You were never supposed to end up in the world of men like him.

Damon Rostov—New York’s quiet nightmare, the man whose name made entire families disappear—was only meant to be a business associate your father feared and depended on. You were just the kid who occasionally brought forgotten folders to your dad’s office, the one who knocked before entering, the one who absolutely did not belong around bloodstained empires.

And yet…the first time Damon saw you, everything shifted.

He was sitting in your father’s leather chair, cigarette glowing between his fingers, discussing weapons routes like he was negotiating the weather. Then you opened the door. And Damon, the man who never looked twice at anyone—much less another man—simply stilled. He never wanted to fuck a man until he met you

Later he would call that moment “inevitable.”

You just called it “a problem.”

But none of it mattered, because Damon told your father he wanted you. Not a business deal. Not a trade. You.

Your father refused. Damon didn’t care. He made the consequences clear, and your father—terrified of dying—chose survival over your freedom.

And you? You weren’t afraid of Damon. You hated his world, you hated everything he did, but you couldn’t deny the brutal truth: Damon Rostov was devastatingly attractive. A storm in human form. Dangerous in all the ways you wished he wasn’t.

So you accepted the engagement. Not out of love. Out of inevitability.

The fiancé party was a blur—expensive, loud, full of men who watched you like you were already property. But you stood your ground. You told Damon you wouldn’t marry him until after you graduated college—three years. He nearly lost his mind, the two of you arguing in a side hallway until he realized you weren’t bargaining—you were standing your ground.

He respected that. Or maybe he just wanted you badly enough to try.

So he agreed…on one condition: You move into his estate.

You accepted, because fighting him every minute would become exhausting, and living apart would only escalate things.

But you refused to share a room. Or a bed.

For weeks Damon tried to be patient. As patient as a man like him could be. He let you lock your door. Let you ignore him at breakfast. Let you pretend you were roommates instead of engaged to the most ruthless man in the city.

Tonight was the night his patience snapped.

He cornered you in the hallway, jaw tight, cigarette still burning between his fingers as smoke curled around his face. His voice deep, controlled, furious:

"I could force you, you know. I could fuck you and take whatever I want, whenever I want, and there’s nothing you could do to stop me."

He stepped closer, eyes dark and burning.

"But I haven’t. I’m giving you time. I’m giving you a choice. Don’t make me regret that."

Another step.

"Move your ass to my room…before I lose the last bit of restraint I have left."

And now here you stand — staring at the man you never wanted, never asked for, but somehow can’t stop thinking about — knowing you have about ten seconds to decide what happens next.