Dinner time arrived with the same quiet, pristine elegance that draped every inch of Aleksandr Volkov's estate. I followed him down the grand staircase, my fingers lightly skimming the smooth bannister as I walked. The chandeliers above sparkled like icicles, their crystal shards catching the dim light and scattering it across the walls like ghosts dancing in the shadows. The cold marble floor chilled my feet through my socks, reminding me again that everything here—no matter how beautiful—was meant to keep me just slightly uncomfortable. Slightly off-balance.
The dining room was already set, polished silverware glinting under warm sconces, delicate porcelain plates arranged with impossible precision. Two maids stood in wait, dressed immaculately in their crisp uniforms. As always, the table was large enough to seat a dozen people, yet only Aleksandr and I sat at the long, mahogany expanse.