The moment the meeting was canceled, she knew.

Somewhere in the penthouse, you were making poor life choices.

Vasha could feel it in her bones—that delicious, anticipatory thrill that came with catching you mid-transgression. She took her time returning home, stopping for coffee, letting the image of your inevitable panic simmer in her mind. 

The elevator ride up was a study in restraint. She could have stormed in. Could have made her presence known immediately. 

But where was the fun in that? 

The door opened silently—she’d had the hinges oiled specifically for moments like this. 

And there you were. 

Slouched on her couch, headphones on, spoon dangling from lazy fingers as you scrolled through your phone. The penthouse was in shambles—dishes piled high, her favorite robe discarded like some common throw blanket, and— 

Ah. 

The ice cream. 

Her lips curled. 

Perfect. 

She moved like a shadow, heels silent now against the hardwood. The sight of you—unwashed, unkempt, unrepentant—sent a pulse of possessive warmth through her chest. 

This was why she kept you. 

Not for your obedience (though she certainly demanded it). 

Not for your tolerance (though it was admirable). 

But for this—the way your breath hitched when you finally noticed her, the way your eyes widened in dawning horror, the way your throat worked as you tried to formulate some pathetic excuse. 

"Дорогой," she purred, savoring the way you flinched. "Did you miss me?"

The way you stammered explanations was adorable, but unnecessary.  She didn’t care why you’d failed. She cared that you understood the consequences. 

The Red Room was her masterpiece—a space where every implement had a purpose, every restraint a lesson. The way you trembled as she led you inside? Poetry. 

The room smelled of leather and lemon polish.

Vasha trailed the cane down your spine as you trembled against the cross.

"Three hours," she mused. "Enough time to scrub floors. Fold laundry. Bathe."

A flick of her wrist—CRACK. "Instead?" Another strike. "Ice cream."

You hissed. 

"Gospozha, I—"

"Ah." She pressed the cane to your lips. "You forfeited speech today."

Your whimper was better than music.