CHAPTER 8

The buzz in Elara's apartment had started the moment the clock struck four in the afternoon.

Her usually quiet, beige-toned bedroom was now in complete disarray—clothes flung across the bed, shoes lined up like soldiers on the floor, accessories glinting under the warm light of the vanity. The air was a swirl of floral perfume, body lotion, and the faint sizzle of a flat iron heating up. Maya had taken control of the space like a hurricane dressed in crop tops and confidence.

"Elara, you seriously own nothing black-tie appropriate," Maya muttered from inside the closet, her voice muffled behind a row of hanging coats. "This is a crime. I should report you to the fashion police."

Elara sat nervously at the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting the hem of a soft peach sweater she'd put on earlier that morning. Her heart had been fluttering like a nervous bird since noon—ever since she received that text from him.

Nikolai: Friday. 7 PM. Wear something pretty. I'll pick you up.

He hadn't mentioned where. He hadn't even called. Just that short, teasing text—so vague and yet so intimate it had left her mind spinning. How were you supposed to dress for a date with a man like Nikolai Volkov when you didn't even know what "pretty" meant to him?

Maya emerged from the closet with an armful of clothes and a determined look. "Okay. We're going for neutral tones. Not too flashy, not too lazy-girl. Elegant. Feminine. A little mysterious, like you're not sure if you're attending a romantic dinner or being recruited for a Bond movie."

"I don't think I can pull off 'mysterious,'" Elara said, laughing nervously.

"Oh honey," Maya said, dumping the clothes on the bed. "You're dating a man who looks like he was carved from obsidian and danger. You need to look like you belong on his arm but aren't trying to seduce him… even though, let's be real, you're definitely trying to seduce him."

"Maya!"

"Relax! Just a little seduction! The classy kind. The kind with perfume behind the ears and a slit in the dress that says 'Oops, did my thigh just show?'" Maya winked and held up a champagne-colored midi dress.

It was satin, sleeveless with a subtle cowl neck and a thigh-high slit. Understated, but luxurious. The kind of dress that clung in all the right places and shimmered softly under light. Elegant, tasteful, with just enough skin to hint at temptation.

"This," Maya declared, "is the one."

Elara stared at it, then glanced at herself in the mirror. "Won't it be too much?"

"Nope. It's the perfect middle ground. Not a ballgown, not a sundress. If he's taking you somewhere casual, he'll appreciate the effort. If it's somewhere fancy then you'll fit right in."

She helped Elara into the dress, zipping it up the back while Elara balanced nervously in place. "You look like a princess who just stepped off the pages of a fairytale but knows how to throw hands if someone tries to mess with her."

Elara turned to the mirror and blinked at her reflection. The satin hugged her waist and hips like it had been tailored for her, and the soft sheen of the champagne color made her skin glow. Her natural beauty—often hidden behind modest sweaters and jeans—now looked effortless and radiant.

Maya moved behind her, curling Elara's thick brown hair into soft waves that cascaded down her shoulders. She pinned one side with a dainty gold clip, leaving the rest loose to frame her delicate features. Her makeup was kept light and glowing—champagne shimmer on her eyelids, a touch of blush, and a rose-tinted lip gloss that made her look like she'd just bitten into a strawberry.

"Okay," Maya said, stepping back and examining her work. "You're a ten."

"You really think so?" Elara asked, cheeks heating.

"Girl. You're so hot right now I need a fan."

Maya turned back to the bed and pulled out a matching purse—a small beige clutch with gold detailing—and began loading it with the essentials. Lip gloss. Compact mirror. Perfume. A small travel-sized deodorant. Tissues.

And then she paused, pulled something from her pocket, and slid it into the purse like she was placing a sacred relic into a temple.

"Maya…" Elara said suspiciously. "What did you just put in there?"

Maya turned, blinking innocently. "Oh nothing."

"Maya."

"A condom."

"Maya!" Elara's cheeks flushed red as she grabbed the purse and opened it in disbelief.

"Relax," Maya said with a smirk. "It's just one. You probably won't even use it. But things happen, Elara. Things happen when you're with a man who looks like sin and smells like heaven."

"I am not sleeping with him on the first date!"

"I'm not saying you will. I'm saying if things get steamy and you do, you'll thank me later. Prepared girls don't panic, they just smile and unzip."

Elara buried her face in her hands, groaning. "This is mortifying."

"No, sweetie, this is life," Maya said, fluffing her hair with a proud grin. "Now breathe. It's just a date. A date with a Russian demigod who has cheekbones that could cut diamonds and probably a six-figure watch collection."

Elara sat down, clutching the purse in her lap, her heart pounding. "I've never been this nervous before."

"That's because you've never liked a guy this much before."

The truth of those words settled in her chest. She did like Nikolai. Maybe more than she was ready to admit. And he'd chosen her—calm, quiet, church-going Elara—for a date. The thought made her stomach somersault.

Just then, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She lunged for it, hands trembling slightly. A new message lit up the screen.

Nikolai: I'm outside. Come down when you're ready, moya printsessa.

She stared at the text, heart thudding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

Maya peered over her shoulder and squealed. "He called you princess. That's it. You're doomed."

Elara stood slowly, smoothing her dress. "Wish me luck."

Maya pulled her into a quick hug, then stepped back with a wink. "Knock him dead. And don't trip in those heels. Or do, maybe he'll catch you. Either way, it's romantic."

Elara laughed shakily, grabbed her clutch, and walked toward the door with a whirlwind of nerves and butterflies dancing in her stomach. Her heels clicked softly on the wooden floors, echoing like the start of something important.

As she stepped into the elevator, heart racing, she didn't know what to expect

The evening air kissed Elara's bare shoulders the moment she stepped out of the lobby doors, the gentle warmth of a spring night wrapping around her like a soft sigh. The scent of blooming jasmine lingered in the breeze, mingling with the faint hum of the city coming to life for the night. Her heels clicked softly on the pavement as she walked, purse in hand, heartbeat fluttering like wild wings beneath her ribcage.

And then—there he was.

Nikolai Volkov.

Leaning against a sleek, obsidian-black car that gleamed like liquid ink beneath the golden glow of the streetlights, he looked like sin in tailored form. He wore a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a hint of forearm and the glint of a luxury watch hugging his wrist. His slacks fit like a second skin, custom-tailored no doubt, and his presence alone could silence a room.

In one hand, he held a bouquet of red roses—dark, velvety, rich in color, like they were plucked from a forbidden garden.

But it was his eyes that got her. Piercing. Icy. Devouring.

He didn't move as she approached. Didn't speak. Just watched her. Every step she took closer to him was a test of his control. Her hair bounced in soft curls, framing her delicate face like a halo. That champagne-colored dress clung to her like a second skin, shimmering with each breath she took. Her skin glowed under the soft lights. Her lips were soft and pink.

She was too perfect. Too tempting.

He clenched his jaw and shifted slightly, gripping the bouquet tighter like it might keep him grounded.

All he could think about was how badly he wanted to pin her against the hood of his car, kiss the breath out of her, and make her moan his name until it was the only word she remembered.

Stop.

She's innocent.

Untouched.

Too good for you.

But even wanting to date her—bring her into his world—was already a form of corruption. Because he wasn't just some rich guy who liked nice suits and expensive cars.

He was a Volkov.

A bratva heir. Raised in blood and loyalty. Thriving in shadows.

And she? She was just a soft, sweet girl who probably said her prayers at night and believed the best in people.

She cleared her throat, her voice a fragile breeze. "Do I… do I look okay?"

That question—so shy, so unsure—nearly undid him.

He blinked, forcing the storm of lust and guilt down into the deepest pit of his stomach.

"You look stunning," he said, voice low and rough with restraint. "Sorry for staring too long."

A blush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks. Her lips curved in a nervous smile.

He stepped forward and offered her the bouquet. "These are for you."

She reached for them carefully, fingers brushing his, and for a moment, something electric passed between them. She held the roses to her chest, inhaling the scent. "They're beautiful."

"So are you," he said, too softly.

He opened the car door for her and waited until she was seated before circling around to the driver's side.

The moment the engine purred to life, Elara knew this wasn't an ordinary car. The seats molded perfectly to her shape, buttery leather warming beneath her, and the interior smelled like rich tobacco, cedarwood, and something uniquely him. Even the hum of the engine sounded powerful, restrained, like a predator waiting to strike.

And Nikolai behind the wheel? He was the picture of wealth and control. Every move was smooth, confident. His hand rested casually on the gearshift, wrist glinting with an unmistakably expensive timepiece. The collar of his shirt dipped just low enough to tease the strong line of his chest, and his cologne was intoxicating—dark, woodsy, and utterly masculine.

It hit her all at once.

He was filthy rich.

Not just "comfortable," not just "well-off."

But billionaire-dinner-on-a-private-island kind of rich.

And when they finally pulled up to the restaurant, that truth crystallized.

Elara's breath caught the moment she stepped out of the car.

The building loomed high above, a sleek glass tower that sparkled like a beacon. The name of the restaurant was etched in silver above the doors—Oblanka—a place she had only heard about in whispered awe.

It was infamous for its impossible-to-book tables, its otherworldly food, and its location on the sixty-sixth floor, offering a panoramic view of the entire city. People had waited months for a reservation here. It was the kind of place you proposed at, or celebrated billion-dollar deals in.

And yet… when they stepped inside, it was empty.

Not a single guest. No hum of chatter. No clinking of wine glasses or waiters bustling around.

Just soft classical music and dim, ambient lighting that shimmered over gold-detailed walls and crystal chandeliers.

Elara froze in the foyer, brows furrowed. "Isn't this place usually… packed?"

Before Nikolai could answer, a sharply dressed man stepped forward from the shadows.

"Sir," he greeted with a respectful bow of his head. "Everything has been arranged as per your father's request. The restaurant is yours for the evening."

Elara turned sharply to Nikolai, wide-eyed.

He gave the man a nod and turned back to her. "Shall we?"

Elara followed in stunned silence, her heels silent on the marble floor. Questions swirled in her mind like a tornado. If his father could get a place like this cleared for a private dinner… what exactly did they do?

They were led to a table near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offered a breathtaking view of the city's twinkling lights. The skyline stretched endlessly, the world below them a sea of gold.

Their table was set in opulent black and gold—fine china, long-stemmed crystal glasses, silverware that looked like it had never touched a real dish in its life. A single flickering candle stood in the center, casting romantic shadows across Nikolai's sharp cheekbones.

Once they were seated and offered menus, Elara finally found her voice. "This is… incredible."

"It's just dinner," he said casually, folding his hands together.

"For who?" she laughed softly, still in disbelief. "Do you know how hard it is to even get on the waiting list here?"

He gave her a small smile, something unreadable in his eyes. "I have connections."

"Clearly," she said, placing her napkin on her lap. "I don't even know what to say. What do you… do exactly?"

Nikolai leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping slowly against the base of his wine glass.

"I'm a nepo baby," he said simply. "I run a few of my father's businesses. Mostly managing things, overseeing people. Nothing too exciting."

She tilted her head. "So you're… like a CEO?"

"Something like that."

It wasn't a lie, technically.

He was a nepo baby.

Only instead of boardrooms and spreadsheets, his inheritance included criminal empires, international smuggling routes, and a seat at the head of a violent syndicate known as the Bratva.

But he wouldn't—couldn't—tell her that.

Not Elara.

To her, he would always be just a mysterious, wealthy man who liked roses, wore expensive watches, and had the kind of smile that made girls forget the world.

He lifted his glass. "To new beginnings."

Elara hesitated only a moment before smiling and clinking her glass with his. "To new beginnings."

And as the candle flickered between them and the city sparkled in the distance, she wondered just what kind of world she was stepping into—and who exactly she was falling for.