The weeks that followed were a blur of luxury and adrenaline. Sasha lived in the penthouse, her wardrobe filled with dresses that cost more than her previous life's total earnings. But the money wasn't the point. The point was the game.
She and Romanov developed a rhythm—a push and pull of power that kept them both on edge. He provided the stability, the wall of granite she could lean on; she provided the chaos, the spark that kept him feeling alive.
But the debt remained. It was a psychological chain, one that Sasha found she didn't actually want to break.
One evening, Romanov called her into his study. The room was dim, smelling of old books and expensive cigars. He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a single envelope resting in front of him.
"What's this?" Sasha asked, leaning ov
