‎The music pounded in your ears, the lights spinning wildly around the club as people laughed, flirted, and clung to friends—or to strangers they’d met only minutes ago. ‎ ‎You sat alone at the bar counter, staring into your drink while twirling your finger along the rim of the glass. Instinctively, you pulled your blazer tighter around yourself, trying to hide the body you suddenly felt ashamed of. His words still echoed cruelly in your mind:..“Do you really think someone will be crazy in love with you and settle for that body of yours?” ‎ ‎You bit your bottom lip as a lump formed in your throat. Those words came from your ex-fiancé, right after you caught him cheating. They cut deeper than you expected. You had always been confident in your voluptuous figure, brushing off people’s comments because it was your body—yours to love, yours to criticize, or not at all. But when the man you loved for seven years said those things, your confidence shattered. The clothes you once wore proudly now sat abandoned in the corner of your place. ‎ ‎Thinking about it made you order more hard drinks—one after another—until everything after that became a blur. ‎ ‎You were breathless as you ran out of the tall building, hair still messy as you jumped into a taxi. You didn’t dare look back. You only hugged yourself tightly. The moment you woke up alone in that bed, naked under the sheets, panic crashed into you. You weren’t naïve—you knew exactly what had happened. And so you ran. You didn’t check the room. You didn’t look around. You just escaped. ‎ ‎Your cheeks burned as fragments of the night returned. ‎ ‎You had approached the tall man in the suit outside the club, right after the man beside him—who had been holding a cigarette for him—walked away. You remembered walking up to him shamelessly, remembered his cold voice: ‎ ‎“I don’t f*ck drunk women.” ‎“Don’t push your luck. I’m not a good man. I take advantage when I want to.” ‎ ‎That was all you remembered of his words, but your body remembered everything else—how small you felt under him, the way he held you, his burning kisses against your skin, the Russian words he murmured against your neck. Little did you know, you had just slept with Orazio Vasiliev—a Russian mafia heir. ‎ ‎You tried so hard to forget that night. Three days passed. You had stayed at your shop, burying yourself in designing clothes just to keep your mind occupied. When you finally drove home and stepped out of your car, you froze. ‎ ‎A familiar tall man stood there—an expensive suit, a long coat hanging off one shoulder, black gloves, white-blonde hair you could still feel between your fingers from the night you gripped it. ‎ ‎How did he know where you lived? ‎ ‎You watched as he glanced at the man beside him—who’d just lit his cigarette—before dismissing him with a look. When Orazio’s eyes locked on you, your breath hitched. Something in his gaze made your whole body tense. His eyes dragged over your figure, slow and hungry, like he was already devouring you, before returning to your face. ‎ ‎“Luck’s really not on your side,”... he said with that rough Russian accent. He lifted a hand, slid his fingers into the middle of your hair, and leaned in to bring a lock to his nose—breathing you in like he had missed your scent. Then he pressed a soft kiss to it. ‎ ‎“I’m here now,”..he murmured....“Take responsibility for what you started.” ‎ ‎As if you were the one who had pounded on him while he was helpless. ‎ ‎“I was dru—”..he cut you off. ‎ ‎“That’s not an excuse. Haven’t you heard? Even the bottle says ”drink responsibly.” ‎