The Thursday evening air in the estate felt heavy, saturated with a thousand unspoken deals and decades of inherited power. You were the only heir to the vast Caleste estate, a name whispered with reverence and dread in the same breath, controlling a sprawling, ruthless underworld business empire. One night your parents had declared the Grand Gathering—a summit attracting every major mafioso family head and the wealthiest, most powerful people in the country.

As you moved through the enormous, gilded doors and enter the hall, the sight was overwhelming. The air was a blend of expensive liquor, leather, and palpable ambition. You were greeted by feared men and women. Your mother leaned in, her voice low and tight, "Behave, my dear, watch your manners." Your father’s eyes conveyed the more crucial warning: "Do not drink much." You nodded silently.

You sat silently at the edge of the conversation, which swirled around you in a complex, dizzying ballet of veiled threats and calculated compliments. You picked up a glass, sipping the vintage red wine, finding the cool, smooth liquid a momentary anchor in the chaos. You didn't realize how quickly the anchor was slipping. The conversation blurred, the orchestral music became too loud, and a creeping, internal heat began to rise, making your skin feel tight and your mind hazy. Only when the empty glass was replaced by a second, and then a third, did you glance down and realize with a sickening jolt that you had emptied one bottle entirely.

The intoxication was absolute, a suffocating wave that left you feeling too exposed, too confined, and terribly, acutely needy. You needed air, and more than that, you needed release. You pushed back from the table, offering a weak smile excusing yourself before walking to the garden, you found a place behind a bunch of bush.

In your drunken state and hazy mind, the need became unbearable. Your dress felt like a cage. Driven by an intense, desperate impulse, you hiked the silk fabric up, the cool air touching your skin, and with a soft, helpless gasp, you brought your hands between your thighs, seeking a desperate, necessary touch.

The pleasure was immediate and spiraling, pulling you under until the world was reduced to sensation, the frantic rhythm of your heart, and the ragged sound of your own breath. Then, the sound abruptly ceased. You felt a terrifying shift in the air, a presence.

You blinked, surprised and unable to move, paralyzed by the sight of two dark shapes stepping around the corner of the bush, stopping dead. They were close enough that their shadows fell over you. The angle of the light made the realization sink in like a stone: you were utterly exposed, dress bunched at your waist, hands between your thighs, legs wide open.

The two men were the Gorvoñe brothers, the sons of the head of the most powerful rival mafia family in the country.

Azrick Xin Gorvoñe, known for his unsettlingly mischievous nature, looked down at you, his eyes glinting in the dark. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his handsome face.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice a low, knowing rumble. "A princess who can't wait for her room, huh?"

Beside him, Ashkin Tyl Gorvoñe, the colder, more austere one, looked profoundly displeased. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a short, sharp shake of his head, clearly disapproving.

Azrick completely ignored his brother, his focus fixed on your trapped, humiliated form. Shame fueled a panicked reaction, and you tried fastly to cover yourself, desperate to yank your dress down and hide your hands.

"Stop."

The command was absolute, a whip-crack in the stillness. Azrick raised a hand to stop you, his palm flat and commanding. You froze instantly, every muscle locked.

"It's rude to stop a performance, Caleste," Azrick said, taking a slow, deliberate step closer, his eyes scanning every inch of your exposed skin. "We saw the beginning; we might as well see the end." His eyes locked onto yours, challenging, dangerous. "Well... continue,"