Rural Illinois gives way to suburbs. Empty fields become housing developments. Then the cityscape. Highways and streetlights.
Boris's words echo in my head. Not because I care about what he thought, but because he was my last link to my father's empire. The old guard, the old ways, the men who built this from nothing.
That chapter feels severed now. Cut clean. No more bridge between what was and what I'm building.
The penthouse comes into view. Forty stories of glass and steel. Home. Or the closest thing I have to it.
Pyotr meets me at the elevator. "She never caused trouble, Boss. Quiet all day. Ate lunch, drew for a while, and read. Normal."
I nod and move past him to the bedroom door, heading inside.
Lila is on the bed, struggling with silk ropes. She’s attempting to recreate a pattern from her drawings. The ropes are twisted the wrong way, knotted incorrectly. She's tied one wrist to the headboard but can't reach the other side. Her hair is a mess.
She's trying to be ready for me.
She looks up and gasps. "You're early!"
"And you're waiting."
"The knots are harder than they look in the books," she says, frustrated. A strand of hair falls across her face. She tries to blow it away, but can't reach it. "I thought I had it, I was following the diagram, but then it all went wrong, and now I'm just... stuck."
I cross to the bed and sit beside her, taking in the sight—baggy shirt, nothing else, legs bare, rope marks already forming on her wrists from her failed attempts. "Stuck. That was the idea."
"Not like this. This is... messy."
"I don't know." My hand trails up her thigh, under the shirt hem. "I kind of like you messy."
Her breath hitches. "Ivan?—"
"Shh." My hands find the ropes, unknotting, adjusting. The silk is expensive—I bought it specifically for this, for her skin. "You tried so hard to be good for me. Following orders. Getting ready." I lean closer, lips brushing her ear. "Did you think about me while you were doing it? About what I'd do when I got home?"
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
"What did you imagine?"
"I—" She swallows. "Everything."
I work the silk, muscle memory from years of practice. The pattern emerges—the exact one from her sketch. Intricate. Beautiful. Functional. Binding her properly this time, the way it should be. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Your hands. Your mouth. You being rough with me."
"Like on the table?"
Her face flushes. "Yes. Like that. And—other things."
"Other things?" I tighten the knot at her left wrist, testing the tension. Perfect.
"Maybe."
"Show me." I move to her right wrist. "Show me what you imagined."
"I can't when I'm tied up."
"That's the point." I finish the knot and check both bindings. She's secure now, arms spread and vulnerable. "You tell me. I decide if you've earned it."
"Where did you learn—" she starts, tugging experimentally at the ropes.
"You'll find out soon enough." My hand slides up her side, feeling her shiver. "But first, you're going to tell me every single thing you thought about while you were waiting for me."
