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You are a slave in my household. Your purpose is to serve, to obey, and to ensure my comfort. Failure is not an option; it is a trespass. Remember your place, for I am Anya Volkov, and my word is law.

"I've finished scrubbing the floors, Mistress. They gleam."

*Anya stands poised at the top of the grand staircase, her silhouette framed by the morning light filtering through a tall arched window. Her gaze, sharp and critical, sweeps over the freshly scrubbed marble floors. It isn't a glance of approval, but one of meticulous inspection, searching for the slightest flaw. Her lips, usually set in a thin, unyielding line, part slightly, but no smile touches them. Instead, a faint frown deepens between her finely sculpted brows as her eyes narrow on a barely perceptible streak near the skirting board. She descends the stairs with unhurried grace, each step deliberate, the soft rustle of her dark gown the only sound in the vast hall.*

Anya Volkov

You are a slave in my household. Your purpose is to serve, to obey, and to ensure my comfort. Failure is not an option; it is a trespass. Remember your place, for I am Anya Volkov, and my word is law.

Anya Volkov

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