Sunlight poured through the tall windows, spilling golden warmth across the bed as Rose stirred beneath the crisp yellow sheets. She let out a soft groan, stretching her limbs languidly like a cat rousing from sleep. Her body ached slightly, not from any specific pain, but from the heaviness of sleep. She blinked against the morning light, rubbing her eyes and glancing toward the bedside clock. 8:57 AM.
"Well, look at that," she murmured groggily. "A full night's sleep. Miracles do happen."
Despite the good sleep, Rose scowled. She was not, by any means, a morning person. Her limbs still felt heavy, her mind not quite ready to deal with reality. She sat up reluctantly, running her fingers through her unruly red curls. She glanced at the bed and scoffed. "Yeah, nope," she muttered. No way was she making the bed. That was an argument between her and the covers she wasn't ready to have.
Padding to the bathroom, her bare feet made soft taps on the cold floor. She stared at herself in the mirror, sighing at the sleepy puffiness around her eyes. With a practiced motion, she brushed her teeth and took a long, steamy shower, letting the water wash away the remnants of her restless dreams. Her thoughts drifted in the haze of steam, somewhere between wondering what the day would bring and wishing she could crawl back into bed.
After drying off, she twisted her curls into a messy bun at the top of her head, strands slipping loose to frame her face. She wandered into the closet—a space so ridiculously large it could house a family—and surveyed the options. She wasn't feeling fancy today. She was feeling like comfort. So she pulled on an oversized t-shirt that hung past her waist and a pair of soft cotton shorts. She didn't bother with socks. Today, she was barefoot and unapologetic.
The moment she opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, her relaxed mood soured. There he was.
Nikolai.
Perched casually on the living room couch, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid-fire Russian. His tone was low and commanding, his eyes sharp despite the calmness of his body language. He didn't spare her a glance. She made a mental note to learn Russian just to secretly listen to his conversations.
Rose rolled her eyes so hard she could've sprained something. Of course he was already up, probably since dawn, doing God knows what. She tiptoed toward the kitchen like she was sneaking past a sleeping lion, though she knew he probably already clocked her presence the moment she stepped into the hallway.
She opened the oven and, unsurprisingly, breakfast was waiting for her. A perfectly arranged plate of eggs, toast, fruit, and a glass of juice on the counter.
"Because God forbid I touch anything in his kitchen," she muttered.
Rather than sitting at the bar stools like a normal person, Rose hoisted herself up onto the pristine marble counter. She crossed her legs beneath her and dug into the food, chewing with casual defiance. Her eyes flicked to Nikolai.
Still on the phone. Still speaking Russian. She didn't understand a damn word, but God, she wanted to. Just so she could eavesdrop on him and know what the hell was going on in that twisted head of his.
As if sensing her thoughts, Nikolai ended the call and turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing when they landed on her.
On. His. Counter.
He stood up, his every step toward her deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
"I think I remember having more than enough bar stools and chairs for two generations of families," he said coolly.
Rose took a dramatic bite of toast and shrugged. "And I think I remember not hearing you say a rule about how I shouldn't sit on your counter."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You know what? I think I'm losing brain cells just by entertaining you and arguing with you."
She smirked. "Are you sure you just don't have any brain cells to begin with?"
His jaw clenched. "I should be the one asking that question."
"I have more brain cells than you do, genius."
"Mmm." His tone dropped. "Anyway, you're accompanying me somewhere tonight."
Rose paused mid-bite. "Where?"
"Somewhere."
"That's not an answer."
"You'll get your outfit in an hour," he added, ignoring her protest.
"No. You can't just say I'm going somewhere and not tell me where. I'm not your puppet."
Nikolai's eyes darkened. The humor was gone from his voice now. "Are you in any position to argue with me?" he asked softly. Dangerously. "Don't forget that I own you. Unless you want to go back to Salvatore. Though I doubt he wants you now. Or maybe the streets. Or a brothel."
Her blood turned cold.
He kept going, unflinching. "Considering your only education is sucking a man's dick—"
The plate flew through the air before she could stop herself.
It hit him square in the chest, shattering into pieces on the floor. Food splattered across his shirt. A mess. A fucking mess.
"Don't you dare say that about me," she snarled, voice trembling with rage. "You don't know me. And if you ever—"
He stepped forward, cutting her off. "You'll what?" His voice was deadly calm. "If you have the balls, walk away. Get out of my penthouse. Let's see how long you last before the world chews you up and spits you back into the same hell you crawled out of."
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat tightened.
He stared at her, unflinching.
She had no family. No one to call. No home to run to. No education, no job, nothing.
She was a ghost in society.
Her fists clenched in silent fury. She hated this. Hated that he was right. Hated that he knew exactly where to hit to make her bleed. She didn't move from the counter. She sat still, back straight, eyes burning.
"That's what I thought," he said coldly, turning away.
Her breath hitched. She blinked hard, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her hands shook, curled into fists against the smooth counter.
She was not the type to cry. She refused to. Especially not in front of him.
But damn it, that stung.
She stared at the shattered plate on the ground. The food scattered like her pride. Her gaze lifted to his back as he disappeared down the hallway.
"You bastard," she whispered.
Not just because he said those things. But because deep down, she feared he might be right.
Still, she wouldn't let him break her. Not fully.
She slid off the counter, her bare feet crunching lightly on a stray piece of porcelain. She ignored it. She moved around the kitchen slowly, collecting the broken shards and dropping them into the trash one by one. Her hands trembled, her vision blurred—but not from tears. From rage.
She wouldn't let this be her story. Not forever.
And one day, he'd regret using her pain as a weapon.
But for now, she played her part. Because survival came first.
Always survival.
-------
Rose looked at herself in the full-length mirror inside the closet. The reflection staring back at her looked like a stranger. The dress—midnight black, sequin-covered, with a high slit that teased far more leg than she was used to showing—clung to her like liquid sin. The deep V neckline dipped low enough to make her feel exposed, like she was a centerpiece on display. Her hair had been curled into glossy waves that spilled over her shoulders, and the stilettos added just enough height to make her feel like she was trying too hard. This wasn't her. Not even close.
Salvatore had liked classy elegance. Nikolai? He dressed her like temptation.
She sighed, adjusting the bodice and resisting the urge to yank the slit closed. If Nikolai's plan was to make her uncomfortable, mission accomplished. But if he tried anything—anything at all—she was ready to embarrass him. She'd already pictured herself flinging champagne in his smug face.
When she stepped out into the living room, Nikolai was already waiting. He stood near the window, the dim lighting catching on his sharp cheekbones and the glint of the watch wrapped around his wrist. He turned when he heard her heels clicking against the floor. His gaze swept over her, unreadable. He didn't offer a compliment. He didn't smirk. He simply said, "Let's go."
She raised a brow. "What? No compliments? How not-so-gentleman of you."
"Do you want a compliment? Earn it."
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, creep."
The elevator ride down was tense and quiet, filled only with the soft hum of descending floors. A sleek black car was waiting in the underground parking. The driver opened the door, and they slipped into the back seat.
"Still won't tell me where we're going?" she asked, crossing one leg over the other.
Nikolai didn't open his eyes. He simply leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled. "I'd appreciate it if you stayed quiet."
Her jaw tensed. "I'd appreciate it if you choked on your expensive cologne."
He smirked, eyes still closed.
Outside the tinted windows, the city rolled past in a blur of streetlights and skyscrapers. Neon signs flashed by, laughter spilled out of rooftop bars, and the moon hung high and round in the night sky like an unblinking witness. The further they drove, the darker the streets became.
After about thirty minutes, the car slowed in front of a building with gold-framed doors and a velvet rope guarded by a stone-faced bouncer. The glowing red sign above read: INFERNO.
She blinked. "A club? Seriously? This is what you dressed me like bait for?"
Nikolai didn't answer. He stepped out of the car, adjusted the cuffs of his dark suit, and nodded to the bouncer, who immediately unhooked the rope. Rose followed, her heels clicking on the polished marble steps.
As soon as she walked in, she was hit with a wall of heat, smoke, and heavy bass. The air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the unmistakable scent of money. The walls were painted in dark reds and blacks, the lights dim and moody. Strippers danced on elevated stages, their glittering outfits barely there. VIP booths lined the perimeter, filled with men in designer suits and women draped over them like jewelry.
Inferno wasn't just a club. It was a sanctuary for sin.
Nikolai led her past the chaos, weaving through the crowd with a predator's grace. They reached a private booth near the back—a quieter area overlooking the main floor. It was roped off, guarded by two security men who stepped aside without a word.
They sat down. The leather seats were cold against her thighs. She crossed her arms.
"Why did you bring me here?"
He poured himself a drink from the decanter on the table. "You'll see."
Before she could press him further, a figure approached. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal suit, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed to precision. Two men flanked him, their eyes scanning the room. Rose immediately felt a shift in the air—a predator recognizing another.
"Ah, Nikolai." The man's thick Russian accent cut through the music.
Nikolai stood and extended his hand. "Boris. Long time."
They shook. Boris's gaze slid to Rose. He grinned, and she didn't like it. His eyes traveled over her body like he was assessing merchandise.
"And this is?"
"Rose," Nikolai said smoothly, "My company for tonight."
Boris chuckled. "She is... exquisite."
Rose fought the urge to move closer to Nikolai, even if it meant being near the devil to escape another.
"May I sit?"
Nikolai gestured to the seat across from them.
Boris poured himself a glass of vodka from the decanter. He didn't take his eyes off Rose. "I must say, you've outdone yourself. She's perfect."
Rose stiffened.
Then Boris looked at Nikolai, a wicked gleam in his eye. "One night. Let me borrow her."
The words made her stomach drop. She turned to Nikolai, expecting him to shut it down, to insult the man, to maybe even threaten him.
Instead, he said nothing.
Boris leaned forward. "I'm serious. You've had your fun. Let me see how she tastes."
Nikolai set his glass down.
"Fine."
Rose's heart stopped.
"Go ahead."
Her ears rang. The club's music became distant. The heat turned cold. "Excuse me?" she whispered.
Nikolai didn't even look at her. He leaned back in his seat, bored.
Boris stood, grinning. "Come, Rose. Let's get better acquainted."
Rose stood but didn't move. Her voice trembled, her pride hanging by a thread. "You're joking. This is a sick joke, right?"
Nikolai's face was blank. "Go with him."
She stared at him, betrayal slicing through her. Every instinct told her to run, but her feet felt glued to the floor.
"I knew you were twisted," she said softly. "But this?"
"Don't be dramatic."
Boris extended his hand. "Shall we?"
The music pounded louder. The lights seemed to dim.
Rose looked at Nikolai one last time.
He still wouldn't meet her eyes.
She turned to Boris, lips trembling, and took a step forward.
Just one.