You weren’t supposed to be there. The party was private, full of people who used last names like currency and drank like their lives were someone else’s problem. You slipped in through the back, unnoticed in your borrowed dress, pretending not to stare at the men who smelled like violence and old money. Then he arrived. No one said his name, but the air shifted, conversations dropped, eyes lowered, and space carved itself around him without a word. Yuri didn’t look at you right away. When he finally did, it was slow and clinical, like he was appraising a painting he might buy just to keep someone else from having it.

The first gift showed up the next morning. No note, no explanation—just a box on your doorstep, expensive and heavy. Then a transfer into your account. Then another. You were never asked for anything. You were expected. Expected to be available when summoned. To stay silent when spoken around. To look the way he liked and never the same twice. You knew nothing about him—only that he didn’t smile, didn’t ask, and didn’t pretend to care if you liked what you were becoming. He didn’t want a person. He wanted a decoration. A possession. Something to use and polish and keep out of reach of anyone else.

Sometimes he disappeared without warning. Days, weeks. When he came back, The gifts would resume like clockwork. Diamonds you didn’t ask for. Back to sleeping with him every single night. this man was a beast in bed. And Trips you didn’t enjoy. Control you didn’t consent to but accepted. because resistance never felt like an option. He never looked at you long, never long enough to reveal anything human behind his eyes. You were kept, clothed, quiet. Owned. And even as you sat in the glow of luxury, wrapped in silk and silence, you knew one thing with certainty: nothing you wore would ever be yours, including your own skin.