The black SUV pulled up to a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of the city just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Elara stared out the window, heart hammering. This wasn't the sleek penthouse she had expected. This was Lucien Volkov's private fortress—tall iron gates, manicured gardens, and lights glowing from every window like a palace built on power and secrets.
A stern housekeeper in a black uniform met her at the door. "Mr. Volkov is waiting upstairs. Change into what's laid out on the bed. Do not keep him waiting."
Elara was led to a massive bedroom on the second floor. The room smelled of fresh linen and expensive wood. On the king-sized bed lay a sheer silk nightdress—deep red, almost transparent, with thin straps and a hem that barely reached mid-thigh. Her cheeks burned just looking at it.
She had no choice. She showered quickly, dried off, and slipped the nightdress on. The fabric clung to her skin like a second layer, cool and revealing. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling exposed and small.
A soft knock sounded. The door opened.
Lucien Volkov stepped in.
Elara's breath caught.
He had changed into a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of hard, sculpted chest and smooth skin. His dark hair was slightly tousled from the day, and those cold gray eyes locked on her immediately. He looked inhumanly handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, every movement radiating raw power. For one stupid second, heat flushed through her body just from the sight of him. She hated herself for it.
A maid carried a glass of deep red wine behind him. He walked to the large armchair in the corner, and sat down like a king on his throne.
" Leave" He ordered the maid after she placed the glass of wine on the table beside him.
She exited the room closing the door behind her.
He took a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving her.
"Stand in front of the bed," he ordered, voice low and calm.
Elara's legs moved before her mind could protest. She stopped a few feet away, arms still crossed tightly.
Lucien swirled the wine in his glass, watching her over the rim. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Tension filled the room like smoke.
A soft knock came again. A beautiful woman in a short black dress entered—long legs, perfect makeup, confident smile. She didn't look at Elara. She walked straight to Lucien and waited.
Lucien took another sip of wine, then spoke without looking away from Elara.
"Show her."
The woman nodded. She moved to the edge of the bed, right in Elara's line of sight. Without hesitation, she lifted her dress, sat back, and spread her legs. Her hand slid between her thighs.
Elara's face burned crimson. She tried to look away.
"Eyes on her," Lucien said sharply, voice cutting like ice. "Watch. It would be your turn soon."
Elara forced her gaze back. The woman's fingers moved slowly at first, then faster. Soft moans filled the room. Her hips rocked. Her breathing grew ragged. The sounds were raw, intimate, shameless.
Elara's stomach twisted with embarrassment so deep she wanted to sink into the floor. She had watched porn before, but this was real—live, right in front of her. The woman's body arched, fingers glistening.Her eyes never left him. A loud cry escaped her as she finished, trembling.
When it was over, the woman stood, smoothed her dress, and left without a word. Elara couldn't even look at her as she passed. Her own face felt like it was on fire.
Lucien took another slow sip of wine, eyes dark and intense.
"Now you," he said coldly. "Strip. Sit on the bed. Spread your legs. Touch yourself. Show me if you can even get wet enough to give me an heir."
She couldnt move at first, she's never done something like this before, how was she supposed to spread her left right in front of him.
Elara's hands shook as she reached for the thin straps of the nightdress. The silk slid down her body and pooled at her feet. She was completely naked in front of him. She sat on the edge of the bed, thighs trembling,
She closed her eyes, remembering her Mom, she was the reason she was doing this.
She slowly spread her legs.
Her fingers moved awkwardly between her thighs. She tried to copy what she had just seen, but nothing felt right. No heat. No pleasure. Only burning shame and tears gathering in her eyes. She rubbed clumsily, cheeks wet now, hating every second.
Lucien watched in silence, still sipping his wine. The tension in the room was suffocating.
"Pathetic," he finally said, voice low and cruel. "You can't even please yourself. How will you ever please a man? How will you ever give me an heir?"
Elara's hand stilled. Tears slipped down her face. She felt small, worthless, broken.
Lucien stood, finished the last of his wine, and set the glass down.
"Practice," he ordered. "Every night if you have to. You have a years… or you become my personal slave. Forever."
He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Elara collapsed onto the bed, pulling the sheets over her naked body. Sobs shook her shoulders. She hated him—hated his cold eyes, his cruel words, the way he had made her watch that woman like a lesson in her own failure.
But deep down, in a place she refused to acknowledge, the image of his slightly revealed chest and the intensity in his gaze lingered.
She curled into a ball, wiping her tears.
This is for Mom, she told herself. And for revenge. I will destroy you, Lucien Volkov. No matter what it takes.
_____
The door clicked shut behind him.
He moved down the long hallway at his usual steady pace, footsteps quiet on the marble. The mansion was silent except for the rain tapping against the tall windows.
He should have felt nothing but satisfaction.
She had cried exactly as he expected—tears sliding down her flushed face while her inexperienced fingers fumbled uselessly between her legs. Weak. Broken. Proof that he could control her.
Yet as he descended the wide staircase toward his study, an unfamiliar tightness settled in his chest. Not guilt. Not pity. Those were useless emotions.
It was irritation.
Sharp and unwelcome.
For one fleeting moment, the sight of her shaking shoulders and wet eyes had stirred something he could not explain and did not want. A brief, illogical urge to stop her tears instead of watching them fall.
Lucien's jaw tightened.
She was a means to an end. A desperate, defiant tool he would use to secure his position against his brothers. Nothing more. Her tears were simply confirmation that she could be broken when needed.
He reached the study,Still, the uncomfortable feeling lingered like a shadow he couldn't shake.
He hated it.
The feeling would pass.
It always did.
____
The courthouse was empty except for two lawyers, a bored clerk, and the photographer Lucien had paid to be there. No flowers. No music. No guests. Just the click of cameras and the scratch of pens on paper.
Lucien stood at the front in a perfectly tailored black suit, hands clasped behind his back. When Elara walked in, he let his eyes flick over her once—slow, deliberate. The simple white dress his team had chosen hugged her body in all the right places. She looked… acceptable. More than acceptable. The way the fabric clung to her hips and the slight swell of her breasts sent a brief, unwelcome heat through his veins.
He pushed it down.
Elara stopped in front of him. Her gaze lifted to his face. For a split second her cheeks flushed. She saw the faint bruise on his temple—the one she had given him with the ice bucket at the club. A tiny, satisfied smile curved her lips before she could hide it.
Lucien noticed.
Why was she smiling?
The smile did something strange to his chest—a quick, sharp tug he couldn't name and immediately dismissed. She was simply following orders. Smile in public. Play the part. Nothing more.
The clerk read the vows in a flat voice. Lucien slid the heavy diamond ring onto her finger like he was sealing a contract. Cameras flashed.
Then the clerk said, "You may kiss the bride."
Lucien had told her in the car on the way here: We need to be convincing. One kiss for the photos. She had expected a quick, dry peck.
He didn't give her that.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the back of her neck, pulling her hard against his chest. His mouth came down on hers—hot, demanding, no hesitation. His tongue pushed past her lips, sliding deep, stroking hers in a slow, filthy rhythm that left no room for air or thought.
Elara's mind blanked.
The kiss was nothing like she had imagined. It was wet, possessive, hungry. His tongue curled around hers, sucking lightly, then thrusting deeper. One of his hands slid down to grip her waist, fingers digging in just hard enough to make her gasp into his mouth. Heat flooded between her legs so fast and so strong she didn't even realize she was kissing him back—tongue meeting his, shy at first, then desperate, chasing the taste of him.
For the first time in her life, her body responded like it had been waiting for this. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her dress. A slick, aching throb started low in her belly. She was wet. Actually wet. And she had no idea she was moaning softly into his mouth until he suddenly pulled back.
Lucien broke the kiss, breathing steady, face completely blank.
Elara's lips were swollen and shiny. Her chest heaved. She couldn't look at him. Couldn't look at the cameras. Couldn't look at anything. Shame burned through her so hot she wanted to disappear.
Lucien turned to the photographers. "That's enough."
In the back of the black SUV on the way to the mansion there was silence between them.
Elara stared out the window, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
What came over her?
The mansion bedroom looked exactly the same as the night before—huge bed, silk sheets, dim lighting. Elara stood in the center wearing nothing but the same sheer red nightdress. Her body still hummed from that kiss. She hated how aware she was of Lucien now. Not just as the monster who owned her, but as a man—tall, hard, devastatingly handsome, with that faint bruise she had left on him like a secret victory.
Lucien walked in carrying a fresh glass of wine. He sat in the armchair again, legs spread, completely dressed. This time he didn't call for another woman.
"Tonight we do it properly," he said, voice low and commanding. "Sit on the edge of the bed. Spread your legs wide. I want to see everything."
Elara's hands shook as she obeyed. The nightdress rode up her thighs. She sat, knees falling open, completely exposed to his gaze.
Lucien took a slow sip of wine, eyes locked between her legs.
"Touch yourself," he ordered. "Two fingers on your clit. Circle it slowly. I want to watch you get wet for me."
She felt her face heat up at his words.
She slid her hand down, mortified but unable to stop the way her body reacted to his voice. Her fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves and started moving.
"Faster," he said, tone rougher. "Press harder. Imagine it's my tongue there instead—licking you open, sucking you until you're dripping down your thighs."
Elara's breath hitched. Heat coiled tight in her belly. She was getting wet—actually slick—against her will. Her hips jerked. A tiny whimper escaped.
Lucien's eyes darkened. "Now slide one finger inside. Feel how tight you are. That's going to take my cock one day. Stretch yourself. Add a second finger. Fuck yourself the way I'm going to fuck you—deep, slow, until you're begging."
Her fingers obeyed before her brain could catch up. The wet sounds filled the room. She was soaked. Her thighs trembled. The ache was unbearable now, building fast.
"Eyes on me," he growled. "Look at the man who owns you while you play with that pretty little cunt."
She looked up. Their gazes locked. The raw hunger in his eyes—even if he would never admit it—made her clench around her own fingers.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Right now. Let me see you fall apart."
The orgasm crashed over her without warning—sharp, humiliating, blinding. She cried out, body shaking, fingers buried inside herself as pleasure ripped through her for the first time in her life.
When it faded she collapsed back on the bed, chest heaving, tears of shame pricking her eyes.
Lucien stood, set the wine glass down, and walked to the door without a word.
"Better," he said coldly.
He left.
Elara lay there, legs still spread, body tingling, mind reeling. She had come while he watched. She had come because of his voice.
She pulled the sheets over herself, reached for her phone, and opened the hidden folder of old photos—her real parents smiling before the Volkov family destroyed them.
"I'll make you pay," she whispered, voice hoarse. "No matter how good you make me feel."