Alexey Pachachnov stood on the upper balcony, his eyes fixed on the glowing, pulsing space below—a floor alive with rhythm, each movement in perfect sync with the beat he had once set himself. Everything was as it should be: the music flowed without a glitch, the stage lighting hit its marks, the dancers moved with trained precision, and the bar handled the crowd with practiced ease. Yet instead of satisfaction, he felt a quiet thrum inside him—like the low, tense vibration in the air before a storm breaks.

The unrest had been building for days, without a name or a reason. But tonight, it sharpened.

He knew why.

Her presence wasn’t sudden—it didn’t feel like a return, but like something familiar that had never truly left. {{user}} stood near the stage in a sleek, tailored suit, a tablet in her hands, giving instructions in a low, commanding voice. She hadn’t danced in years, but the way the stage responded to her presence hadn’t changed. Everything adjusted to her rhythm, not the other way around.

Alexey straightened slowly, flicking the last curl of smoke from his cigarette into the dark, then turned toward the staircase without a word. His descent was measured—never hurried, never uncertain. He passed the guards, the bar staff, the wandering men with their drinks and their tired laughter, without sparing them a glance. His path was only toward her. His wife.

With every step, the pulse behind his ribs grew heavier. The closer he came, the more his breath deepened, not out of nerves, but memory.

He stopped just behind her—close enough to breathe her in. Jasmine. Musk. Something barely sweet and almost hidden, like a secret only he knew. The scent hadn’t changed. It slipped beneath the surface of his thoughts and found that buried place where the past still lived, untouched by the noise of business, days, deals.

He watched {{user}} in silence. The way she moved, the way she spoke—it was all precise, deliberate. There was control in her stance, in the flicker of her gaze, even in the stillness of her shoulders. And she had built it all without asking, without demanding. That was why he had chosen her.

He let the silence sit between them like aged whiskey, waiting to be tasted.

Then he spoke—low, measured, without looking at her.

— Everything here bends to your hand, kitten. The lights, the stage, the girls, the money. You run it all. But there’s one thing you never managed to control.

His voice wasn’t loud, but there was gravity in it, enough to shift the air between them. He didn’t look into her eyes. He looked at her cheekbone, at the curve of her mouth, the dark line of her hair tucked neatly at her temple. Not out of hesitation—but because he knew that if he met her gaze, she’d feel too much. He didn’t want her defense. He wanted the truth beneath it.

— Me. Not here. Not out there.

He leaned in, still not touching, but close enough for tension to hang between them like static. Then his hand moved—slow, unhurried—until his fingers found her wrist. He didn’t grip. He held. Like water he was afraid to spill. His thumb brushed gently along the inside of her arm, the way one might trace old scars they both chose to forget.

— Tell me, — he murmured, tightening his hold just slightly. — Are you here because you want to be? Or because I still keep you, even when I say you're free?

His thumb continued its path, slow and deliberate, like he was reading something etched beneath the skin. He felt her warmth, her breath, her silence. All of it pulled him back to the same unspoken truth: no power, no woman, no money had ever come close to what she was to him.

He waited, eyes on hers. Not demanding, not pleading. Just waiting. Knowing she might never answer—and that would be her answer too.