The next two months were, for Viktor, the triumph of his “selection,” and for Anya, a masterpiece of mimicry. The house became the set of a strange, drawn-out film about a happy life.
Anya honed her role to a frightening perfection. Morning began with breakfast in a sunlit kitchen; evening ended with long conversations. They talked about film, classical literature, architecture. She obediently put on the dresses he brought her—silk, velvet, lace—and twirled for him, letting him admire “his value.”
If even the slightest ambiguity crept into his words, she didn’t try to guess what he meant—she lowered her eyes meekly and asked again: “Viktor, I want to do everything right. What did you mean exactly?” That submissiveness intoxicated him more than any wine.
And yet Anya kept a clear distance. She was a perfect object, but not a subject. She didn’t take initiative, didn’t try to get truly close to him, and, God forbid, she never showed a mind of her own. She was a beautiful mirror in which Viktor saw his own greatness.
At the end of the second month, Viktor made a decision.
“Anya, you’ve proven that you’re part of this home, not its prisoner,” he said solemnly as he led her to the second floor. “The basement no longer suits your status.”
He opened the door to a room next to his study. It was a bright, tastefully furnished bedroom. A soft carpet, a large bed, wardrobes full of clothes. But there was one detail: the windows were sealed behind automatic roller shutters, and only he had the remote.
“You’ll live here. But the rules stay the same. Don’t open the windows. Leave the room only when you’re told. And at night… at night I’ll lock you in. For your own safety.”
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Anya let her gaze sweep over the room. Her heart beat faster, but her face stayed blank. She noticed the bedroom was isolated—without its own bathroom.
“Viktor, it’s a beautiful room,” she said quietly, turning to him. “But I have a question… a delicate one. If you lock me in from the outside… what am I supposed to do about the toilet at night? In the basement everything was close by. But here…”
Viktor froze. He clearly hadn’t thought through this basic bodily reality. His lofty “architectural” plan collided with a much simpler reality: the body has its needs. He frowned; options clicked through his mind. Put a bucket in the room? Unacceptable for his “value”—it would ruin the aesthetic. Let her out on demand? He didn’t want to become a night attendant. Out of the question.
Anya noticed his hesitation and pressed exactly where it hurt.
“Probably… probably it’s still better for me to stay in the basement,” she said with a guilty smile. “There I won’t inconvenience you with my needs. And I won’t disturb your sleep.”
That cornered him. Viktor, who had already imagined her nearby, on the same floor, in silks and velvet, couldn’t allow her to fall back into the concrete pit. It would mean admitting defeat—admitting he couldn’t provide her with proper conditions.
“No,” he cut in after a brief pause. “You won’t go back to the basement. That stage is over.”
He looked at the bedroom door, then at Anya—submissive, quiet, with not the slightest will to escape. His self-assurance, fed by two months of her flawless performance, outweighed his paranoia.
“Fine. I won’t lock the door at night. But remember: the motion sensors and the cameras in the hallway are active around the clock. If you leave the room for any reason other than to use the toilet, or linger there longer than necessary—the system will let me know.”
“That won’t happen, Viktor, you know it.” A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. “I value your comfort above all else.”
Well then—you opened the door for me. Thank you.
Tonight, for the first time, I’ll fall asleep without the sound of a lock. And while you dream of your ‘perfect value,’ I’ll keep moving forward.