As Sofia lay lifeless and spent on the floor, a loud, forceful bang echoed against the dressing room door. Without waiting for permission, Alia stormed in like a whirlwind. But the moment she stepped inside, she froze in her tracks.
The stifling, heavy air of the room, the white fluid splattered across the floor, and Sofia's flushed, devastated body made Alia's eyes widen in shock. Dimitri stood there, nonchalantly sipping his coffee as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Alia gasped under her breath, "Oh no!"
But in an instant, the toxic side of Alia's personality seemed to vanish behind a veil of concern. She rushed forward and knelt before Sofia. Gently brushing away Sofia's tangled, messy hair, she pulled her into a tight embrace. Even Dimitri narrowed his eyes, surprised by this sudden display of maternal affection.
Clasping Sofia to her chest, Alia turned toward Dimitri and screamed:
"Dimitri! What have you done? She is a human being! I look at her like a sister... like my real sister. Why did you attack her like an animal? I cannot bear to see her in this state!"
Alia draped her own scarf over Sofia's shivering body and whispered into her ear, "Don't cry, sister. I am here for you. I won't let Dimitri get away with this."
However, even within Alia's embrace, Sofia felt no peace. She knew all too well that this "sisterly" love was nothing more than a grand performance. While a stray tear may have glistened in the corner of Alia's eye, a faint, sinister smirk flickered at the edge of her lips—one that only Sofia could sense. Was Alia truly trying to protect her, or was this just another psychological move to incite Dimitri's cruelty even further?
Dimitri set his coffee mug down and said in a cold, level voice, "Stop the drama, Alia. Get her ready and bring her downstairs."
While still holding Sofia, Alia looked up at Dimitri and gave him a mysterious, knowing smile.The Morning of Surrender and Defiance
That morning felt fundamentally different. The Alta on Sofia's feet had dried into a deep, blood-red hue—looking more like a victory mark from a battlefield than a decorative stain. She was not wearing her usual tactical gear; instead, she had chosen an exquisite, intricately designed saree. Though she looked regal in its folds, her body felt utterly spent.
Dimitri was equally striking, dressed in a tailored, jet-black three-piece suit. He looked like royalty, exuding a terrifying aura of gravity. As he adjusted his cufflinks in front of the mirror, his sharp eyes never left Sofia's reflection.
Sofia struggled with her saree pleats and jewelry. The trauma of the previous night and the turmoil in her soul made her hands tremble. She couldn't fasten the pins, and even the heavy necklace seemed too much for her weakened grip. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized how much she had broken—physically and mentally.
Dimitri stepped silently behind her, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. Without a word, he took the pin from her shaking fingers. His strong, steady hands expertly tucked and secured the saree over her shoulder.
Leaning down, his voice was a chilling whisper against her ear:
"Why do the hands that the DGFI trained to kill enemies tremble so much today, Sofia? I didn't just want to dress you; I wanted to conquer you. Looking at you in this saree, it seems you have accepted defeat quite beautifully."
He fastened the lock of her necklace, the jewels resting right above the crimson art he had etched onto her neck. "Let's go downstairs," he said, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Viktor and Alia are waiting. Today, they will see how perfect Dimitri's choice is."
Sofia's Rebellion
Suddenly, a surge of raw defiance flared in Sofia's voice. She jerked her shoulder away from his touch and looked him straight in the eyes. The broken girl vanished, and the Major returned.
She let out a bitter, mocking laugh.
"Why are you lying, Dimitri? Why do you keep using Alia and Viktor's names to scare me? This is our story, not theirs. Their chapter ended a long time ago. Stop trying to make me weak with their ghosts."
Dimitri's confident smirk faltered for a heartbeat. Sofia continued, her voice growing colder:
"Whether Alia came here to play a drama or not doesn't matter. What matters is this sick game you are playing—you are doing this alone. This art on my back, this Alta on my feet—it's your obsession. So tell me, what's next? How do you want to write the final page of 'Our Story'?"
Dimitri stared at her in a deafening silence. Then, he gripped her chin firmly.
"You think their chapter is over? You're wrong, Sofia. It has only begun. But you're right—this is our story. In this book, I am the author and the reader. And you? You are the character I decorate and destroy every single night."
He took a black silk handkerchief and wiped a stray drop of blood from the corner of her lip. "Fine. Tonight, we progress without guests. Just you, me, and our poisonous love."
The Capture
Dimitri's reaction to her defiance wasn't anger it was a twisted kind of fascination. Before she could react, he swept her off her feet and gathered her into his powerful arms.
Sofia gasped, clutching his collar. Her red-stained feet dangled as he carried her toward the stairs. She struggled, but his grip was like iron.
"A rebellious character is my favorite, Sofia," he whispered. "You're right in this story, your feet don't even need to touch the ground. I will place you on my throne, just as an artist guards his masterpiece."
In the Drawing Room
Dimitri carried her into the grand living room and placed her onto a massive velvet sofa. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat dangerously close, his arm draped over her shoulders.
"Now tell me, Sofia," he said, his breath ghosting over her ear. "How shall we begin this private chapter? With love... or with a little more pain?"