The loud click of the front door echoed through the quiet house, followed by the shuffle of shoes and a tired sigh. The doctor arrived just as the grandfather clock struck three. His eyes were bleary, his hair slightly ruffled from sleep, and his coat was thrown over his wrinkled shirt.
Nikolai stood at the entrance his tall frame stiff with impatience.
"Mr. Ivanov," the doctor greeted, trying to maintain his composure despite clearly having been dragged out of bed. His briefcase was still clutched tightly in his hand.
"Check on her. She's been drugged, so I sedated her," Nikolai said curtly, already walking inside.
The doctor gave a stiff nod. No questions. That was the silent agreement between them. He wasn't paid to ask, only to fix.
He followed Nikolai down the dimly lit corridor, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The door to the bedroom creaked open slowly. The air in the room was warmer, heavier. Rose lay on the large bed, a mess of tangled sheets and tousled hair. Her breathing was even now, her body relaxed from the sedation, but her cheeks were still flushed and her brow slightly furrowed.
She looked… small. Too small for the massive bed she occupied. Fragile, almost. The doctor hesitated for a moment, before stepping into the room.
"How long ago?" he asked, placing his bag on the nightstand.
"Less than an hour," Nikolai replied, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall.
The doctor nodded again and got to work. He washed his hands in the en-suite bathroom and came back with a small flashlight. Gently, he peeled back one of her eyelids, checking her pupils. "They're dilated," he muttered to himself. "Heartbeat elevated. Not dangerously so, though."
He reached for his stethoscope and checked her vitals next. The rhythm of her heart was rapid, but not irregular. He moved with precision—taking her pulse, checking her temperature, inspecting her arms for puncture marks or bruising. He unzipped his bag and pulled out a small vial and syringe, drawing up a clear liquid.
"What's that?" Nikolai asked.
"A saline mix with mild detox agents. It'll flush out some of the ecstasy, help stabilize her quicker. Whatever she took, it was strong. Who gave it to her?"
Nikolai didn't answer. His jaw clenched.
The doctor didn't push. He injected the solution into a vein in Rose's arm and watched her carefully. A soft sigh escaped her lips, barely audible, as her body seemed to relax even further.
"She'll sleep for a few hours," he said, turning back to Nikolai. "Keep her hydrated. If she wakes up disoriented, don't panic her. Let her ease out of it. The drug was cut with something else—maybe something to increase sensitivity."
Nikolai's nostrils flared slightly at that, but he said nothing.
The doctor stood, packed his things, and turned to Nikolai again. "There might be some confusion when she wakes. She might cry, or panic, or even be hyper-affectionate. The brain responds to synthetic dopamine in strange ways, especially with this kind of drug."
Again, silence.
"She'll be okay," the doctor added after a moment, softer now. "Just… don't leave her alone."
"I wasn't planning to," Nikolai said quietly.
With a nod, the doctor made his way to the door. "You know where to reach me if anything changes."
Nikolai followed him out, handed him a thick envelope without a word, and then shut the door behind him. The house fell silent once again.
He turned back toward the bedroom. Slowly, he walked to the edge of the bed, his eyes falling on Rose's sleeping figure. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing shallow but steady. A strand of hair fell across her cheek.
She looked… peaceful. Like nothing had happened. Like she wasn't drugged. Like she wasn't the same girl who'd climbed onto his lap an hour ago, trembling and begging him to help her feel something other than the chaos in her blood.
He sat down at the edge of the bed.
For a moment, he just watched her.
And then he rose to his feet and walked to the closet. Pulling the door open, he scanned the contents quickly before settling on a clean black shirt. He came back to her side and stared down at the dress she wore—crumpled, creased, stained with the sweat of a night gone wrong.
His fingers hesitated at the strap of her dress. She was unconscious, unresponsive, her limbs heavy. Slowly, carefully, he began to undress her, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing.
He peeled the dress off her body, trying not to linger. She wore no bra—just lacy panties that did little to hide the softness of her body. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to look away as he pulled his shirt over her head, guiding her arms gently through the sleeves.
When it was done, she looked smaller somehow. Wrapped in his shirt, swallowed in fabric, her bare legs curled slightly beneath the covers, she resembled something out of place. A lost girl in a cage too gilded for her to understand.
He reached down and brushed her hair back from her face.
"Stupid girl," he whispered, voice thick. "Why did you drink it?"
She didn't answer.
Of course she didn't.
He stood there for a long time, just watching her. The moonlight poured in through the open curtains, illuminating half of her face. Her lashes cast soft shadows over her cheeks.
Nikolai felt something heavy settle in his chest. Guilt? No. That wasn't a word he liked. Not one he believed in. But it was something. Something he didn't have a name for.
Finally, he stepped back. His shirt hung loosely off her shoulder, revealing a bit of skin that made his gut tighten. He shook his head and pulled the covers up to her chin.
Then he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
-------
Morning broke gently over Manhattan, casting golden streaks of sunlight across the city skyline. The low hum of life filtered in through the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows of Nikolai Ivanov's penthouse. Outside, the world was wide awake—cars honking below, commuters rushing through sidewalks, horns blaring, and the occasional siren wailing through the chaos of the city. But within these walls, everything stood still—serene, almost sterile, as though the apartment was suspended in time.
The room was steeped in darkness, despite the light leaking through the curtains. The walls were painted in charcoal greys, the furniture sleek and modern, bathed in deep tones. It wasn't cold, but it felt like it could be. Quiet. Still. Too quiet.
Rose stirred beneath the heavy duvet of Nikolai's bed. Her limbs shifted slowly, as if her body was not entirely her own. Her head throbbed with an unrelenting ache, pulsing behind her eyes. She groaned softly, her brows furrowing as she slowly blinked her eyes open.
"Where...?"
The ceiling above her wasn't familiar. Neither was the smell—masculine, woodsy, and clean. Everything around her screamed not her space. She sat up slowly, every movement sending tiny jolts of pain to her skull. The room tilted for a second before settling back into place. Her vision cleared, and she took in the space—dark wood, black sheets, everything was in dark colours.
This wasn't her yellow room.
Panic surged in her chest.
She glanced down at herself—and froze. She was wearing a shirt. Oversized. Black. It fell just above her knees, brushing against her bare thighs. The fabric was thick, soft. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled—it smelled like cedarwood and something inherently him. Nikolai.
Her pulse kicked up. What the hell happened last night?
She closed her eyes, trying to trace her way back through the fog of memories. She remembered the club. The bar. Thomas, the bartender. The cocktail—the best she's ever had. Then… a man. A stranger with a creepy smile. A tight grip. She remembered struggling. His breath. Then blood. The image was vivid—thick, red blood splattering across her vision. That man… he had died.
Nikolai had killed him. Saved her.
And then the alley. The car. She remembered clinging to him, her body trembling, her voice begging. Her cheeks burned with shame and confusion.
Her breath caught in her throat. "Did we…?"
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open. She startled slightly, pulling the comforter closer. Nikolai stepped in, looking composed and cool, dressed in black slacks and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. As always, he moved with grace and dangerous precision—like a predator stalking his territory.
Their eyes locked.
"You're awake," he said matter-of-factly.
He walked in carrying a tray. On it, a glass of water and two aspirin. Without another word, he placed the tray on the nightstand beside her.
"Here. Drink this."
His voice was low, calm, but firm—commanding, in a way that left no room for refusal.
She hesitated, her lips parting. But the pounding in her head made the decision for her. She took the glass, her fingers grazing his briefly—his touch was cool, hers trembled—and she downed the pills with a few gulps of water.
There was a beat of silence.
Then her voice came out—quiet, hesitant. "Did… did we have sex?"
She hated asking. Hated that she had to. But she needed to know. The thought alone made her stomach twist.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "Do you feel sore?"
The bluntness of the question made her face heat.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. She shifted, mentally checking in with her body. No soreness. No aches. Nothing that would indicate sex. She shook her head slightly.
"Or did you always feel fine everytimd after Salvatore fucked you?" he added, voice clipped, his words slicing into her like ice. "I wouldn't be surprised. Besides, I have a type, Rose. And it's certainly not drugged or drunk."
She blinked, taken aback. A sting flared behind her eyes. "Asshole," she spat.
He didn't flinch. "You should be more careful next time," he said sharply. "Because it won't always be me who finds you first."
She looked down at her lap, fiddling with her fingers. His words, cruel as they were, weren't entirely wrong. The night could've ended so much worse.
A quiet breath left her lips. "Th-thank you," she murmured.
He raised a brow. "What? I didn't hear that."
She looked up, glaring. "Thank you. For not taking advantage of me," she repeated louder, enunciating each word like a curse.
He gave a single nod. "Good. Now get out of my room."
She rolled her eyes. Yep. Asshole Nikolai was back.
With a deep breath, she pushed the covers aside and stood. The shirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing a hint of her collarbone. She reached for the buttons, her fingers slowly working them.
"What are you doing?" Nikolai asked sharply, voice suddenly laced with something else—confusion? Panic?
She didn't answer.
One by one, the buttons came undone. She shrugged the shirt off her shoulders, revealing her lacy panties and nothing else. She walked toward him—barefoot, bare-chested, unapologetically bold—and flung the shirt in his face.
"Your shirt smells like depression," she said coolly, smirking.
For half a second, he stood frozen, the shirt sliding off his face. His eyes dropped—he didn't mean to, but they did—and lingered on her bare chest. His jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.
She turned and walked out, hips swaying deliberately, sending a message that echoed off the walls: You don't scare me. You don't control me.
But Nikolai didn't move. He stood there, still, as if turned to stone. His breath slow. Controlled. Barely.
He hadn't expected this.
He had expected tears. Shame. Maybe even anger. But not this calculated audacity. Not the way her presence lingered even after she was gone—like perfume on skin, impossible to scrub off.
She was a storm. Chaotic, beautiful, and utterly unpredictable.
And for the first time, Nikolai Ivanov realized—
He might be losing control of the game.