane, that this was harassment, that she would call the police.

But her throat was suddenly desert-dry, as if someone had siphoned all the moisture from it. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

And he, as if his mission were complete—a sculptor adding the final, defining stroke—gave a barely perceptible nod and simply dissolved into the crowd.

Soundlessly. Like smoke. As if he had never been there at all.

Olivia remained standing alone before her gleaming sculpture.

The sound of the vernissage rushed back in—laughter, clinking glasses, music—but it now seemed distant and false, the soundtrack to a film she had not chosen to watch.

Her triumph was poisoned.

She looked at Echo, and for the first time, she saw not beauty, but what the stranger had said: a brilliant, perfect cage. Bars made of light. A lock made of reflections.

And her own face, distorted in the chrome surface—a multitude of Olivias, staring back at her from parallel realities, and all of them looked terrified.

She was overcome by an inexplicable fear.

The fear was physical—a cold pit in her stomach, a weight in her lungs, the taste of metal on her tongue. The fear of prey that has just realized a predator walked through its home, marked its territory, and left, leaving only a scent behind.

Ozone before a thunderstorm.

And a warning, ringing in the silence of her terrified thoughts like a tolling bell in a fog:

He will come back.

Chapter 1. The Chrome Echo

The sun of southern France was a generous lover—obsessive, sweltering, refusing all denial.

It flooded the square in front of the “L’Art et L’Âme” gallery with gold, making the ancient stones of l'Écusson glow from within, as if the city remembered all of its eight hundred years and wanted to share the light. Tourists in shorts, smelling of sunscreen, photographed the fountains. Somewhere, a street violin played—Paganini, technical but soulless.

Olivia stood at the panoramic window of her second-floor office, holding her third espresso of the morning, but the caffeine wasn't helping. She hadn't slept properly in three nights.

She was thirty-four, and until last night’s vernissage, she had been at the summit.

Now, the summit felt like a cliff over an abyss.

Her gallery wasn't just a business—it was a reputation, built brick by brick from impeccable taste (innate), a steel-like business acumen (acquired in battles with her father), and a Sorbonne degree (bought with blood and sweat).

Here, among the avant-garde canvases and chrome steel sculptures, she had felt completely safe.

Felt. Past tense.

Her world obeyed logic and beauty. Everything was in its place. Contracts signed. Invoices paid. Reputation flawless. Even her divorce from Étienne a year ago had been civilized—a surgical operation, no screaming or scenes, just lawyers and documents.

Her life was a work of art.

And yesterday, someone had taken a brush and scrawled across it in bold, red paint: Fake.

Three days had passed since the vernissage.

Seventy-two hours, during which she tried to convince herself it was a random encounter. An eccentric collector who knew Jacques Duran from business. A madman, perhaps. Or a performance artist—Montpellier was full of them, they loved shocking the bourgeoisie.

Nothing more.

But her hands still remembered how heavily her heart had beaten when he stood beside her. Her nose remembered his scent—expensive cologne (something with oud and leather, not mainstream), and beneath it, something else. Ozone. Metal. Danger.

Her ears remembered his voice—the way he’d said her name, with a French pronunciation but something southern in the intonation. Madame Duran. Not as a compliment. As a diagnosis.

She had almost convinced herself. Almost.

And then the phone rang.

“Madame Duran?” Her assistant Marie’s voice was agitated, half a tone higher than usual. “A Monsieur Lebrun from the bank has arrived. He says it’s urgent.”

Olivia frowned slightly. Lebrun?

Jean-Pierre Lebrun. Her late father's financial consultant, and later, her ex-husband's. A man who turned dirty money into clean with the skill of an alchemist. She had severed all business ties with her ex-husband a year ago, meticulously scrubbing his presence from her life and her accounts, like a surgeon excising a tumor.

What could possibly be so urgent?

(She knew. Deep inside, in the instinctual part of her brain, she already knew. She had known from the moment she saw the stranger’s green eyes.)

“Show him into the conference room, Marie. And bring water. Still.”

Jean-Pierre Lebrun looked bad.

No—not bad. He looked like a man who had just learned he was terminally ill and was trying to hide it behind a professional mask.

His usually immaculate suit—Italian wool, navy, conservative—was rumpled. Not disastrously, but noticeably. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. His tie was loose. His face had an unhealthy, grayish pallor, like wax.

He was nervously clutching an expensive leather briefcase—an Hermès, black, showing wear at the corners. His hands were shaking. Barely perceptible, but Olivia, trained by years of auctions to spot the slightest sign of nerves in a client, caught it.

“Olivia,” he began without preamble, the moment she closed the door. He didn't even stand. Didn't even attempt a civilized greeting. “We have a massive problem.”

She sat opposite him, her back straight. A textbook pose for negotiations: spine erect, hands on the table, gaze direct. I am in control. I am not afraid.

(A lie. She was terrified. The cold was already seeping up her spine.)

“Jean-Pierre,” her voice was calm, almost gentle. “I don't have problems. I closed all accounts related to Étienne last year. My finances are clean. My auditor will confirm that.”

Lebrun shook his head. His gaze skittered around the room—to the door, to the window, back to her—like a cornered animal looking for an exit.

“You don't understand.” His voice cracked, became hoarse. “This isn’t about the banks. It’s not about the tax authorities. It’s about Étienne’s debt… to other people. Very serious people. The kind who don’t show up with summonses. They show up with pliers.”

He opened the briefcase with trembling fingers. Took out a folder. Placed it on the table between them.

“He used your gallery as collateral. There are documents. With your signature—forged, of course. Étienne was always talented with fakes, the irony for a man in the art trade—but… they don't care. They don't give a damn about legal nuances.”

The air in the room suddenly felt thin, as if at high altitude. Olivia heard the blood pounding in her ears—a rhythmic, heavy drumbeat, drowning out everything else.

Her gaze focused involuntarily on a tiny crack in the polished surface of the table—she had never noticed it before, but now it seemed like a fault line, ready to swallow her entire life. A tectonic shift in miniature.

“What kind of debt?” Her voice didn't waver. Amazing. “How much?”

Lebrun licked his dry lips. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

And he named the sum.

A sum that made Olivia’s vision blacken. A sum capable of not just destroying the gallery—it could bury her alive under the rubble. A financial guillotine.

“That can't be,” she whispered. The whisper sounded louder than a scream in the quiet room. “That’s… that’s absurd. That’s more than the gallery is worth. More than everything I have.”

“It’s reality,” Lebrun snapped. He wasn't looking her in the eye anymore. “And they’re already here. They’re waiting. The man who came to collect… he wants to speak with you. Personally. Now.”

In that instant, Olivia’s world—so stable, predictable, built from scratch after her father’s death—cracked.

The crack was thin, like a line in porcelain after an impact. But Olivia knew: such cracks don’t heal. They only widen, until everything shatters.

An icy draft blew through the crack, carrying the scent of danger.

And something else. Something recognizable.

Ozone before a thunderstorm.

She stood. Her legs felt like cotton, not quite her own—like after a long flight, when the body hasn't yet realized it has landed.

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs.” Lebrun kept his eyes down. He stared at his hands, at the tremor he no longer tried to hide. “In the main hall. He said he wanted to enjoy the art while he waited.”

Enjoy the art.

The words sounded like a mockery. As if someone were translating into the language of civility what really meant: I've come to take what's mine, and I don't care how long it takes you to pick up the pieces.

When Olivia descended the spiral staircase into the sun-drenched main hall, the world took on a strange, hyper-real clarity.

Every detail was sharper, brighter, as if someone had cranked the contrast to maximum.

Dust motes in a beam of light.

The hairline crack in the Miró frame—she’d known about it, planned its restoration, but now it looked like a prophecy.

The ticking of the antique clock—loud, insistent, counting down the seconds to something inevitable.

And him.

He stood with his back to her, in front of the most expensive sculpture in her collection—the Echo itself. Tall (at least 6’2”), in a perfectly tailored dark suit that couldn't hide the predatory power of his body. Shoulders broad, the line of his back straight but not rigid—flexibility beneath the discipline, like a fencer. Or a killer.

His hands were clasped behind his back. Left hand gripping his right wrist—a gesture of control, of self-possession. Or of restrained violence.

Sunlight caught in his hair—dark, almost black, cut short at the nape, slightly longer on top. Not a single thread of gray. His age was hard to pinpoint—thirty-five? Forty? With men like him, age wasn't measured in years, but in wars fought.

He turned, slowly.

And any hope Olivia had that it might be someone else turned to dust.

The stranger from the vernissage.

The one who had spoken of her father.

The one who had turned her triumph to ash with three sentences.

“Madame Duran.” His voice was low, velvet, but with metallic undertones, like a cello with steel strings. “What irony. The sculpture is named ‘Echo.’ Very fitting for our situation, don’t you think?”

He took a step toward her. One. Measured. The sound of his dress shoes on the marble floor was sharp, like a metronome’s beat.

“Your ex-husband's debts have become an echo that has finally caught up to you. Echoes have a way of returning, Madame Duran. Sometimes, quieter than the original. Sometimes, louder. And sometimes, they return with such force, they demolish everything in their path.”

He took another step.

Olivia instinctively stepped back—the ancient reflex of prey before a predator—and immediately hated herself for the weakness.

But she couldn't stop.

He continued to move, slowly, unhurriedly, closing the distance with mechanical precision. Her back hit the wall. The cold marble burned through the thin fabric of her blouse.

Trapped.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a bird against the bars of its cage. The metallic taste of fear was on her tongue. The cold in her stomach.

She could feel his aura—the aura of an apex predator, accustomed to taking whatever he wanted. Who didn't know the word "no." Who was built to break, to dominate, to own.

“I’m not paying for him.” Her voice trembled on the first word, but she forced herself to look him directly in the eye. Green. Cold. Beautiful, like polished malachite, and just as hard. “This is his debt. Not mine. Legally, I am not responsible.”

“Oh, I’m not asking for money.” A slight, almost mocking smirk touched his lips. Not a smile—a sneer. “Money is boring. Transitory. Paper with numbers. Numbers can be printed again.”

He took one final step—and now he stood so close Olivia could have counted the lashes of his eyes.

Close. Too close for a stranger.

Close enough for her to catch his scent. That fresh, expensive cologne—Tom Ford, perhaps, Oud Wood—the leather of a jacket he must have worn this morning, and something else. Metal. Gunpowder? No, not gunpowder. Something finer. Ozone. Electricity before a storm.

“I’ve come for the collateral,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, gazing down at her.

And that down at her was filled with so many promises. Threats. Anticipation.

The pause stretched. He savored the moment, like a connoisseur taking the first sip of a rare wine. He was tasting her fear.

“You,” he breathed, finally. “The collateral is you, Olivia Duran. Jacques Duran’s daughter. His most precious creation. His perfect heiress. The only thing he loved more than money.”

He raised a hand—slowly, giving her time to see, to understand—and ran a fingertip along the chromed surface of the sculpture beside her head.

The sound—a quiet shing of skin on metal—was obscenely loud in the silent hall.

“Your father took someone from me who was dearer to me than life.” His voice grew quieter, more intimate, more dangerous. “Enzo Moretti. My teacher. My mentor. The only one who saw potential in me, not just trash from the streets of Marseille. Your father destroyed him slowly, methodically, using the law as a weapon. Turned him from a king to a pauper. From a genius to a bankrupt. And Enzo died in poverty, alone, penniless, broken.”

His fingers were still on the metal—inches from her temple.

“And now, I will take from Jacques Duran the one thing he loved most.” His gaze slid over her face, lingered on her lips, dropped to her throat, where a pulse beat frantically. “You. His flawless princess. His pride. His perfect creation.”

His face was so close, Olivia could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. Mint. Coffee. Something else.

“My father is dead,” she forced out. A last attempt at logic, at law, at justice—the things she still wanted to believe in. “You can’t take revenge on a dead man.”

“I know.” Regret sounded in his voice. Genuine. Almost human. “He died too quickly. Too easily. A heart attack was a mercy he didn't deserve. But his legacy…”

He leaned in closer. His lips were a millimeter from her ear. The whisper burned, like the touch of heated metal:

“His legacy is alive. And I am going to take it apart. Just as slowly and methodically as he took apart my mentor's life. Screw by screw. Illusion by illusion. Until nothing is left but the naked, ugly truth.”

Chapter 2. The French Gambit

Her first reaction was anger.

Not hot—Olivia Duran didn’t do hot, that was vulgar—but a cold, arctic anger. The rage of a woman whose universe was being inverted without her consent.

“You’re insane,” she breathed. Her voice, usually so confident (the voice that sold Rothkos for millions, that persuaded investors, that managed twenty employees), came out hoarse, catching on the last syllable.

“I am not a thing. Not an asset. Not something to be used as collateral. This isn’t the Middle Ages. This is 21st-century France, not… not some feudal nightmare. I will call the police. I have lawyers. Very good lawyers. They will—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his voice calm, gentle, like an adult cutting through a child’s tantrum. He seemed to be observing her from a distance, studying her, the way an entomologist studies a rare insect beating against the glass. With interest. Without cruelty, but also without empathy.

“And what will you tell them?” He stepped back, giving her space—a gesture that was somehow worse than the pressure. “That a man came to you, claiming your ex-husband owes him a sum equal to… what was it? The annual budget of a small African nation? That he has documents with your forged signature?”

He nodded casually toward the briefcase in the hands of the pale Lebrun, who was still pressed against the wall by the entrance, a shadow willing itself to disappear.

“They’ll ask for proof. I have it. Photocopies. Originals. Expert analysis confirming the forgery—oh, yes, I know it’s a forgery, Madame Duran. I’m not an idiot. But I also know that by the time these documents work their way through the courts, through verifications, through the endless bureaucratic machine… months will have passed. Maybe years.”

He paused, letting the words settle, soak in.

“And you?” His voice became almost sympathetic. “You have only your word. Your flawless reputation. Your name. And while you’re filing reports, gathering evidence, proving to the police that you’re the victim…”

He took one last step, and now he stood so close Olivia could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was like a blast furnace, hidden beneath the expensive cashmere of his suit. A contained flame.

“…your gallery could have an accident.” The words were soft, almost gentle, like a lullaby. A lullaby about death. “A short circuit. A very old building, isn’t it? 17th century. Wooden beams. Wiring that’s half a century old. It goes up so easily. All it takes is one spark.”

His hand rose—Olivia flinched, but he didn’t touch her. He just snapped his fingers. A quiet, dry sound.

Click. Like a match striking.

“And your vaults…” he continued, not raising his voice, but every word hit its target, the very heart of her fears, like a knife that knows where the arteries lie. “They’re insured, of course. But ash is a poor substitute for the originals, isn’t it? Especially when it’s your life’s work. When you’ve spent twelve years building this from nothing, proving to your father, to the world, to yourself, that you were capable of more than being a decoration in a rich husband’s home.”

He knew.

How could he know?

Those words—about her father, about proving herself, about the fear of not being good enough—she had never told anyone. They were her private demons, hidden so deep she wouldn't even let her therapist near them.

And he had just dragged them into the light, like an expert fisherman pulling a fish that didn't even know it was hooked.

Olivia lifted her chin—a final gesture of defiance, when all else is lost. Pride. The only thing she had left. “What do you want?” Her voice was steadier than she expected. Control was returning. Bit by bit. “Why me? You need money—I’ll find a way. I’ll sell everything. I’ll take out loans. I will—”

“Tsk.”

He cut her off with the sound—not a word, but the noise one makes to calm a frightened animal or a crying child. And that sound grated on her nerves more than a shout. More than a threat. Because it held tenderness. The perverse, pathological tenderness of a predator for its prey.

“I already told you. Money doesn't interest me.” He turned away, walked through the hall, his fingers trailing over the frames of paintings, the backs of chairs, as if he already owned the place and was assessing his property. “And what I want…”

He stopped in front of a display case of Ming dynasty porcelain. His reflection in the glass looked back at her—distorted, multiple, like in a broken mirror.

“I want to see what’s hiding beneath that flawless facade.” His voice grew pensive, almost philosophical. “Your father built empires from lies and beautiful words. He was a master of appearances. He taught you the same thing—to hide your true essence behind a perfect form. An art gallery. How metaphorical. Art is the greatest lie of all, don’t you think? Beauty created to hide the ugliness of reality.”

He turned, and his gaze was like an expert's scalpel, searching for a hidden fracture in a statue.

“I want to know: is there anything real inside Jacques Duran’s daughter? Or are you just as empty and brilliant as that sculpture?” He nodded at Echo. “A beautiful cage, holding nothing but reflections.”

He walked to the sculpture. Slowly, almost ritually, he reached out and traced a line on the chrome surface with his fingertip.

A print was left on the metal. Perfect, clear, visible in the angle of the light.

A mark.

A claim of ownership.

“Chess.” He wasn’t looking at her, staring at his print on the metal. “Do you play?”

A strange question. Surreal, in the middle of a nightmare.

“My father taught me,” Olivia answered warily, not understanding where this was going.

“Of course he did.” A faint smirk. “Jacques was a decent player. He understood strategy. Opening, mid-game, endgame. But he had one fatal flaw.”

A pause.

“He loved his queen too much. He always tried to protect her. Built his entire strategy around her safety. And it made him predictable. In chess, as in life, you can never place one piece above the objective.”

He finally turned to her. Something new had appeared in his eyes. A thrill. The anticipation of the hunt.

“What I’m offering you is called the ‘French Gambit.’ A classic chess opening. Do you know it? You sacrifice a pawn early in the game to gain a positional advantage. It looks like you’re losing. But really—you’re setting a trap.”

He moved in close. So close she could see the gold flecks in the green of his eyes, the dark mole above the sharp break of his right eyebrow—the only point of stillness on that face full of tension—and the faint shadow of stubble on his sharp jawline.

“I am sacrificing the small thing—the possibility of getting money immediately—for the most important piece on the board.” A pause. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered, then rose back. “For you.”

Monsieur Lebrun, who had been standing by the entrance like a forgotten statue, coughed. Quietly, cautiously, like a man who is terrified to draw attention, but must.

The stranger shot him a fleeting glance—cold, assessing, like one looks at an object that is temporarily useful but easily replaced.

Lebrun flinched, shrinking even smaller.

“You have a choice,” the stranger said, turning back to Olivia. His tone became all business, stripped of all games. As cold as a contract for a hit. “Right now, you walk out of this gallery with me. Willingly. You leave your phone, your keys, everything. You become my… guest. For an indefinite period. Until I decide the debt is paid. Until I understand who you really are under this perfectly polished surface.”

He paused, letting the words land. When he continued, his voice was quieter, but every word was distinct, like a hammer on an anvil:

“Or, you refuse. And I leave. Right now. No threats, no scenes. I just walk away.”

Relief began to swell in Olivia’s chest—maybe he was just a psychopath, maybe if she refused, he would—

“And tomorrow morning,” he continued, and the relief choked, drowned, “you will read in the news about a tragic fire in the historic center of Montpellier. The ‘L’Art et L’Âme’ gallery, burned to the ground. Cause: a short circuit in the old wiring. No evidence. No suspicions. Just an accident that will destroy everything you built for twelve years.”

His eyes didn't blink. There was no malice in them, no sadism. Just a statement of fact.

“And a week later, you will learn that your assistant, sweet Marie—twenty-three years old, dreams of her Master’s in Art History, lives alone in an apartment on Rue de la Loge, goes to yoga every Tuesday—was the victim of an accident. A mugger in a dark alley. A knife wound. The police will find nothing. The cameras in that neighborhood, as you know, haven't worked in six months. The municipality keeps promising to fix them.”

He wasn’t threatening.

He was informing. Like a meteorologist reporting an imminent hurricane. No emotion. No choice.

“And you will know.” His voice dropped to a whisper, but that whisper was louder than a scream. “You will know, every second of your remaining life, that it happened because you refused. Because your pride was more important than the life of a twenty-three-year-old girl who just wanted to work in a beautiful place and study art.”

Olivia looked past him, at her paintings. At the Miró—abstract forms, bright colors, childish joy. At the Giacometti—elongated figures, frozen in eternal loneliness. At the play of light in the hall she had designed herself, hiring the best architect from Lyon.

She saw the faces of her staff in her memory. Marie, with her endless enthusiasm and the coffee stains on her blouses. Old Jules, the attendant, who had worked here since before she bought the place. Catherine from accounting, with photos of her three kids on her desk.

She remembered the thrill before every vernissage. The smell of fresh paint. The moment a painting was hung, finding its place, the right light, the right angle.

This was her heart, externalized. Her proof that she was not her father. That it was possible to create, not just destroy.

And he was holding a lighter to all of it. Calmly. Methodically. Without anger—which was worse than any rage.

She knew she had lost.

The battle was over before it began. A chess game where she had no pieces, only a king, surrounded.

Checkmate in one move.

Her shoulders slumped in a barely perceptible gesture—not surrender, not yet, but an acknowledgment of reality. An acceptance that there had never been a choice.

“Alright,” she said.

Her voice was alien, lifeless, like an actress who has forgotten her lines and is just speaking words written by someone else.

“Alright,” she repeated, to convince herself it was real, that she was actually saying it.

He smiled.

This time, truly. Not a smirk, not a sneer—a real smile. And it was beautiful and terrible, like a sunset before a hurricane.

The smile of a predator that has cornered its prey exactly where it planned.

The smile of a player who just called checkmate in the opening, while his opponent was still hoping for a game.

The smile of a man who knew she would agree. Who had calculated her every move before he’d even arrived.

“I knew you were a smart girl,” he said softly, almost tenderly.

And that "girl"—the infantilization, the humiliation, the stripping of her status as an adult woman, a business owner, a professional—burned hotter than any insult.

He walked to the console table by the entrance where her handbag lay. A Bottega Veneta, soft leather, the color of dark chocolate. A gift to herself last year, after a particularly good sale.

His hands—long fingers, clean nails, a scar across the back of his right hand—opened her bag without hesitation. Personal space no longer existed. Boundaries were erased with a single gesture.

He took out her phone. An iPhone, in a red leather case. He glanced at the screen—she hadn't had time to lock it, the Touch ID hadn't engaged. He scrolled through something. Contacts? Messages? Photos?

Then he powered it down. A long press. The screen went dark.

Her connection to the world was severed.

The gallery keys—a heavy ring, antique keys, because you don't just change the locks on a 17th-century building. The car keys—an Audi A6, silver, practical. Her apartment keys, the ones to her flat on the embankment, overlooking the Lez.

All of it, he methodically pocketed. Appropriated. Confiscated.

“Marie!” he called, and his voice, not directed at Olivia, was entirely different. A commander's voice. One that did not tolerate objections.

Marie peered around the corner from the hallway leading to the offices. Pale, her eyes huge. She had seen. Heard. She understood something terrible was happening, but couldn't grasp the scale of it.

Not yet.

“Madame Duran won't be back today,” he said in a flat tone, as if giving a mundane order. “Cancel all her meetings for the next…” a pause, he sized Olivia up, as if judging the shelf-life of a product, “…month. The gallery is closing for renovations. Urgent renovations. Problems with the electrical wiring. A fire hazard. You wouldn't want anything terrible to happen, would you?”

The last sentence was a question, but it was a statement. A warning wrapped in civility.

Marie nodded, unable to speak. Her gaze darted to Olivia—a silent question, a plea, an attempt to understand.

Olivia forced a smile. A small, tight smile, but Marie needed this lie. She needed the illusion that everything was fine, that her boss was in control.

“It’s fine, Marie,” she said, and her voice sounded almost normal. Almost. “Take care of the documents. I’ll be back soon.”

A lie. The biggest lie of her life.

Marie nodded again, uncertainly, and disappeared around the corner. The sound of her footsteps—quick, almost running—echoed in the empty hall.

Then he turned to Olivia. He took her elbow.

His grip was steel. Not brutal—he wasn't squeezing, wasn't leaving a mark—but absolute. His fingers closed on her arm with the precision of a mechanism, leaving no chance for resistance. It was the grip of a man who knows anatomy. Who knows how to restrain without causing visible harm.

Like a cop. Or a killer.

“We’re going,” he said quietly, for her alone. “My car is waiting.”

As he led her out of the gallery—her gallery, her creation, her proof that Jacques Duran’s daughter could be more than a decoration or a bargaining chip—onto the sun-drenched afternoon street, Olivia cast one last look back.

At the chrome sculpture, Echo, which still bore the print of his finger. A mark of ownership.

At the light streaming through the high windows, the light she had so carefully planned with her architect.

At the Miró, the Giacometti, the Dubuffet—witnesses to her triumph. And her fall.

Echo.

Her past life was already just a distant, fading echo. A sound growing quieter with every second, until it vanished completely.

Ahead, there was only the darkness in his winter-sea eyes.

And the question to which she had no answer: what would happen when that darkness consumed her completely?

Chapter 3. Into the Predator's Lair

He opened the back door of a black sedan for her. A Mercedes S-Class, matte black, with tinted windows that didn't look like glass, but like liquid darkness. The car was parked directly at the entrance—as if he knew she would agree. As if no other choice had ever been an option.

For a moment, a wild, primal instinct flared in Olivia.

Run.

Just run. Down the street, toward the square where tourists were photographing fountains and eating ice cream. Scream. Call for help. Dig her nails into his face, his eyes, inflict pain, any pain, just to get away.

Her muscles tensed. Adrenaline flooded her blood. Time slowed—like in the movies, when the world turns to viscous honey and every second stretches into a minute.

She jerked. Tried to wrench her arm from his grip.

But his hand on her elbow tightened—not sharply, with no visible effort, but with such absolute force that any impulse was broken at its inception. The steel grip became titanium. His fingers found a pressure point on her arm—somewhere between the elbow and wrist—and squeezed. Not painfully, but… precisely.

Anatomically precise. A grip of control.

Her arm went numb. Hung obediently. Her body had betrayed her, submitting to another's will.

“I wouldn't,” he whispered, leaning close to her ear. His voice was almost gentle. Almost sympathetic. “There are a lot of people. Someone might get hurt if you make a scene. That tourist with the camera, for example. Or the woman with the stroller by the fountain. Too many variables. And I don’t like variables.”

The threat was so mundane, so calm, it was terrifying.

He guided her into the back seat with no visible effort. The leather was soft, expensive, smelling of a new car and something else—the lingering trace of his cologne. He slid in beside her.

The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud. The sound was absolute—like a coffin lid, the lock of a prison cell, the final period on a death sentence.

The world beyond the tinted glass instantly became unreal, like a silent film.

Olivia could see the street, the people, but she couldn’t hear them. Couldn't feel the sun. There was a barrier between her and the world—thin, invisible, but insurmountable. She was no longer part of that world. She was in an aquarium. In a cage. In another dimension, where the rules didn't apply.

“You can’t—” she began, her voice cracking with a mix of fury and fear. “This is kidnapping. A serious crime. They’ll find you. My assistant will raise the alarm. I have meetings, people will look for me. The police—”

“Marie?” he interrupted, his voice calm, almost lazy, not looking at her. He retrieved a tablet from his inner pocket, as thin as a blade. Woke it with a single touch. The screen flared to life, flooding the cabin with a cold, blue light.

“Sweet girl. Twenty-three. Born in Nîmes, moved to Montpellier four years ago for university. Rents a flat on Rue de la Loge, third floor, no elevator. Very diligent. Dreams of being a curator. And very, very predictable.”

He handed the tablet to her.

It was a video. Surveillance footage—from the angle and quality, a street camera. The date and time were in the corner: yesterday, 19:47.

Olivia saw a familiar street—that same Rue de la Loge, narrow, paved with old cobblestones, lit by lamps that flicker on at dusk.

She saw Marie.

The girl was walking home from work—Olivia recognized the tote bag Marie carried every day, recognized her walk, slightly clumsy, like all tall girls who grew too fast and never got used to their bodies.

Marie was wearing headphones—the white wires of AirPods—swinging her bag carelessly to a rhythm only she could hear. The sun played in her light brown hair, which was pulled into a messy bun. She was smiling at some private thought.

She was alive. Innocent. Utterly vulnerable.

And someone was filming her. Following her. Studying her route, her habits, her schedule.

Him.

The blood froze in Olivia's veins. A paralyzing, icy cold spread through her body.

“What is this?” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze from the screen, where Marie was disappearing around a corner, suspecting nothing.

“It's a visual aid,” he answered evenly, like a university lecturer explaining a complex theorem. His voice was devoid of emotion, purely educational. “A lesson in cause and effect. That was yesterday. Today, in about five hours, at 19:45—she’s very punctual, I’ll give her that—she will walk the exact same route. Past the same café where she always buys a croissant. Past the same bookstore whose window she always looks in.”

He took the tablet back. The screen went dark. Marie vanished.

“Her life is predictable to the minute,” he continued, sliding the tablet away. “And that routine, that safety, will only be preserved if you, Olivia, sit quietly in this car. If you are reasonable. If you understand a simple truth: your actions have consequences. For other people. For innocent people.”

His voice dropped, becoming more intimate, more dangerous.

“If you try to scream at the next traffic light, when we stop next to that police car—and we will, I’ll make a point of it. If you decide to ‘accidentally’ fall out of the car on the next turn. If, after we arrive, you try to escape on the first night…”

A pause. Long. Heavy.

“Then Marie will have an accident. A tragic one. A gas leak in her apartment—old buildings, you know, the pipes are worn. Or faulty wiring—same problem as your gallery, ironically. Or just a mugging in a dark alley. Statistics, you know. Montpellier isn't the most dangerous city in France, but it’s not the safest.”

He turned, looking at her for the first time since they’d gotten in the car.

There was no anger in his eyes. No sadism. No pleasure in his power.

Only arctic calculation. The pure, flawless logic of a predator.

“No one will ever connect it to me. Or to you. She’ll just be another number. Another tragedy for the local news, discussed for a day, then forgotten.” A beat. “But you won't forget. You will know. And that knowledge will burn you, every day, every night, every second of your remaining life.”

He leaned a fraction closer. Not threateningly—almost confidentially, like an old friend sharing wisdom.

“She’s a pawn on the board, Olivia. You're the queen. And as long as the queen behaves, the pawns are safe. It’s a simple rule. Logical. Fair, when you think about it. One life, willingly at risk, versus another, innocent one. Isn't that a noble choice on your part?”

He leaned back, giving her space, time to digest.

“Am I making myself clear?”

In that moment, Olivia broke.

Not with tears—tears would have been a relief, a catharsis she couldn't afford. Not with a scream—a scream required energy she no longer had.

She broke, inside.

Something hard, her core, her will, her faith in justice, in law, in the rules that protect the innocent—it simply disintegrated.

Snap.

She almost heard it—the sound of a bone breaking, of ice cracking underfoot, the click of a light switch plunging a room into darkness.

She understood. With the absolute, crystalline clarity that comes only in moments of true revelation.

She was not in the hands of a man. She was in the hands of a force of nature. A hurricane, an earthquake, a tsunami that doesn't ask permission and takes no arguments. She was in the hands of a man who didn't play by the rules. Because he wrote them.

Olivia leaned back slowly. All the fight drained from her body, leaving only a hollow, scorched void. She no longer looked out the window, at the world that was now unreachable. She stared straight ahead, at nothing, at the emptiness that was now inside her.

Capitulation.

Not the kind spoken in words. The kind that happens in the soul. When the body and mind both acknowledge: resistance is futile.

The car began to move. Softly, smoothly, like a ship pulling away from the shore. The driver—Olivia only now noticed him, a faceless figure in a dark suit behind a glass partition—drove professionally, carefully, obeying every traffic law.

As if they were chauffeuring a VIP, not a prisoner.

They drove in silence.

Olivia absorbed every detail of the route—a survival instinct that wasn't quite dead. It whispered: Memorize this. Turns, streets, landmarks.

They left the historic center. Passed the train station—a modern building of glass and concrete, bustling with life: tourists with suitcases, students with backpacks, couples kissing goodbye.

They hit the ring road. A sign: Pic Saint-Loup. 25 km.

They were heading north, toward the mountains. The vineyards began almost immediately—endless rows of green vines, stretching to the horizon under the relentless southern sun.

Isolation. The perfect place to hide someone. Or to bury them.

Olivia forced herself to breathe. Slow. Deep. A technique a friend had taught her: four counts in. Hold. Six counts out. It didn't help. But it gave the illusion of control.

The car turned off the main highway onto a narrow, private road. The asphalt was perfect—recently paved, without a single pothole. It snaked up through the vineyards, climbing. Finally, around a bend, gates rose up.

Tall. Black metal and frosted glass. Modern, minimalist, more art than barrier. But Olivia saw the cameras—small, nearly invisible, built into the structure. Saw the motion sensors. Saw the gates slide open silently, effortlessly, responding to a signal from the car.

A maximum-security system. Escape would be impossible.

The villa clawed at the hillside, like the fang of a predator. Glass, concrete, dark wood—the geometry of power, looming over a sea of grapevines. The architecture was a declaration: sharp, clean, ruthless. Not a single superfluous line, no hint of comfort—only function, taken to its absolute. The massive panoramic windows didn't just look—they stared down at the valley. The cold, empty eyes of a leviathan surveying its domain. Through the glass facade, the interior was visible—high ceilings, white walls, sparse islands of furniture arranged with surgical precision.

Beautiful? Yes. Expensive? Undeniably. Empty? Absolutely. It wasn't a home. It was a diagram of existence.

He led her inside. The air was different—conditioned, sterile, tasting of ozone, and the cold scent of polished stone. Carrara marble under her feet—icy even through the thin leather of her shoes, its gray veins like cracks on a frozen lake. The concrete walls were smooth, non-porous, like reptilian skin. The furniture—design icons, Le Corbusier, Eames—stood in sparse, lonely sculptures.

No sign of life. No photographs. No stray book on a coffee table. No jacket on a hook. Nothing that spoke of human warmth, of chaos, of laughter or tears. Only echo. The silence here wasn't an absence of sound, but its active suppression. Thick, suffocating, it absorbed footsteps, voices, breath.

The silence of a mausoleum. Or a lair.

He stopped in the middle of the vast living room, which commanded a breathtaking view of the vineyards and the distant, hazy mountains. He turned to her. He smiled—not the predatory smile of a victor, but something more complex. The satisfaction of an artist who has finally hung a painting in the perfect spot.

“Welcome home, Olivia.”

She said nothing, her gaze sweeping over her prison. A gilded cage. The most beautiful, expensive cage imaginable. A cage with bars made of light and a lock made of aesthetics.

He seemed to read her mind. Or, more likely, he had planned this, calculated this reaction. “There are a few rules,” he said, his voice taking on a new quality. Not threatening, but instructive. The voice of a mentor. “They're simple. I don't like complicated rules. Violations require punishment, and punishment… is a distraction.”

He paced the room, fingers trailing over the chrome-and-leather arm of a designer chair.

“First: You don't try to leave.” He said it as casually as discussing the weather. “The property is secure. Electronics, sensors, cameras. And people. People who are paid very well to ensure that what belongs to me, stays with me.”

He stopped at the window, a silhouette against the light. “An escape attempt will be seen as a breach of our… agreement.” The word ‘agreement’ dripped with irony. “And it will have consequences. Not for you, directly—I’m not a barbarian, Olivia. I don’t hit women. But… I remember Marie. Do you remember Marie?”

Olivia nodded. Slowly.

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

He turned, walking. His steps on the marble were sharp, rhythmic, a metronome counting out the articles of a new code.

“Second: You do not lock doors.” He paused. “Any doors. Bedroom, bathroom, dressing room. I must have access to every part of this house at all times. Including your moments of… privacy.”

A different kind of chill ran down her spine. The violation was not about violence, but about erasure. The final bastion of self—privacy—was to be demolished. She kept her face impassive. Not now. Break later, alone.

“And third.” He approached her. Not too close—he left an arm’s length of space. “You will do as I say. Eat with me when I want company. Speak to me when I want conversation. Be silent when I want silence. Your schedule, your decisions, your day—I define them now.”

He paused. “I am not a sadist. I don't enjoy pointless humiliation. But I expect obedience. Absolute. Unquestioning. Because every time you disobey, you will ask yourself: Is this one act of defiance worth Marie’s life? Or the life of the next pawn on the board?”

This was it. The moment he expected her to shatter. To cry. To beg. To become the broken victim he had, undoubtedly, seen before. And in that precise moment, Olivia found the strength for her first counter-move.

She looked up at him—not with fear, but with contempt. Pure, crystalline contempt, sharper than any insult. “You can lock my body in this house,” she said, her voice steady, like crystal that has been struck but not yet broken. “You can threaten everyone I care about. You can control my every move, my every breath. You can turn me into your marionette.”

She took one small step toward him. Her decision. Her move. “But you will never be the master of my soul.” The words were quiet, but absolute. “You can own my time. My body. My actions. But what I am thinking when I look at you… who I remain, inside, when you turn away… that part of me you’re trying to dissect and understand—it will always be beyond your reach.”

She lifted her chin. “Remember that.”

For a fraction of a second—a flash—surprise flickered in his eyes. He hadn't expected this. Not this soon. Not with this force. He expected a broken woman. He got an opponent.

And—to her horror, mixed with something darker—he liked it.

The surprise was replaced by a predatory gleam. The thrill of a hunter who realizes the prey will fight back. That the hunt will be interesting. He smirked. Not a sneer, but something approaching… respect?

“Is that so?” he said slowly, savoring the words. “The spirit isn’t broken. The spine still holds. Interesting.”

He circled her slowly, assessing, like a sculptor planning the first strike of the chisel. “We'll see where your body ends and your soul begins, chérie.” The French endearment was both a mockery and a caress. “The boundary isn't as clear as you think. Pull one, the other twitches. Break one…”

He didn't need to finish.

He nodded toward a hallway. “Your room is the second door on the left. Everything you need is there. Clothes in your size, cosmetics. I don’t want you to feel… deprived.” The irony was sharp.

“Dinner is at nine. Be ready. I want to know you better, Olivia Duran. I want to find the cracks. And I always find the cracks.”

With that, he left her alone in the sterile, vast space.

She walked to the room. The hallway was long, white, lit by hidden fixtures. Abstract art on the walls—aggressive black slashes on white canvas. Second door on the left. The bedroom was huge. A king-size bed with ivory-white sheets—Egyptian cotton. A panoramic window wall, facing the sunset over the vineyards. The dressing room. Olivia slid the door open. And froze. Dozens of outfits. Loro Piana, Brunello Cucinelli, The Row. Her brands. Her neutral palette—beige, gray, black. Her size. He hadn't just studied her. He had dissected her. How long had he been watching? Months? Years? The thought made her skin crawl.

He wanted her comfortable in her prison. He wanted the capitulation to be slow, a warm bath she wouldn't notice was boiling her alive.

No.

Olivia slammed the wardrobe door. A small, loud act of resistance. She wouldn't wear his clothes. She wouldn't accept his gifts. She showered—hot, scalding—and put her own clothes back on. The beige trousers and silk blouse she’d arrived in. They were wrinkled, but they were hers. Her armor.

At nine o'clock, she emerged. He was waiting. The dining table was long, dark wood. Two chairs. Opposite each other, like an interrogation. He had changed. Black trousers, a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, unbuttoned at the collar. Casual. More dangerous. His power was no longer contained by a suit. It was bare. “Punctuality,” he said, not turning from the window. “The courtesy of kings. And, it seems, of hostages. Sit.” He had noticed she was in her old clothes. He was amused.

The table was set. Risotto with truffles. The aroma was divine. He sat opposite her. Poured her a glass of wine. Red, deep, almost black. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” he said. “1998. I trust you'll appreciate it. I remember you prefer Rhône wines. The Grenache blend.” Her heart skipped a beat. She’d mentioned that once. In an obscure art journal interview two years ago. He hadn't just studied her. He'd excavated her life.

“What is this performance?” she asked, her voice cold. “The fine dining. The expensive wine. You kidnapped me. You're threatening my friends. And now you’re playing… what? The gracious host?” “It’s not a performance,” he said, tasting the risotto. “I want to know you better.” “You know enough to destroy my life,” she snapped. He put his fork down, his patience an act of aggression. “I’m not interested in surface data, Olivia. Your clothing size, your food preferences. That's information. I can buy information. I can get it from your ex-husband, who was surprisingly talkative when I hinted I might forgive part of his debt in exchange for… details.” He swirled his glass. “I’m interested in something else. Your father built empires of concrete and steel. He despised the ephemeral. Art was an investment. Beauty was currency. So why did you… his daughter… choose beauty? Why an art gallery, and not a construction empire? Why did you betray his philosophy?”

The question blindsided her. He was digging for motivation. She was silent for a long time. “Because beauty is the only thing that makes sense in a cruel world,” she said, the truth escaping before she could stop it. “My father built houses no one was happy in. Empty houses. I worked for him. I saw the blueprints. Maximum square meters, minimum soul. Art… art is proof that not everything can be measured in money.” She stopped, realizing she’d said too much. “An answer my father would have despised,” she added. “The world isn't cruel,” he countered. “It’s practical. Weak people call it cruel. Strong people use its rules. Which one do you think I am?” “You're one of those who believes strength gives you the right to everything,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But every empire falls.” “Really?” He leaned forward. “And where is yourlimit, Olivia? Where is the line where the flawless gallery owner disappears, and the woman willing to do anything to survive emerges? The woman who forgets all about beauty and morality?” His voice dropped, almost hypnotic. “I can't wait to find out. To push you to that line. And watch you choose.”

He spoke of her destruction as if he were ordering dessert. She felt a cold, viscous terror. But mixed with something else. Something dark, illicit. Arousal. Not sexual. Not yet. But primal. The arousal of the prey that realizes the predator sees it not as food, but as a worthy opponent. She was on the edge of an abyss, and a shameful part of her wanted to look down.

No. He's manipulating you. She forced herself to drink the wine. It was magnificent. An anchor to reality. “You still haven't answered my question,” she said, her voice firm. “Who are you? Do you have a name? Or should I just call you 'kidnapper'?” He actually smiled. A real smile. “Mark,” he said. “Mark Leblan. I prefer the shadows.” He swirled his glass. “Your father knew me by another name. Thirty years ago, I was a kid on the streets of Marseille. Stealing to eat. Then he found me. Enzo Moretti. My teacher. My savior.” His voice hardened. “Enzo was a genius. He built a financial empire from nothing. He taught me everything. He was a father to me. The real father.” His fingers tightened on the glass. “And your father destroyed him.” The words fell like stones. “Methodically. Using the law as a weapon. They had a deal. A partnership. And your father… changed the terms. Used loopholes, corrupt judges. He ruined Enzo. Enzo died a year later. Broke. Alone. In a small flat in Marseille that smelled of mold and defeat.” Mark looked at her, his eyes pure darkness. “Before he died, he told me: ‘Never let a woman be your weakness.’ He was talking about his own mistakes. His wife, who left when the money was gone.” Mark stood, turning to the window. “I promised him I would have vengeance. I waited twenty years. I built my own empire. I became strong enough to challenge Jacques Duran.” He turned back. “And when I was ready… your father died.” A humorless smirk. “A heart attack. A merciful death he didn't deserve. He left without ever feeling fear. Without knowing what it’s like to lose everything.” He returned to his seat, his gaze pinning her. “And then I understood. I can't take revenge on a dead man. But I can take revenge on his legacy. His empire was sold. His business dissolved. Nothing was left. Nothing… except one thing.” A pause. “You.” The word was a sentence. “His ideal daughter. His pride. His masterpiece. The only thing he loved more than his empire. “So I decided. I will take his masterpiece. I will take it apart. See how it’s made. Find the cracks. I will prove to Enzo that a Queen doesn't have to be a weakness. She can be a force. An weapon. I will strip away your illusions of morality and kindness… and we will see what's left underneath. Whether it’s metal. Or just emptiness.”

Silence. Heavy. Olivia looked at this man—Mark Leblan—and his obsessed, wounded soul. She felt… understanding. Her father was a monster. She knew it. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm. “I am not my father’s legacy. I am his negation. Everything I built, I built against him.” “You think so,” Mark said softly. “But I see you. I see how you manage people—your staff fears you. How you negotiate—ruthless. You buy art for its value, not its beauty. You are his daughter, Olivia. You just hide it behind pretty words.” “No!” She stood up so fast the chair screeched. “You don't know me. You know data.” He stood, too. Slowly. “Then show me,” he said, his voice a low command. “Prove you're not his copy. Prove there's something real under that flawless facade.” He stepped around the table. “We have time. Weeks. Months. I’m in no hurry. I will peel back the layers, one by one, like an archaeologist searching for treasure. Or an empty tomb.” He raised a hand, and she flinched. He just brushed a stray lock of hair from his own forehead. A human gesture. “Go. Rest. Tomorrow, your… education… begins. Good night, Olivia.”

It was a dismissal. She turned and walked—not ran—from the room. She reached her door, locked it—no, she couldn't—and leaned against it, her body finally starting to shake. She slid to the floor. She understood. This wasn't just revenge. It was an experiment. She was a lab rat. The dissertation: Can the daughter of a monster not be a monster herself? And the most terrifying part… She looked at her hands. The hands that signed contracts. The hands that fired people. Is he right? Am I his copy? The question hung in the empty room.

She eventually stood, washed her face. The woman in the mirror looked terrified. No. Not broken. Not yet. Olivia straightened her back. Lifted her chin. He wants to find the cracks? Let him look. She would not give him the pleasure of an easy victory. She would fight. For every inch of her soul. She got into the bed. The sheets smelled of lavender. Sleep did not come for a long time. And when it did, it brought nightmares. Of chrome cages. Of green eyes that see right through you. Of a voice whispering: Show me who you really are.

Chapter 4. The First Cracks

Olivia woke because the room was too quiet.

Not the pleasant, muffled silence of morning, when the world is still asleep and one can savor the peace before the day begins. This was a dead, oppressive silence, the kind found in soundproof rooms, in bunkers, in places severed from life.

She opened her eyes. The ceiling was white, perfectly white, without a single stain, crack, or trace of time. Like a blank page. An operating theater. An emptiness.

For a second, she couldn't remember where she was. Then memory returned in an avalanche.

The gallery. Lebrun. The black car. Mark Leblan. The villa. The rules. The dinner. His story about Enzo. His words: You are his copy.

Olivia sat up in bed. The sheets were tangled, damp with sweat—the nightmares hadn't just come at the beginning of the night, but had continued until morning. She didn't remember the details, only fragments: a chrome surface reflecting a thousand distorted faces. Her father’s voice, saying, I told you you were weak. Green eyes that saw right through her.

She looked at the window. Beyond the glass, the sunlight was bright and ruthless—judging by the angle, it was around nine a.m. She had overslept. Usually, she woke at six, went for a run, then a shower, coffee, and was at the gallery by eight.

Usually.

A word from another life. A life that no longer existed.

On the bedside table, a note was waiting. Thick, cream-colored paper, calligraphic handwriting in black ink:

“Breakfast on the terrace. When you're ready. No rush. —M.”

It was short. Polite. With an undertone of care that was worse than any brutality, because it created the illusion of normalcy. As if she were a guest, not a prisoner.

Olivia crushed the note in her fist. An impulsive, furious gesture. Meaningless, childish, but it was her action, her choice.

A small act of resistance.

She stood and walked to the bathroom. The massive, wall-sized mirror reflected her in the morning light.

The woman in the mirror looked… bad.

Dark, violet circles under her eyes that no concealer could hide. Her hair was matted, tangled—she’d forgotten to brush it before bed. Her lips were dry and chapped. Her skin was pale, with an unhealthy, gray tinge. She looked like someone who had spent the night in hell.

What are you doing? the reflection asked silently. Are you going to surrender? Fall apart? Let him see you break?

No.

Olivia turned on the shower. The water was hot, almost scalding—just how she liked it. She stood under the spray, closed her eyes, and let the water wash away the sweat, the fear, the exhaustion.

A ritual of cleansing.

She washed her hair—the shampoo smelled of jasmine, expensive, organic. Of course he had attended to every detail. She worked conditioner through, combing out the tangles with her fingers. Every motion was a meditation, a reclamation of control over her own body.

This is my body. He can control where it is. But not what I do with it.

She stepped out, drying herself. She found cosmetics in a cabinet—all the brands she used. La Mer, Augustinus Bader, Tom Ford. The full arsenal.

Olivia applied moisturizer, serum, eye cream. Each touch to her face was an act of self-respect. Then, foundation—light, but enough to hide the traces of a sleepless night. Concealer under her eyes. One coat of mascara, natural. A nude lipstick.

She watched her face in the mirror transform. From exhausted to controlled. From broken to composed.

A mask. You're putting on a mask. Just as you always do. Just as your father taught you. The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like Mark’s.

Shut up, she told the internal voice.

Then, her hair. She dried it, then pulled it back into a smooth, low bun—her usual hairstyle for work. Severe. Elegant. Emphasizing the line of her neck and jaw.

The armor was ready.

She left the bathroom and opened the wardrobe again. She looked at the rows of clothes he had chosen for her. Yesterday, she had refused, staying in her wrinkled clothes as an act of protest. But today… today required strategy.

Her clothes—the ones she’d arrived in—were dirty. To wear them again would be to look disheveled, defeated. It would mean showing him she was losing control.

You're not going to lose this just because you're stubborn.

Olivia pulled trousers from a shelf—beige, wide-leg linen, Brunello Cucinelli. And a blouse—white, silk, with a high neck, The Row. Classic. Elegant. Expensive, but not loud.

She put them on. The fabric was perfect—soft, breathable, the kind of quality you could feel on your skin. The fit was precise. Not just her size—her exact size, accounting for her preference for a slightly looser cut in the hips, a slightly more tailored waist.

How long had he been watching me to know even that?

The thought was sickening. But she pushed it away. Don't think about it. Focus on now.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The woman in the reflection looked composed. Controlled. Almost normal. Almost. The fear was still in her eyes, hidden under layers of makeup and control. But if you didn't look too closely, you couldn't see it.

Olivia stood straight, pulling her shoulders back. Inhale. Exhale. You are ready. Go to war.

The terrace was on the other side of the villa—the one facing east. The morning sun flooded the space with soft, golden light, but elegant white awnings had been extended to create islands of shade.

The table was set. A white linen cloth, simple white china, a bouquet of lavender in the center—simple, Provençal, without excess. A silver coffee pot, croissants in a woven basket, butter, several types of jam in small glass jars, fresh fruit.

An idyll. A postcard from Provence. All that was missing was a happy couple, enjoying the morning at their country home.

Mark was standing at the railing, his back to the house, looking out over the vineyards. He was dressed in a simple white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and dark trousers. He was barefoot. His hair was slightly damp—he had also showered recently.

He looked relaxed. Almost peaceful. Like a man who had achieved his goal and was now enjoying the fruits of his victory.

Olivia stopped in the doorway. Her instincts screamed: Don't go near him. Don't play this game of normalcy. But she had no choice.

Mark heard her footsteps—or perhaps sensed her presence—and turned. His gaze slid over her. Quick. Appraising. It lingered on her face—noticing the makeup. It dropped to her clothes—noticing she had worn what he'd selected.

A faint smile touched his lips. Not triumphant. More… approving.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was softer than yesterday. Almost friendly. “Did you sleep well?”

Lie or truth? “No,” she answered honestly. No point in lying about it. He could see the circles under her eyes, even if she’d disguised them. “Nightmares.”

He nodded, as if expecting that answer. “That's normal. The first night in a new place is always difficult. Especially when you're not here by choice.” He gestured to the table. “Sit. You need to eat. Hunger doesn't help clear thinking.”

Olivia walked to the table. She sat. Mark sat opposite her. The morning light hit him at a different angle than the evening light had, and for the first time, she could see his face in detail, without the filter of fear and shock.

He was beautiful. Not classically beautiful—his features were too sharp for that. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose with a barely-perceptible bump—broken once, and it hadn't healed perfectly. His lips were thin, but well-defined.

The mole. A small one, the color of dark chocolate, just above his right eyebrow. Not a flaw, not a scar. An accent. Like a mark placed with pinpoint precision, to emphasize the perfect line of his brow and the intensity of the gaze beneath it. A sign.

His eyes. Green, with an explosion of gold flecks near the pupil. The color of the sea in a storm. Beautiful and dangerous.

His age… thirty-six? Forty? Hard to say. It was the face of a man who had seen too much, lived through too much, but kept himself in perfect condition.

“You’re studying me,” he observed, pouring her coffee. Black, strong—the aroma hit her, waking her up completely. “That’s good. Know your enemy. A classic strategy.”

“Are you my enemy?” she asked, taking the cup. The porcelain was warm. “I thought I was your experiment.”

“The two aren't mutually exclusive.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “An enemy can be a subject of study. An opponent on a chessboard—you have to understand him to defeat him.”

Olivia sipped the coffee. It was perfect. Not too bitter, not too weak. Of course.

“So this is still a game to you? A game of chess?”

“Isn’t it?” He tilted his head, studying her. “You're sitting here. Drinking my coffee. Wearing the clothes I chose. You're speaking to me civilly, even though last night you wanted to scratch my eyes out. You're adapting. You're playing by the rules I set. It’s a move. A smart one, I’ll admit. Better than hysterics or a hunger strike.”

He was right. And that was infuriating.

Olivia took a croissant. Broke it in half. It was fresh—warm, flaky, with a crisp crust and a soft, buttery interior. The taste of butter, yeast, and salt exploded in her mouth. She was starving. She had barely eaten yesterday. Her stomach clenched with gratitude.

Don't thank him. Not even in your head.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, after chewing and swallowing. “Why all this… facade of normalcy? Breakfast on the terrace. Polite conversation. You could have locked me in a room. Kept me in chains. You want to break me, don’t you? So why pretend?”

Mark picked up his cup. Took a sip. Watched her over the rim. “Because I am not a barbarian,” he answered finally. “And because there are different ways to break someone. Pain, hunger, isolation—those are crude tools. They get fast results, but they break a person the wrong way. A person broken by pain breaks from the outside in

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