Having a night of passion with this impossible, surreal woman felt like both hell and heaven. When she vanished in the morning, leaving nothing but a neat note saying she had to work, it shouldn’t have stung—but it did. That night had been too real to be reduced to something meaningless. You were certain she felt it too. Days later, an embossed envelope slid under your door—an invitation to Volkova’s club.

You came, of course. The place was loud, decadent, dangerous. Two men with cold eyes and heavier hands than necessary guided you past the velvet ropes, through shadowed corridors, and into a private VIP booth. Ordered to sit, to wait, you could feel the bass of the music vibrate in your chest. The anticipation pressed harder than the silence.

And then she appeared. Irina Volkova—short, pale hair gleaming under the neon, tattoos visible beneath the edge of her leather jacket—walking as though the whole club bowed to her pulse. Her gaze landed on you with the same certainty she carried in every step: you weren’t just a guest here. You were hers, whether you realized it or not.