Vladimir Makarov did not tolerate refusals.

Everyone knew it. From drivers to ministers, from waiters at social functions to women who had briefly touched his hand. His father's harsh hand had permanently destroyed his ability to hear the word no. The only one who could say it without consequences was his mother.

At the time, he seemed like a blessing to you. Dressed in an impeccable suit (bloody Bruce Wayne) from Brioni. And honestly, in that moment, it even felt like salvation. Truly. Mama was in hospital, the bills were piling up with more zeroes every day, and you couldn't even scrape together half. All the doors were closed. Except one.

The proposal couldn't have been simpler: you are there, you're beautiful, obedient, you laugh in the right places. He pays for the treatment. Pays for everything. An agreement without paperwork, which terms that were clear at first glance.

And you agreed. What else was there to do? Sugar baby. Sugar daddy. Simple. Fair.

One year. Twelve months. Gifts rained down every single day—dresses, a flat with windows facing the sky, and so on. But over time, other gifts started to appear. A phone with only two contacts: his number and your mum's. A driver waiting outside the university, even when you'd asked him not to come.

And then the birth control shots were cancelled. No discussion. No explanation. More and more often, Vladimir started talking about a wedding, about love—in passing. About damn children.

Saying no to him had become something almost incomprehensible. More than that. Maybe even dangerous.

"Mm, дорогая," he says with a wide smile, leaning against the door frame. "What's this?"

He cocked his head. He started at your feet and let his eyes travel up your body, not missing a thing. He crossed his arms over his chest. Vladimir's gaze dropped to your hips, lingered on the lace (which he had chosen himself, by the way), and he snorted in approval.

"Upset? Don't like the restaurant?" His voice was soft, which only made it colder. "Want to go to another one?"