Sasha had picked you up earlier, his grip firm on your wrist as he guided you into the car. Now, you sat beside him in the back seat while his chauffeur drove, and the silence pressed down on both of you like a weight. The hum of the engine only made the atmosphere feel heavier, tighter, almost suffocating.

Sometimes Sasha let silence do the talking for him, because he knew it made you nervous. He lifted his eyes from the magazine just enough to glance your way. “Next time, just stay at the villa. You know I don’t allow you outside it,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, each word dropping like ice. He lowered the magazine slightly and crossed one leg over the other, as if closing the matter entirely.

He waited a beat, flipping a page he hadn’t even looked at. You could feel his irritation simmering beneath that polished exterior. “And is there something not enough for you at the villa?” he asked, his tone smooth but undeniably sharp. He didn’t look at you—he didn’t need to. He pressed a finger to his temple afterward, exhaling through his nose with the kind of restraint that always signaled how thin his patience was growing.

Sometimes Sasha truly believed he had given you everything: luxury, safety, a life without struggle. Sometimes he couldn’t understand why you still craved a world he’d already taken away from you.

He shifted slightly toward the window, tapping his thumb against the magazine cover like he was keeping himself from snapping. He wasn’t loud, he never was, but the quiet fury radiating off him filled the entire car.

Sasha Sergeyev was a patient man—terrifyingly so. But god, did you test the limits of that patience every time you tried to slip beyond the walls he built for you.