Viktor came down carrying two comfortable folding chairs in one hand and a large woven basket in the other. He wore a suit without a tie, and a bottle of wine was tucked under one arm. When he saw Anya, he stopped on the last step.
Anya stood by the wall in that same blue dress. It fit perfectly, but she felt naked in it.
“I knew it… I knew it would look exactly like this on you,” he said, his voice full of sincere admiration. “On you, it comes alive.”
Her voice was lifeless. She stared into nothing.
“I did what you asked. Are my things safe now?”
“We agreed—no conditions today,” he answered. “Just us.”
He set the basket on the floor, pulled out a white tablecloth and covered the table—maybe it was from her apartment too—and began placing plates of elaborate food, making the shabby table look almost like something from a restaurant. Beside the tall wine glasses, he set that same chipped mug.
After unfolding the chairs, he said:
“Sit, please. For the main course I made risotto. You like seafood, don’t you?”
Viktor took out a lighter and lit a couple of candles. He was trying to make it romantic, but in a basement it looked sinister and surreal.
Anya sat down slowly. The chair creaked. Viktor poured the wine—dark red, like blood.
“To a new chapter. To no more formalities.”
Anya didn’t touch her glass. Her gaze fell on the chipped mug.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“You brought it. My mug. Do you know where that chip came from?”
“Tell me,” he said, intrigued. “I want to know everything about you. Every little thing.”
“I dropped it when I found out my father died. Five years ago. It was the only thing that didn’t shatter into pieces that day. I kept it as a reminder that you can survive, even if you’re ‘flawed’.”
She looked at him.
“And now it’s here. In the basement. Did you bring it down here to remind me of death?”
His face darkened for a moment. He hadn’t expected that association.
“No. I brought it so you’d feel at home. You look for a catch in everything, Anya. That’s your problem. You don’t know how to accept love that asks for nothing in return.”
She broke into a quiet, furious laugh.
“Nothing in return?! You took my freedom! You stole my name, my home, my future! And you call that ‘selfless love’?”
He set his glass down sharply, and wine splashed onto the tablecloth.
“And what was in your future? A job in a stuffy office? A mortgage for an apartment where you fell asleep alone to the sound of the TV? Men who saw you as nothing but a convenient option for a few months? I saved you from that mediocrity!”
She saw him getting worked up and understood she had to change her tone. Anya picked up her fork and pretended to taste the food.
“It’s good. You really do have talent.”
He cooled instantly, greedily seizing on her praise.
“Really? I tried. I read that eating properly matters under stress…”
“If you wanted so badly to be with me… why… why didn’t you invite me to a real dinner?” she asked quietly.
Something like sadness appeared in his eyes.
“I tried. Once. You don’t remember. At the café on the corner. I held the door for you and smiled, and you didn’t even look at me. You were staring at your phone. You were somewhere else—in your digital world. Then I understood: for you to notice me, I had to shut everything else out. So only I would be left.”
A coldness spread through Anya’s stomach.
“So this is revenge? Because I didn’t notice a passerby?”
“No. It’s salvation,” he answered, and reached across the table, trying to cover her hand with his. “Do you see me now, Anya? Am I real to you now?”
She didn’t pull her hand away, even though her fingers cramped with disgust.
“Yes, Viktor. Now I see you. I see you every second.”
She picked up the glass and took a sip. The wine tasted bitter. She understood: he wasn’t just a maniac—he was a man with a monstrously wounded ego, and her “attention” was the strongest drug he’d ever had.