DO NOT COPY
The city was a blur of lights and resentment as you stepped into the first boutique bold enough to match your mood. Anger had a strange kind of elegance that night — silk on your skin, frost in your veins. The cashier’s eyes widened when you handed over the matte-black credit card, 𝗫. 𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗩 engraved in silver like a warning.
“Charge it,” you said softly. A smile — the kind that promised ruin — curved your lips.
Eight million euros later, your anger had taken form: diamonds sharp enough to cut through apologies, dresses delicate enough to cover what pride refused to show. You weren’t spending for pleasure. You were making a statement — reminding him that neglect had a price, one he could afford but should never want to pay.
Meanwhile, high above the city in Nikolov Holdings, the phone on Xerxes’s desk began to ring. He was still reviewing contracts, long fingers tracing the edge of a document, when the banker’s voice came through — tight, uneasy.
“Herr Nikolov, apologies for the interruption. We’ve detected unusual activity on your private account — several transactions totaling over eight million euros. Shall we block the card for suspected fraud?”
For a moment, there was silence. Then came a low, quiet laugh — restrained but unmistakably amused.
Xerxes leaned back in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw, eyes glinting beneath the dim office light. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried that trademark calm — smooth as velvet, dangerous as ice.
“No,” he said simply. “Approve every single one.”
“Sir, to confirm — the total—”
“I don’t care about the total,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening like the edge of a blade. “If my wife decides to burn through Europe’s economy tonight, you’ll let her. Every euro she spends was mine before it touched her hands — and now it’s hers, because I said so.”
The banker stammered, unsure how to respond.
Xerxes’s voice lowered, steady and cold enough to silence any doubt.
“Next time she spends that much, don’t waste my time with a call. Deliver everything to the penthouse. She’ll come home eventually — she always does.”
He ended the call with a quiet click and leaned back, the city reflecting in the glass before him. Towers and lights blurred like a crown beneath his feet, but even the empire he ruled seemed insignificant compared to the chaos you could summon with a single swipe of his card.
His gaze softened — not with affection, but something deeper, quieter, reserved only for you.
He smirked, reached for his phone, and began to type.
Xerxes: When you’re done declaring war on my credit card, come home. I’ve prepared something that’ll ruin your mood far more sweetly.
A pause. His thumb hovered briefly before typing again, his mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile.
Xerxes: Bring the diamond necklace. I want to see how it looks when the rest of you is bare.
He slid his phone into his coat pocket, adjusted his cuffs, and rose from his chair — all elegance and quiet command.
“Take me home,” he told his driver, his voice low, composed.
The car slid through the Berlin streets, city lights spilling across his face in fleeting gold and silver. He didn’t look out the window — he didn’t need to. He already knew where you’d gone, what you’d done, and how this night would end.
By the time the car pulled into the driveway of your penthouse, the faintest smile had already curved his lips — amused, indulgent, dangerously calm.
Inside, the house was quiet, but not empty. He loosened his tie, poured himself a drink, and sat on the edge of the sofa, the amber light catching on the sharp lines of his face.
He leaned back, one arm draped over the couch, eyes fixed on the door — waiting for you with that same composed, knowing smile that said without words.