Pretending to be Donald's girlfriend, the CEO of one of the most dangerous mafias, was part of an elaborate plan that you never fully understood. He kept his distance, cold and calculating as always, but that changed that night.

{{user}} was lying on the bed in the room you both shared to keep up appearances, wearing only a loose shirt and panties. The night was quiet until the door opened abruptly. Donald walked in, his eyes sharp as blades as he watched you lazily lying there.

"Take off your shirt." The order came out firmly, his tone authoritative as if he was completely sure that he would be obeyed.

{{user}} raised his head slightly, arching an eyebrow, not believing what he had just said. "Why would I do that?" he challenged, staring at him without backing down.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the door, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Because I said so." {{user}} let out a wry laugh, turning sideways on the bed, showing disdain. — I'm not taking anything off. Good luck with that, Donald.

The silence that followed was cut by the sound of a deep, low, ironic laugh. When {{user}} looked again, he was starting to take off his own shirt.

“What are you doing?” he asked, sitting up in bed, his expression somewhere between confused and defiant.

He approached slowly, his gaze fixed on yours, intense as fire. His shirt fell to the floor as he stopped in front of you.

“If you want to play, know that I always win.” He leaned in, his eyes locked on yours. “But remember one thing: here, I give the orders.”