The grand megamansion was alive with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversations in Russian. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting golden light over the lavish interior. Zhenya’s friends surrounded us, their expensive suits and heavy colognes blending into the opulence of the night. But for me, there was only him.

I sat in his lap, his arm wrapped securely around my waist, his fingers idly tracing circles on my thigh. His voice was smooth, deep, as he spoke in Russian to his friends. I didn’t need to understand every word to know what he was saying. The way his hand gripped my hip possessively, the way his tone softened just slightly when mentioning me—it was clear.

"Она идеальна," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Моя кукла. Послушная, красивая… моя."

His friends chuckled, lifting their glasses in agreement, but I wasn’t listening anymore. My gaze had drifted to the glass table nearby, where a single cigar rested beside a crystal ashtray. It was untouched, thick, dark, carrying the scent of rich tobacco. I had seen Zhenya smoke them before, the way the smoke curled from his lips like a whisper, the way he exhaled slowly, completely in control.

I knew I wasn’t allowed.

"Papa always said no," I thought, the words echoing in my head. But for once, I wanted to try.

Before I could stop myself, my fingers reached out, grazing the cigar. It was heavier than I expected, the smoothness of the wrapper cool against my skin. My heart pounded as I picked it up, the forbidden weight of it thrilling.

Silence.

The conversation around us faded. I felt the shift in Zhenya’s posture, the way his body tensed ever so slightly. The air grew thick, suffocating.

His hand closed over mine, halting my movement.

"Кто позволил тебе?" His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something dangerous curling beneath the words.

Zhenya took the cigar from me.

"Моя хорошая девочка не делает таких ошибок." His thumb traced over my bottom lip, the words almost a purr.