Three years ago…
Elizabeth
It was the first time I ever traveled with Sebastian—and the first time I stepped into such extravagant luxury. His private jet waited for us, gleaming under the lights, the kind of first-class experience I'd only seen in movies. Our destination: Russia.
The hours in the air passed in a haze of passion and warmth. We made love until sleep claimed us, tangled in each other's arms. Compared to the endless fifteen-hour stretch to Brazil, this trip felt almost too short.
I'd heard so much about Russia—its power, its history, its striking beauty—but never imagined I'd set foot here.
From the airport, we didn't so much as glance toward the car park. Instead, Sebastian led me to his waiting helicopter. The moment the blades began their rhythmic roar, I felt as though the real adventure had just begun.
He never let go of my hand, guiding me, shielding me from the chill, carrying me over his shoulder whenever we landed—heels and long walks were never going to mix.
Bruce and a few of Sebastian's men trailed us at a careful distance, their eyes scanning for cameras, ensuring no paparazzo could steal a photograph. That was part of why we'd avoided ground transport altogether. "The chopper's faster," Sebastian murmured, "and safer."
We touched down directly on the rooftop of his hotel—a towering masterpiece in the city's center. A private elevator awaited, taking us straight to the presidential suite. No reception desk, no check-in lines. This five-star monument was his domain.
I caught sight of subtle security cameras tucked into the ceiling corners, then turned toward the panoramic glass walls. Below, Russia sprawled in every direction, a city alive with lights and movement.
When we reached a solid brown door, Sebastian stopped and set down our bags.
A silver plaque gleamed above the handle: Presidential.
That's when I realized—we'd arrived at his home.
The door wasn't just any door—it was a fortress. A sleek panel glowed on the wall, requiring both a password and a fingerprint.
Sebastian moved with practiced ease, his fingers flying over the pad so quickly I couldn't catch a single digit. In the same breath, he pressed his thumb to the scanner, and the lock clicked open with a soft, mechanical chime.
"After you," he murmured, guiding me inside before returning for the luggage.
Later that evening, after another round of slow, lingering love-making in the cold shower, I sat on the edge of the bed, my skin still damp, the scent of my body oil mingling with the faint steam drifting from the bathroom. A white towel clung around my chest while Sebastian remained under the spray of water.
The knock came unexpectedly—light, almost polite. I rose, curious, and padded over to the door.
A brunette woman stood there, balancing a tray with a single jug and two delicate tea cups. Her smile was bright, her voice lilting with a Russian accent.
"Is this Lolek's room, or am I in the wrong place?"
"Lolek?" I echoed, thrown off.
She tilted the tray slightly, still smiling. "Sebastian Jasio Lolek Jakub," she clarified. "He's known by his middle name here in Russia."
Ah. Right. His full name.
"Oh, I see. But he's in the shower right now. If you don't mind, maybe you could come back later?"
Her head tipped to one side, her lips curling almost playfully. "Let me guess—you're his girlfriend, yes? I'm not here for him. I'm here for you."
"Me?" My confusion sharpened. I'd never seen her before in my life.
"Yes," she said brightly. "We're celebrating Women's Day here in the hotel. We thought it would be lovely to share a bit of our happiness—so every woman in the building gets a cup of chamomile tea."
I hesitated. Herbal tea wasn't my thing unless I was sick. "I'm good, thanks."
Her smile dimmed just enough to look wounded. "Aww… come on, it's just tea, not poison."
"I—"
"It would be so rude to reject it," she pressed, sliding the tray a little closer. "All the other women were delighted to join in. Please… don't be the only one left out."
Her persistence had an edge to it, but I relented. "Okay… fine. I'll have one." I took a cup from the tray. "I'll drink it later—"
"No," she cut in, her voice still lilting but touched with something sharper. "You won't enjoy it when it's cold." She grinned wider.
My palms cradled the warm teacup, the porcelain almost too hot to hold. I slid off the lid, watching thin ribbons of steam curl upward, swirling like whispers in the air.
The aroma drifted to me—floral, faintly grassy, something both ancient and strangely alluring.
"Go on," she coaxed, her eyes glinting as though she already knew what would happen. "Take a sip."
I hesitated only a second before tasting it. The flavor surprised me—soft, slightly sweet, with an earthy warmth. Golden hues reflected in the liquid, the taste lingering on my tongue with a faint spice and the subtle kiss of wild honey.
"Nice," I murmured, nodding.
Her smile widened like a cat satisfied with its prey. "You like it?"
"It's… not bad at all," I shrugged.
"Then drink it up." Her smirk was deliberate. "Happy Women's Day."
There was something in the way she said it—too slow, too deliberate. Almost as if those words carried a meaning I wasn't supposed to understand yet. Her gaze lingered on me, sharp and calculating beneath the pleasant mask.
Five seconds later, my body betrayed me.
Heat bloomed from my core, spreading like wildfire through my veins. My skin burned, my chest tightened, and my breath grew shallow. A feverish ache coiled low in my belly, and every nerve felt electric.
I stood abruptly, pacing the room. My hands trembled. My thighs pressed together without thinking. I gulped water, desperate to cool the heat, but each swallow only seemed to fan the flames.
No… no. This wasn't normal.
The tea.
God, it had to be the tea.
A wave of adrenaline crashed with something else—oxytocin, lust, raw need—turning my blood into molten fire. My body was no longer mine; it was an instrument strung too tight, vibrating with urgency.
The bathroom door opened, and Sebastian stepped out, a towel slung low around his hips, water dripping from his hair onto the tattoos that mapped his chest.
"Honey, you haven't dressed yet?" he asked, rubbing a second towel over his head.
I could barely think. My towel slipped from my chest without conscious thought, falling in a heap at my feet. "Sebastian… something's wrong. I feel… strange."
His brows pulled together. "Why are you sweating?"
"My body is burning," I said breathlessly, taking his hand and pressing it against me. "I feel… so hot. Please… make love to me."
"But we just did—in the shower," he said slowly, confusion in his eyes.
"Sebastian, I need you now," I whispered, stepping closer, my skin aching for his touch. "Please… come to bed."
He studied me warily, his hand tightening slightly around the towel at his waist. "Baby… you're acting… different. We just had sex minutes ago. I'm not sure what's gotten into you."
His words barely registered. The need was drowning me, pulling me under like a riptide I couldn't fight.
"Sebastian…" I guided his hand lower, pressing his fingers into my throbbing core. God, I needed him now—needed him like he was the only antidote to this unbearable heat flooding my veins. "My insides are burning. Feel how wet I am… I'm soaking. Stop denying me my duties as your girlfriend—come and take me."
The word tumbled out before I could catch it. Fuck.
Holy Lord… I had just told him to fuck me. The sacred, devout part of me recoiled. That word was supposed to be miles away from my lips. What was happening to me?
Sebastian's hand withdrew sharply, his voice clipped and commanding. "Elizabeth, this isn't you. You're usually shy when it comes to sex." His gaze searched me, hard and suspicious. "I'm always the one starting things. Now suddenly you're… this? You're acting strange, and it's scaring me."
I clutched at his wrist, tugging him toward the bed. "Sebastian, stop talking and just make love to me—please."
He broke free from my grip with a rough motion. "Honey, get dressed. We'll be late for the party if you don't. Your make-up artist and hairstylist will be here in an hour."
"Sebastian, I'm horny! Can't you see that?" The shout tore from my throat, laced with both agony and desperate need.
"Jesus Christ, Elizabeth! Stop shouting!" His own voice thundered back. "My God, what's gotten into you? Did you smoke something while I was in the bathroom?!"
I bit my lip. Losing my temper wouldn't get me what I needed. I was supposed to coax him, not drive him further away. But the ache in my body was like a living thing, clawing at me from the inside.
"Just five minutes," I pleaded, my voice breaking. "Sebastian… just five minutes and this will stop. I swear it's eating me alive. It's turning into pain—"
"Wait." His sudden interruption was sharp enough to cut me off mid-breath.
"What is it?" I panted as he stepped closer.
Sebastian leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. For a moment, I thought he was about to kiss me, but instead he inhaled, his nose brushing near my lips.
When he straightened, his voice was low, dangerous. "Who gave you Damiana tea?"
I blinked, startled. "It was camomile, not Damiana—"
"I said—who gave it to you?!" His roar made me flinch, the bass in his voice vibrating through my bones.
"A-ah!" My whole body shivered under his glare. "A brunette-haired lady. I'll tell you everything, but first—Sebastian—please—" My breath hitched. "I swear I'll die if you don't touch me now."
---
Moments later, I lay tangled in the bedsheets, my body slack and trembling after the storm we'd just created together.
Sebastian paced the room like a caged predator, his bare torso still damp from sweat and water, a white towel knotted around his hips. His phone was glued to his ear, his voice sharp and clipped.
> "Bruce, pull the CCTV footage from the last thirty minutes. I want the girl who came to my door—her name, her sender, her mission. Bring her to me for interrogation. You have ten minutes."
"Sebastian, please," I murmured weakly. "Don't kill anyone."
He didn't even glance at me. His voice shifted into another call without pause.
> "Mom, if you're calling to nag me about marriage, I'm hanging up. No, I'm in Kenya. Business. If you're fighting with Dad, sort it out with him. He's your husband, not me… Jesus, Mom, stop crying—okay, fine. I'll call him."
Kenya? Such a pathetic liar.
I pulled the sheet higher and nodded toward the crumpled towel on the floor. "Honey, could you hand me my—"
He switched lines again.
> "Dad, what the hell's going on with you and Mom? …Shit, I forgot it's her birthday. Look, just fix things with her. I'll FaceTime you both when I can."
I tried again. "Sebastian, my towel—"
No luck. He was already dialing someone else.
> "Alberto. It's my mom's fifty-second birthday. I want a white BMW sport model—this year's edition, straight from the factory. Clean as snow. I don't care how you ship it to Wrocław, just get it there tonight. Text me the account and price right after this call."
I blinked. A brand-new BMW? For a birthday? The man didn't just love his mother—he worshipped her.
"Sebastian, can you—"
> "Yes, Bruce. What have you got?"
That made four times he'd cut me off. Was he punishing me for the tea? I'd already apologized—in the most exhausting, intimate way possible.
His face hardened.
>"Rico's girlfriend? So, I was right. You have her? What about him? …Good. Detain her. I'll be there in five."
I sat up, clutching the sheets. "Sebastian, who was she? Why would she try to kill me?"
He dropped the towel and dressed in quick, deliberate movements—white casuals, a black bandana tied across his forehead.
"You have five minutes to put on a white dress," he said flatly. "Your stylists will be here soon."
"And where exactly are you—"
"I'll be back in ten minutes." He leaned down, kissed me once—soft, quick, unfinished—and left.
I stared at the door after it shut, my heart knocking in my chest.
What the hell was he going downstairs to do?
---
Not until my makeup, hair, and nails were all done did I realize just how much beauty had been hiding inside me.
I had changed. Completely.
One look in the mirror, and my old self vanished—replaced by a version that radiated: You are beautifully and wonderfully made.
Honestly, I liked this new me far more than the former.
The stylists were gathering their tools, murmuring goodbyes as they passed Sebastian on their way out.
My breath caught—and my stomach lurched—when I saw the splash of red staining his crisp white sleeveless tank top.
Holy Mary! I bolted toward him just as he shut the door. "Sebastian, is that blood on your top?"
Instead of answering, his eyes swept over me in slow admiration. "Hey, baby… you look gorgeous as heaven. I want to kiss you right now—but I don't want to ruin your makeup."
Would he just shut up and answer me? "Stop changing the subject and—"
My words died in my throat as he strolled to the vanity table and placed a revolver on it.
"Sebastian—" my eyes widened further—"did you kill someone?"
He didn't flinch, simply stripping off the tank top and slipping into a black tuxedo. "Just shut up and put on your shoes. Stop walking around barefoot."
I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to whack him with the nearest object.
Grinding my teeth, I marched into the bathroom. I needed to pee.
Then I saw it—drops of blood falling from me into the toilet bowl.
Shit!
Not today.
"Sebastian?" I called sharply.
"Yeah?"
"My period just started."
"Did it? No wonder you acted weird in bed earlier." He sounded half distracted, muttering to himself in the bedroom.
"I think it's because of that tea," I muttered bitterly. "It was supposed to start tomorrow."
"Do you have any sanitary pads with you, or should I get some?"
"I have. I always come prepared," I said.
"In that case, you're not wearing that white dress anymore."
"Why? You suggested it."
"Baby, that was before your red flag started."
I sighed.
Out of all the gorgeous dresses I'd brought for the party, that white, long, off-shoulder gown was my top choice.
"What do you want me to wear instead?"
"Red or black."
My brows snapped together. "Black sucks. I'll look like an uninvited guest—besides, it's not a funeral."
"White sucks more when it's stained."
Ugh. He was right. "Fine. I'll go with red."
"Better," he murmured.
After a moment of silence, I called again. "Seb?"
"Yes?"
"Check my luggage for my sanitary pack and a panty. Bring them to me."
"Okay, baby." His footsteps shifted across the room.
"Hurry, I'm dripping!"
"Just a minute—yeah, got it."