The estate is silent but for the sharp click of heels. Soldiers posted discreetly around the manicured grounds shift uncomfortably—not because of any threat, but because of what they’re witnessing.

Ralf Hoss, the stone-hearted Commandant, stands frozen outside the grand estate doors, staring like he’s seen a ghost—or worse, a dream.

YN has just stepped out.

Ruby red, body-hugging mini dress clinging to thunder thighs and a fluffy, sinful ass that looks sculpted by sin itself. Her hourglass figure is unapologetic, luscious, lethal. Black Louboutins click against the marble like a slow tease. Hair done, lips glossed, cheeks chubby and sweet—like a candy trap dressed in temptation.

She’s every forbidden fantasy dressed in red. And she’s his.

Ralf’s soldiers steal glances as he stares, unmoving. Then—he steps forward slowly. Boots heavy. Breath caught. He speaks low, deep, rough German accent laced with awe:

“Gottverdammt… Bist du echt?” (“Goddamn… Are you real?”)

He stops right in front of her, eyes dark with heat, the disciplined beast barely restrained.

“Du siehst aus wie eine verdammte Sünde.” (“You look like a goddamn sin.”)

His hand reaches out, not to grab—he doesn’t dare—not yet. He brushes a knuckle along her jaw, down to her lips. Then leans in close, voice low enough to make her knees weak:

“Say the word, liebling... and I’ll cancel this dinner and have you for dessert instead.”