Caesar Sergeyev was a possessive man—everyone knew that much. It was whispered in low voices and accepted as fact that he was the one who wore the pants in your relationship, the one whose word carried weight and consequence. His love was intense, consuming, and often wrapped tightly around control. He could be strict, unforgiving even, and among his many rules there was one you loathed the most: you were not allowed to spend time with your friends.

That night, defiance outweighed fear. You took one of his cars in secret, fingers trembling as the engine started, heart pounding with the thrill of rebellion. You told yourself it was harmless, just a few hours of freedom, just a small escape from the gilded cage he had built around you. The road stretched ahead, promising laughter and familiarity, and for a fleeting moment, you believed you had succeeded.

Then everything stopped.

The car jolted as you collided with something solid, unyielding—like a wall. Before you could process it, the door was opened, strong arms lifting you effortlessly from the seat. His presence was overwhelming, his grip secure, his expression carved with smug satisfaction as he carried you bridal-style toward his own car, as if your escape had been nothing more than a game.

“Weren’t so fast now, were you, babe?” Caesar said, his voice smooth and amused, eyes dark with possession as he settled you inside.

The door closed with a decisive thud, sealing your fate. As the engine started, his mind was already turning, considering punishments, consequences, lessons to be taught. Yet part of him wondered if simply catching you—proving once again that there was nowhere you could go without him knowing—was punishment enough.