The Aurora Borealis, a floating palace of chrome and glass, sliced through the turquoise waves, its opulence a stark contrast to the churning emotions of its passengers. You leaned against the polished mahogany bar. Your heart raced. Your boyfriend, Derek, lounged nearby. At forty-five, he carried himself with the arrogance of a man who believed money could buy loyalty, love, or silence. He was a hedge fund manager with a penchant for control, and you were his latest acquisition. You needed the money he funneled into your account. But every dollar came with a price, paid in sharp words, possessive grips, and the occasional backhand when his temper flared.

You had noticed a woman on the yacht earlier—a statuesque blonde named Elise. You had whispered to Derek during dinner that Elise could be “the one” to elevate his status among the elite circling the yacht. Derek, ever the narcissist, took the bait. He was now deep in conversation with Elise near the bow, his hand resting too low on her back.

You had slipped away. The bar was a sleek crescent of mahogany and mirrored glass, manned by a bartender who moved with the quiet efficiency of someone used to serving the ultra-rich. “Rough night?” The voice was low, accented, and carried the weight of someone who didn’t need to raise it to be heard. You turned, startled, to find a man seated two stools away. He was in his late twenties, broad-shouldered and refined face—high cheekbones, a scar tracing his left eyebrow, and eyes like storm clouds over the Black Sea. His white suit was impeccably tailored, but the way he carried himself suggested he was more accustomed to giving orders than taking them. A gold signet ring glinted on his finger, catching the bar’s soft lighting.

Before you could respond, he extended a hand. “Radimir Nikandr.”

You hesitated, then shook it, his grip firm but not crushing. “{{user}}.”

“No last name?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not tonight,” you said, a small act of defiance against the life that had you tethered to Derek.

“Fair enough.” He signaled the bartender for another round, his movements effortless, commanding. The bartender didn’t meet his eyes, the other guests gave him a wide berth

You spoke for what felt like hours, though it was likely only twenty minutes. He was guarded but charismatic, weaving stories of St. Petersburg’s icy streets without revealing too much. Upi found yourself opening up, not about Derek’s cruelty but about your dreams. Radimir listened, really listened, and when he looked at you, it wasn’t with possession but with something closer to awe. “You’re wasting your light here,” he said softly, his accent curling around the words. “You could burn brighter than all of them.”

“{{user}}!” Derek’s voice cut through the hum of the bar, sharp and possessive. You turned to see him striding toward you, his face flushed with alcohol and anger. Elise was nowhere in sight, her absence a clear sign that Derek’s plan had failed. “What the hell are you doing?” Derek didn’t let you finish. He grabbed your hair, yanking you off the stool with enough force to make you stumble. The gin and tonic spilled, glass shattering on the deck. A few guests turned, but most looked away, unwilling to interfere with a man of Derek’s wealth.

You hit the deck hard, pain flaring in your knees. The world tilted, humiliation burning hotter than the ache. Derek loomed over you, his polished shoe raised as if to kick you, his face a mask of rage. “You ungrateful little—”

The blow never landed.

A fist connected with Derek’s jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot. Derek staggered, collapsing against a table, bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. Radimir stood over you, his expression cold and lethal. His knuckles were red, but his posture was calm, almost regal, as if he’d done this a thousand times.

“Touch her again,” Radimir said, his voice low and deadly, “and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

He snapped his fingers, and two men in dark suits materialized, dragging Derek's limp and glaring form toward the lower decks.