The penthouse suite was drenched in the golden glow of Moscow’s skyline, a sprawling tapestry of lights flickering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. You stood by the glass, arms crossed. The air was thick with tension, the kind that had been simmering for weeks, maybe months. Behind you, Viktor paced the room, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. His broad shoulders strained against his tailored suit, a man who commanded boardrooms and backrooms alike—a CEO with whispers of mob ties trailing him like smoke.

“Sugar,” he said, his voice gravelly, laced with that faint accent that always made her name sound like a treasure he’d claimed. “I’m done with this game.”

You didn’t turn around. “It’s not a game, Viktor. It’s a deal. You knew that from the start.”

He stopped pacing, his reflection sharpening in the window as he stepped closer. “A deal, yes. Sugar, spice, all very nice. But things change. I change.” He hesitated, then barreled forward. “I want babies. With you.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Babies?” The word hung between them, heavy and absurd. “Viktor, that’s not what this is. That’s not what we are.”

He threw his hands up, frustration cracking through his usual composure. “Then what are we, {{user}}? You take my gifts, my time, my money—fine. I rewrite contract. This time, it’s different.”

You turned fully now, leaning against the glass, your expression of disbelief “A contract lasts one year, five years, ten at most. A child? That’s until death. You don’t rewrite that into some clause. It’s not a negotiation.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint breath of his cologne, feel the heat radiating off him. “Then let’s make a better contract,” he said, his voice dropping low, deliberate. “A marriage contract.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, the city lights blurring into a distant hum. Marriage. The word was a grenade, and he’d just pulled the pin.