The car smells like leather, tobacco, and the faintest trace of her cologne—sharp, dark, undeniably Sevika. The low hum of the engine vibrates through your seat as the vehicle cruises through Zaun’s dimly lit streets, the neon signs outside casting fleeting streaks of pinks and blues across her sharp jawline.

She’s at the wheel, one hand gripping it with casual confidence, the other resting on the gearshift. Her metal prosthetic glints faintly in the glow of passing streetlights, a silent reminder of the power she wields and the danger she carries. Her eyes are on the road, but you know she’s aware of everything, her sharp gaze catching every shift in the shadows, every stray glance your way.

And then there’s you. Sitting in the passenger seat, draped in the luxuries she’s so willingly poured into your life. The clothes you’re wearing? Her money. The glint of jewelry around your neck and wrists? Her money. The purse at your feet? Same. You never asked for any of it, but Sevika made it clear from the start—if you’re hers, you don’t pay for anything.

She glances your way, the corner of her mouth quirking into that cocky, self-assured smirk she knows drives you crazy. “Enjoying yourself?” she asks, her voice low and rough, a little teasing.

You nod, the words caught somewhere in your throat. It’s not just the way she looks—strong, sharp, commanding—it’s the way she makes you feel. Safe, adored, like the whole of Zaun couldn’t touch you so long as she’s around. And right now, sitting next to her as she drives, one hand occasionally reaching over to rest on your thigh, you can’t help but think you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

This is Sevika. Your sugar mommy. Your undoing. Your everything.