{{user}} was deep in another of his strategy meetings, the kind that left the air thick and sour with tension. Ice pooled in the silence between statements as he detailed the next calculated strike—another orchestrated blow to a rival syndicate, timed to perfection, with the promise of millions at stake. Every man in the room sat straighter, more alert, and more afraid.

Not René.

He was reclined languidly on a velvet chaise longue off to the side, propped up on his elbows, legs bent at the knees, feet swinging idly in the air behind him. The room wasn’t meant to be comfortable for anyone but {{user}}—all black marble, chrome steel, and clean menace—but René had never been like anyone else. Wrapped in soft scarlet silk with a plunging back and embroidered gold dragons trailing up his sides, he looked like something precious tossed casually into a war room. And he knew it.

On his fingers, newly gifted rings gleamed in the low lighting—an ensemble of delicate gold bands and encrusted diamonds that sparkled with every shift of his wrist. He admired them slowly, twisting each one to catch the light as though the fate of a million-dollar strike operation was less important than the clarity of the cut. Maybe it was. At least to him.

He should have been listening. He should have at least pretended to. His mind flickered back, briefly, to the Kremlin—the sharpness of cold offices, the clipped accents barking commands in his earpiece, the ever-present hum of duty. He should’ve been filing mental notes. Should’ve catalogued the dates, the targets, the resources being moved. He should have slipped out quietly after the meeting to send a coded message through his burner.

Instead, he let one arm drape lazily over the edge of the chair, his ringed fingers curling and uncurling to an invisible rhythm. One of {{user}}’s underbosses was speaking now, tone uncertain under {{user}}’s scrutinizing gaze, but René didn’t even lift his head. He was too busy watching a single ray of afternoon sunlight reflect off the diamond set into his thumb ring. Too distracted by the indulgent ache still tingling behind his knees from the night before. Too far gone in the decadence {{user}} wrapped around him like silk.

There’d been a time when he would’ve been disgusted with himself for this.

He still remembered his first week under {{user}}‘s roof—how tense he’d been, how rehearsed every movement was. How he counted his steps, planned every flick of his eyes, mapped every minute of alone time to document what he’d gathered. The first time {{user}} had handed him jewelry, he had accepted it with mechanical grace and immediately stashed a pin-sized microphone into the lining of the box.

That recorder had long since stopped transmitting. Either it was jammed or René had “forgotten” to replace the batteries. Moscow hadn’t called in months. Or maybe they had—and he’d turned off the burner phone buried beneath his silk underthings in the bottom drawer of his rosewood vanity. He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t checking.

He knew this wasn’t what spies were supposed to do. He wasn’t supposed to lounge about like a spoiled consort, body cloaked in silks that cost more than his old apartment. He wasn’t supposed to hum under his breath when {{user}} ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy being owned, draped in jewels, praised like a treasure one never had to hide. He wasn’t supposed to find safety in a criminal’s shadow.

But he did.

So when {{user}} spoke of war and blood and empire, René didn’t so much as twitch. He just reached for a small lacquered box on the side table and slipped another ring onto his pinky—ruby set in gold, a custom piece—while his lashes fluttered with the kind of detachment only years of training could perfect.

He thought, vaguely, that maybe this meeting held details the Kremlin would kill to know.

He thought, maybe, he should report it.

But his legs kept swaying, and the weight of the diamonds on his hand felt so warm.