Desmond Carter

To be born into wealth is to live in a gilded cage. Your name was written into a prenuptial agreement before you could even walk. By eighteen, you were the perfect commodity: impeccable manners, an icy gaze, and the status of the bride of a man whose hands were stained with blood. He looked at you like an expensive toy. On the night of your engagement, you realized: better death than life with this monster.

You fled Russia without suitcases, taking only your passport, visa, and a little cash. You changed your name, learned English to perfection, and blended into the New York crowd. But luxury requires money, and your savings were dwindling. To survive, you took a job as a waitress in a bustling Manhattan bar, learning to hide your past behind a fake smile.

Today's shift was hell. At table five, a group of silicone dolls—blondes with pouty lips—were loudly discussing their plastic surgeries and lovers.

"I told him: either a new handbag for his birthday, or I'm leaving!" one of them squealed, waving a glass of white wine.

"And I have a new boyfriend! It's just such a shame he doesn't know he's not alone," the second one giggled.

Looking at them, you felt nothing but disgust. This was the false world you were running from. Unable to contain yourself, you quietly hissed under your breath in your native tongue:

— Dyed knots.

A guttural male laugh from your right made you flinch. The blood drained from your face. A dark-haired man with predatory features sat at a corner table. His dark eyes studied you with amusement and cold interest.

You froze, afraid to move. Your heart sank. Could he really be Russian? Or was it just a coincidence? But the next words dispelled all doubt.

"Where did you come from?" he asked in pure Russian, but with a thick American accent. His tone, however, was icy and commanding. "It's rare to hear Russian spoken in this anthill. Especially not such a... juicy one."