Sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, brushing against the yellow linen sheets and painting golden streaks across Rose's face. She blinked a few times, stretching her limbs slowly like a cat waking from a deep nap. A yawn escaped her lips as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Her hair was a wild mess of red curls, tumbling down her shoulders and sticking up in odd directions. She didn't bother fixing it right away. Instead, she reached over to the nightstand, grabbing her phone to check for any messages. Nothing. Not even a stupid meme from Alejandro. Figures. He was probably too busy crying over his vase.
With a heavy sigh, she tossed the phone back onto the bed and padded toward the en suite bathroom. The mirror greeted her with a version of herself that was only half-human: sleep lines, messy curls, and a fog of confusion still in her eyes. She splashed cold water on her face, brushing her teeth and hopping into the shower. The water was warm and soothing, chasing away the last traces of sleep.
She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her hair now tied into a messy bun that looked decent enough to walk around in. She stepped into her closet, or rather, the closet someone else had curated for her. Each piece of clothing was expensive, tailored, and revealing. She didn't choose them. But what choice did she have? She pulled on a short beige jumpsuit that clung tightly to her curves, showing off more skin than she usually liked, but at this point, modesty had left the building.
Barefoot, she walked out into the main living area of the penthouse. Everything was just as it always was—spotless, sterile, and so perfectly organized it made her skin crawl. There wasn't a single pillow out of place, not a dust mote on the polished floor, not even a streak on the marble counters. She hated it. No home should feel like a showroom.
But then the smell hit her.
Her stomach growled loudly. The scent of eggs and butter and something else mouthwatering floated in the air. She followed the smell like a cartoon character drifting on a scent cloud, and of course, there he was. Nikolai. The very definition of control and ice. Standing by the stove, dressed in black joggers and a simple white t-shirt, flipping eggs like a trained chef. The contrast between his deadly aura and the mundane task of cooking breakfast was almost comical.
Rose didn't greet him. She acted as if he wasn't there, walking straight to the fridge and opening it pointlessly. She already knew there wasn't anything in there that didn't require culinary skills beyond hers. She shut it again, more loudly than necessary, and then took a seat on one of the bar stools by the island.
She tapped her finger on the counter. Three times. Always three.
Nikolai didn't say anything at first. He plated the eggs with practiced movements, then slid one of the plates across the counter to her. No eye contact. No words.
"It would be nice if you were this quiet every day," he finally said as he walked over to the sink. He washed the frying pan with unnecessary precision, then placed it in the dishwasher. Rose blinked at him.
"Wait... didn't you just wash that? Why put it in the dishwasher too?"
"So it can get cleaned properly," he said, still not looking at her.
She stared at him, disbelief written all over her face. "You are so clean... in very weird, very creepy ways."
He raised an eyebrow at her in silent amusement.
"Do you wash your dick five times after sex too? Or rinse your mouth after eating a woman out?" she challenged, crossing her legs and leaning slightly forward. "Do you even go down on women, Nikolai? Or are you just a jackhammer with commitment issues?"
His lip twitched. "Want to find out?"
Her cheeks flamed instantly. "Oh hell no. I'd rather be a nun than let your tongue anywhere near my very sophisticated vagina."
He tilted his head. "Did Salvatore tell you that? About the sophistication?"
She scoffed. "I don't need anyone to tell me. I know what I've got."
Nikolai's gaze didn't falter. "Considering you've been fucked by Salvatore for years, a man who's practically a revolving door for escorts, I wouldn't say there's anything sophisticated left."
She rolled her eyes. "Wow. The man who knows it all. So tell me, Mr. Clean Freak. What about you? Because you most certainly don't strike me as someone who sleeps with the same woman twice."
"What about me?"
"That's not answering the question."
"I don't owe you answers. Eat up. You're attending an event with me tonight."
She dropped her fork, clearly unimpressed. "Hell no. I'm not going anywhere with you. Not after what happened last time—you made me wear that barely-there dress and handed me off to some creep before disappearing like Batman. Not happening."
"I wasn't asking."
"And neither am I."
They stared each other down across the pristine kitchen, tension crackling like a live wire. Nikolai's eyes darkened, something cold and dangerous settling over him.
"I'd advise you not to cross me, Rose," he said, voice low and calm. But Rose wasn't easily intimidated, even if her heart thudded a little faster.
"What are you going to do about it? Ground me? Take away my privileges? If i have any."
He didn't respond. Instead, he took out his phone, unlocked it, and scrolled for a moment before sliding it across the counter to her.
She picked it up and looked.
Her breath hitched. Her hands began to tremble.
It was a picture. A very familiar one. She and Salvatore were on his bed. Her wrists were tied, and his head was buried between her breasts. The room spun slightly. Her stomach turned.
"H-how?" she whispered.
"Imagine what happens if I leak it," Nikolai said coolly. "Salvatore told the world you were nothing more than his adopted daughter. What do you think the public will say about this?"
Her grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles white. "How did you get this?"
"You really don't know, do you? Salvatore filmed everything. Every moment. Every night. Those tapes are mine now. You, Rose, are mine now. Well slavatore could make them disappear if they are leaked and shut people up, but what about you rose?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Salvatore—the man who had stolen her life, her body, her choices—had filmed it all? Without her knowing? And now those horrors lived in Nikolai's possession.
The walls of the pristine penthouse suddenly felt too close.
"Fine," she said after a long moment. Her voice was hoarse. Broken. "I'll come to your event."
Nikolai smiled, but there was no joy in it. Just cold victory.
"Smart choice."
Rose stared down at the plate in front of her. Her appetite was gone. Everything inside her was swirling. Rage. Shame. Fear. But also... a flicker of something else. Something she didn't want to admit.
Whatever game Nikolai was playing, she was now a piece on his board.
And she had no idea what the next move would be.