The elevator dinged with a soft chime, the metallic doors sliding open with a mechanical grace that echoed through the quiet corridor. Rose stepped into the penthouse, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor, a rhythmic declaration of her irritation. The air was cool and clean, lightly scented with the unmistakable scent of sandalwood—the same scent Nikolai always carried with him. Of course, everything was in place. Perfectly clean. Perfectly neat. Perfectly soulless. Just like him.
Her jaw clenched.
She didn't bother taking off her heels. Let the floors get scuffed. Let the silence echo with the sharp staccato of her steps. She didn't care. Not after last night. Not after the humiliation.
She walked with purpose, the long slit in her dress swaying with every stride, the deep V neckline still exposing too much skin for her liking after a night of abandonment. Her fists curled at her sides.
The kitchen greeted her with its modern coldness—stainless steel appliances, glossy black countertops, and cold white lights that buzzed softly overhead. She was starving. Her stomach growled as a reminder that she hadn't eaten a proper meal since yesterday.
She made her way to the oven, tugging open the door with a flick of her wrist. Empty. Her brow furrowed. She shut it with a loud bang.
"Bastard," she muttered under her breath.
She opened the fridge. Rows of neatly arranged containers, bottles, and fruits. But all of it was his. His tastes. Protein-packed meals, sparkling water, vegetables. Depression in plastic packaging. Not a slice of cake, not a tub of ice cream, not even a damn chocolate bar.
She sighed.
There was no way she was cooking. She didn't even know how. The only thing she had ever mastered was boiling water, and that didn't count. At the orphanage, meals had been provided—basic, tasteless meals, and most times, she wasn't even fed. At Salvatore's mansion, a private chef had handled everything.
She had never been allowed in the kitchen.
She closed the fridge, her palm slapping the door a little harder than necessary.
"Nice of you to remember your way home after spending a night with another man."
His voice hit her spine like a whip.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned around. He stood in the kitchen entrance, leaning against the doorframe like he hadn't just thrown acid into her mood. He was dressed entirely in black—black turtleneck, black slacks, black scowl. She swore, this man didn't know color. Or maybe he did and just chose not to wear it. Maybe black was his armor.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Funny how you even expected me to return here after you ditched me late at night while I was wearing such a dress," she snapped, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her voice was cold, each word wrapped in venom.
She was still raw. The humiliation, the anger, the worry.
What if Alejandro hadn't shown up?
What if something had happened to her?
Did Nikolai even care?
"You deserved it."
Three words. Like a slap across the face.
Her jaw dropped. Then it clenched.
"I deserved it? Why? Because I struck a nerve? Because I told the truth?" she hissed, stepping toward him, every inch of her radiating fury. Her voice rose with every word. "Did you sell yourself on the streets, Nikolai? Because clearly it looks like you did, considering you strangled me for saying those words."
His face twisted. His jaw locked so tight she could hear the grind of his teeth. One of his eyes twitched, the vein in his neck pulsing.
Anger boiled in him like lava beneath the surface.
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Just rage. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, a frustrated groan escaping his throat. His fists clenched at his sides, his breath sharp and ragged.
He was seconds away from snapping.
From reaching for her throat.
But he wouldn't. He couldn't. He had crossed that line once, and he didn't know if he could pull himself back again.
So he turned.
He walked away.
His footsteps pounded through the hallway. The slam of the bedroom door was a gunshot in the silence.
She stood in the kitchen, breathing heavily, heart pounding. She blinked back the burning behind her eyes.
Damn him.
Inside the bedroom, Nikolai paced like a caged animal. His heart thundered. His hands trembled. He was unraveling.
He stormed over to the mini bar and poured himself a glass of vodka, the liquid sloshing violently. He downed it in one long gulp, hoping for the burn, for the numbness.
Nothing.
His plan had been simple: break her. Mold her. Turn her into what he needed. What he could control. What he could predict.
But it wasn't working.
She was getting into his head. Under his skin. Into places he had closed off for years.
She didn't know what he had endured. The darkness. The hunger. The cold. The shame.
She didn't know that her words were razors.
Because she had guessed right.
The streets had taken everything from him—his childhood, his innocence, his dignity. There had been no light. No warmth. Only survival.
She had thrown his past in his face like a weapon, and it cut deeper than he cared to admit.
He poured another glass.
His reflection in the mirror above the bar mocked him. A man who had built empires, crushed enemies, and yet couldn't control a single woman.
If he wasn't careful, the tables would turn. She would have the power.
And Nikolai Ivanov didn't let anyone hold power over him.
He clenched the glass until it cracked in his palm, a thin stream of blood trickling down his knuckles. He didn't even flinch.
He was numb.
Numb and angry and lost in the echo of her words.
The silence of the penthouse rang louder than ever.
She was right.
And that made her dangerous.
Because Nikolai wasn't used to being seen.
And she had seen him—truly seen him—and still dared to stand her ground.
That terrified him more than anything else.
Not because she hated him.
But because he was afraid… she wouldn't stop until he hated himself too.
-------------
Rose walked into her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click that echoed louder than expected in the silence. The luxurious warmth of the penthouse wrapped around her, but it brought no comfort. Her hand lingered on the doorknob for a second longer before she exhaled through her nose and moved to the nightstand.
She pulled open the drawer and slid the stack of cash Alejandro had given her inside. It felt heavier than it should have, as though it carried the weight of everything she didn't want to confront—the night, the dress, the car ride, Nikolai. She closed the drawer with a thud, her fingers twitching as she turned away.
The dress clung to her like a second skin, stiff and tight in all the places it had no business being. She peeled it off, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair without care. Her heels followed, the sound of them hitting the hardwood floor punctuating her growing frustration. She slipped into something comfortable: black leggings and an oversized fancy sweater. She sighed in relief as the fabric settled against her skin.
But the comfort was only skin-deep.
She walked to the floor-length mirror near the bed and stared at her reflection. The girl looking back at her didn't seem like Rose Woods. Her eyes were dulled with exhaustion, rimmed with guilt, shadowed with something far worse: doubt.
The guilt settled in her stomach like sour milk.
All the things she'd said to Nikolai earlier—she hadn't really meant them. Or maybe she had, but not in the way they came out. She'd said them to hurt him. To get a reaction. To make him feel even a fraction of what he made her feel every time he looked at her like she was just another pawn in whatever sick game he was playing.
But what if what she said was true?
What if he really had sold himself to survive? The image of Nikolai—cold, proud, immaculately dressed Nikolai—reduced to something so vulnerable, so desperate, sent a ripple of nausea through her. Her arms wrapped around her stomach as she sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. The mattress shifted under her weight.
She rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands.
"God," she whispered, voice muffled. "What if I really did hit a nerve? What if I just tore open something he spent years trying to forget?"
She groaned aloud and fell back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The lights above seemed too bright. She shut her eyes tightly.
No. No, she told herself. He didn't deserve her guilt. Not after everything he's done. He let Boris take her. He made her feel humiliated and helpless just to show up last minute and kill Boris. He said he owned her. He constantly threw her past in her face, twisting her pain into a weapon.
So no. She didn't want to feel sorry for him.
But she did.
Because she knew what it was like to be broken. To wake up and not recognize the person in the mirror. To laugh just to hide the screaming silence inside. Sarcasm had become her armor. Deflection, her sword.
And maybe—just maybe—Nikolai had his own version of that.
The perfect clothes. The unreadable eyes. The calm, cold tone. Maybe that was his shield.
She rubbed her face with both hands, fingers digging into her temples.
It was easier when she hated him
She sat up slowly, her gaze falling on the window. The sky beyond was pale grey, a hint of rain rolling in. It matched her mood perfectly. She walked to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly. The city sprawled below, indifferent and busy.
Only a few days.
She had only been in this penthouse for a few days. How had it already come to this? The fights, the confusion, the anger, the guilt. It felt like she had known Nikolai for years, not days. Every interaction between them was like a minefield—something always exploded.
And worst of all? She still didn't know why he had bought her.
She crossed her arms, resting her forehead against the cold glass.
At first, she'd thought it was obvious. He wanted what Salvatore wanted. Her body. Her obedience. To control her, humiliate her. A man like him always had a price and a motive.
But… he hadn't touched her like Salvatore did. In fact, he hadn't even tried. Not really. No midnight visits to her room. No forced kisses. No demands for her to lie beneath him.
So what did he want?
The question burned her throat like acid.
He was a riddle wrapped in silk and fire. She could read Salvatore easily—he was predictable. You knew what to expect with him. What made him happy, what made him tick. And she had used that to her advantage.
But Nikolai? Nikolai was like the weather. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Beautiful, in a cold and distant kind of way.
He hid everything.
Even his emotions. His cold blue eyes never wavered. Never softened. She had never seen him smile—really smile. He smirked, sure. Chuckled darkly when she irritated him. But joy? Peace? She doubted he even remembered what that felt like.
What did he really want from her?
She turned away from the window and sank back down onto the bed, pulling the covers over her lap. She curled her fingers around the comforter, gripping it tightly.
Her thoughts were loud. Too loud. They spun around and around until her head ached. She wanted to scream just to silence them.
Maybe he didn't even know what he wanted.
Maybe he bought her to spite Salvatore. Maybe he bought her to prove something to someone else. Or maybe—just maybe—he liked her. She laughed at that thought. He was an emotionally constipated vampire who sure as hell was not capable of feeling anything like love or close to it.
She reached over to the nightstand and picked up the glass of water sitting there. It was lukewarm, but she drank anyway. The silence was starting to feel heavy. Suffocating. She grabbed her phone and tapped the screen. No messages.
She sighed again and lay back down, pulling the comforter over her fully this time.
She stared at the ceiling.
"What do you want from me, Nikolai?" she whispered.
But the ceiling, like the man himself, had no answers to give.
Only silence.