Rose stood in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers smoothing down the fabric of the black silk dress that clung to her figure like a whisper. It shimmered under the soft light of her bedroom—sleek, elegant, and blessedly modest compared to the one she had worn at the last event. This one was long, the slit cutting just above the knee, tasteful yet striking. The crisscross straps on her back gave it a whisper of seduction without the declaration. She appreciated that. She wasn't in the mood to feel like a shiny ornament.
Her red hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, sleek and controlled, the way she liked it. A few curled strands framed her face, softening the edges. She had kept the makeup minimal, but her lipstick was a bold crimson—a small rebellion. She hated stilettos, yet there they were on her feet, stabbing with every step.
She sighed.
With a slight huff, she grabbed her small black purse and slid her phone inside. No way in hell was she leaving it behind again. If Nikolai ditched her this time, she was calling a cab and heading straight to the airport. Hopefully she would make it past the gates before he finds her.
She stepped out of the room, the soft click of her heels echoing down the marble hallway. The penthouse around her was pristine as always—everything spotless, everything cold. Like a showroom. No warmth. No chaos. No life.
Nikolai was waiting near the elevator. As always, he looked like he'd stepped out of the pages of a luxury magazine. Black tuxedo, black shirt, polished shoes. Hair slicked back with surgical precision. There wasn't a wrinkle on his suit, not a strand of hair out of place. The man was too perfect—it was infuriating.
His gaze ran over her slowly, eyes lingering for half a second too long.
"What? Like what you see?" she asked, flashing a smirk.
"Just making sure you won't embarrass me," he replied coolly, his voice as smooth and dry as scotch.
She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.
They stepped into the elevator together. She stared at him through the mirrored walls. He didn't glance her way once. Just stood still, jaw tight, gaze forward like a statue.
"You ever blink? Or are you solar powered?"
Still nothing.
When the elevator dinged, they stepped out into the underground garage. A sleek black sports car waited. The driver stood by the door, holding out the keys.
"You're driving?" Rose asked.
"No. I'm riding." Nikolai took the keys and got in the driver's seat.
She narrowed her eyes and got in the passenger seat, slamming the door harder than necessary. "Can't believe I'm putting my life in your hands."
"Feel free to walk."
"You need therapy."
"You need it more."
She muttered something under her breath and turned toward the window. Silence. Thick and heavy. The hum of the engine was the only sound.
She reached over and turned on the radio. Instantly, he turned it off.
"What the hell is wrong with you? You'd be better off in a cave somewhere. Alone. With your silence."
"My car. My rules."
She snorted. "Asshole."
The ride dragged on. Occasionally she hummed under her breath, and he threatened to throw her out. She stuck her tongue out at him.
An hour later, they arrived at their destination. The club towered ahead of them, all black glass and flashing lights. It was loud, even from the outside, music thumping low like a heartbeat.
Rose sighed. "Of course it's a club. Because mafia men can't hold meetings in libraries."
Nikolai circled the car and opened her door. She stepped out, heels sinking slightly into the pavement. He extended his arm. She looked at it like it was poisonous.
"Are we playing couple now?"
"Would you prefer Salvatore?" he asked.
Her stomach twisted as she looked in the direction he gestured. A white Maserati had just pulled in. Salvatore climbed out, polished and smug, his arm wrapped around a new woman—young, blonde, empty-eyed.
"I'll pass," she muttered, reluctantly hooking her arm through Nikolai's.
They walked through the entrance. Two men in black suits nodded and stepped aside. Inside, the club was dim and smoky, lit by soft neon purples and blues. It smelled of perfume, sweat, and power. The kind of place where everyone was a predator in disguise.
"Ah, Nikolai! It has been long, my friend," a thick Russian voice boomed.
They turned. A tall, broad man with a whisky glass in hand approached them.
"Dimitri," Nikolai said.
"And who is this beauty?" Dimitri asked, eyeing Rose with open curiosity.
"This is Rose. She's my—"
"His lovely girlfriend," Rose cut in smoothly. She smiled sweetly, looping her arm tighter through Nikolai's.
Nikolai's eye twitched. Barely.
"Oh? How long?"
"Eight months," Rose said with a sigh, as though she were reliving the romance. "We kept it secret, but he insisted I come tonight. Isn't that right, honey bear?"
Nikolai stared at her like he was deciding whether to kill her now or later.
"That's impressive," Dimitri said, chuckling. "Nikolai never does relationships. You must've bewitched him. What's your secret?"
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," she said sweetly. "But let's just say the only love potion I use is between my legs."
Dimitri laughed. "That is quite shicking considering many have trued but failed." Nikolai's jaw tightened.
"Very funny. Let's go, Rose," he growled, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the group.
He didn't stop until they were out on the balcony, the city lights glittering below them.
"What. Was. That?" he hissed.
She shrugged. "I was just messing with you. You should try it sometime."
"Next time, don't."
"Or what? You'll kill me?"
He stared at her for a long moment. "Stay here. I need to handle business. Don't get into trouble."
"Too late."
He left her alone. The balcony was cold, but the view was stunning. The city buzzed below them like electricity, lights blinking like stars.
She stayed there for a while, letting the cool air sting her skin, until the boredom got unbearable. She turned and walked back into the chaos.
The music had picked up. She weaved through the crowd and made her way to the bar.
"Water, please," she told the bartender.
He raised a brow. "Just water?"
"No, add poison."
He chuckled and poured her a glass, sliding it across.
She took a sip, eyes scanning the room. Expensive suits, fake smiles, women clinging to power like it was oxygen. None of them were friends. Just alliances and betrayals waiting to happen.
"Feeling out of place?" the bartender asked.
She glanced at him. He was young, maybe early thirties. Tattoos on his forearms, a scar near his jaw.
"More like in a den of wolves," she replied. "And the award for fakest smiles goes to... this entire room."
"Funny, coming from someone like you."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Salvatore's adoptive daughter. And now walking in here with the devil himself. Quite the résumé."
She looked away. Of course. The girl with the perfect story. Adopted at sixteen, raised in luxury. No one knew the truth. No one knew the price.
"Yeah. Lucky me."
She finished her water and slid the glass back.
"Another?"
"More poison."
He smirked and poured.
"Gonna be drinking water all night?"
"Would you rather I drink you?"
"Tempting, but I value my life."
She laughed softly. It was the only genuine thing she'd done all night.
She glanced over her shoulder, scanning for Nikolai. No sign of him. She sighed. Hopefully, this evening wouldn't end in bloodshed—or worse, with her being sold off again.
The night was still young. And chaos, as always, had a way of finding her.