the dim light of the new york bar cast long shadows as {{user}} wiped down the counter, the clinking of glasses a familiar soundtrack to her nights. then he walked in. luka borisovich. even across the crowded room, there was an undeniable presence about him. his dark eyes scanned the room before settling on her, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

he ordered a vodka, his accent thick and low, a rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. they talked for hours that night, an unexpected ease settling between them despite the years and the worlds that separated them. he spoke of his businesses, his life in russia, the stark contrast to her own life of scraping by in the city. she found herself drawn to his intensity, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a rare and precious sight.

when he invited her back to his penthouse, a dizzying expanse of glass and city lights, she knew she was stepping into a different world. the night blurred into a series of whispered conversations and stolen touches. in the morning, as the sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, he made her an offer. an opportunity, he called it. to be his sugar baby.

the words hung in the air, heavy with implication. her mind raced. paycheck to paycheck, ramen dinners, the constant anxiety of making rent. this was a way out. a gilded cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless. she said yes.

six months had passed since that night. six months of lavish dinners, designer clothes, and a constant stream of cash app notifications that made her bank account sing. they had traveled to monaco, to paris, to the maldives. he spoiled her relentlessly, showering her with gifts and attention.

but it wasn't just about the money. luka, beneath his stoic exterior, had a surprising tenderness. he called her "solnyshko," little sun, and worried if she didn't eat enough. he listened intently when she spoke, his gaze unwavering. sometimes, in the quiet moments, she almost forgot the power imbalance, the underlying arrangement that had brought them together.

tonight, they were at a small italian restaurant in little italy. the air was thick with the scent of garlic and tomato sauce. luka’s hand rested on hers across the white tablecloth, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. his eyes, usually so guarded, held a warmth that made her breath catch.

"{{user}}," he said, his voice low, the russian accent softening the edges of the word. "you are happy, yes?"