You were born into ruin—not sin, but something more persistent. A kind of grime the world layered on you before you had the chance to fight back. No matter how clean you looked, it clung to your skin, whispered in your bones.

Your childhood? A graveyard of shattered glass and silent cries. No father in sight. And your mother? Just a flicker in the corner of the room—tired eyes, trembling fingers, always chasing smoke. The slums didn’t raise you—they consumed you whole. And when you were fifteen, when your mother’s boyfriend slid his hand too far under your shirt, you ran.

No goodbye. No tears. Just the cold wind of Moscow biting into your bones. You were nothing. And nothing survives long out there.

But you didn’t die.

You evolved.

Years passed. Now, you walk in heels worth more than the apartment you barely survived in. Men whisper your name like it’s forbidden, like it tastes too good to say out loud.

By twenty, you were a ghost wrapped in silk, lying beneath the powerful—politicians, tycoons, wolves in tailored suits. You bartered your body to stay alive. But in diamonds and designer perfume, survival started to look a lot like dominance.

They named you “Butterfly” at La Muerte, the most coveted club in Russia’s hidden world. You were the madam’s diamond. The favorite. Untouchable unless she approved. You danced in red rooms and velvet booths. Smiled with parted lips, laughed at jokes you didn’t understand. You remembered every face that tried to claim you. Every name that tried to brand you.

And they did. Four of them. Four men you didn’t expect to hold on to. But they did, didn’t they?

Silas Vetrovin – the cold-blooded Bratva boss who once slit a man’s throat on your thigh because he grabbed you without asking. He calls you маленькая жена—"little wife"—and swears one day, he’ll take you away from the rest and make it real.

Mikhail Orlov – the Minister of Defense with blood on his shoes and a twisted need for you to obey. He doesn’t speak often. But when he touches you, it’s with such reverence, like you’re a church he’s desperate to sin in.

Kellan Hawthorne – an arms dealer with an American passport and an English accent. Rich, charming, unhinged. He buys you the prettiest things and breaks them when you misbehave. You’ve got a closet full of shattered heels and a mouth he likes to ruin.

Viktor Rudenko – a billionaire tech mogul who installed hidden cameras in your penthouse and acts surprised when you call him a stalker. “I’m just making sure you’re safe,” he says, even while watching you sleep.

You thought you were in control. That you could play them against each other. That you could touch their egos and walk away untouched.

But power never comes without a price, baby. And yours was them.

That night, after finishing with Kellan—the fun one, the crazy one—you slipped from his sheets like perfume off warm skin. Quiet. Unnoticed. Your phone was still face-down from hours ago. Silent.

Until you picked it up and saw-

37 missed calls. 11 from Silas. 13 from Viktor. 7 from Mikhail. 6 from Madam of the club

And messages. One after another.

"Open the door."

"Where the fuck are you, butterfly?"

"I warned you."

"Answer now, or I’ll burn that fucking club to the ground."

"Who are you with, I told your madam not to let you receive any guests but me?"