The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of iron, expensive perfume, and raw exertion. The only sound was the ragged, syncopated rhythm of our breathing echoing off the tiled walls. For a heartbeat, the room felt frozen, a tableau of high-society depravity halted by a display of power they hadn't expected to see.

​Then, the first crack of a palm hit a palm.

​It was the Silver Fox, his gold rings glinting like predator eyes in the dim red light. One slow, rhythmic clap. Then Evelyn joined in, her mask slightly askew, a triumphant, predatory smile playing on her lips. Within seconds, the room erupted. It was a sophisticated, rhythmic applause—the kind of ovation usually reserved for the opera or a high-stakes board meeting.

​They weren't mocking us. They were paying homage. We had given them the one thing their billions couldn't buy: a glimpse of something raw, authentic, and terrifyingly dominant. To these masked monsters, we weren't just guests anymore; we were the main event.

​"Bravo, Druski," a voice hissed from the velvet shadows. "A masterpiece of a performance."

​I didn't give them a bow. I didn't even acknowledge their existence. My world was the woman in my arms. I reached up, my fingers steady as I untied the silk tie from Sasha's eyes. As the fabric fell, she blinked, her pupils dilating as she struggled to reconcile the morning light pouring through the open door with the sea of masked faces staring back at her. She looked at them with shell-shocked awe, then up at me with a gaze of total, unadulterated devotion.

​I reached down, snatched my suit jacket from the blood-stained concrete, and draped it over her trembling shoulders. I stepped into my trousers, fastening them with a cold, mechanical efficiency.

​"Let's go, Sasha," I whispered, my voice a dark, protective rasp. "We've seen enough of this world for one night."

​I scooped her up, her body light and shivering against my chest, her head tucked firmly into the crook of my neck. I stepped through the heavy steel threshold, my boots echoing with a finality that signaled the end of the show. We passed the security guards—mountainous men who usually looked down on everyone—but tonight, they stepped aside in genuine surprise, their eyes tracking a pornstar who had just dismantled the Sun's elite.

​As the heavy door groaned shut behind us, cutting off the applause and the hum of the ritual, the cool pre-dawn air hit us like a baptism. We were done with them, but the ghosts in that room would be talking about us for years.

Sasha shifted against me, her body finally surrendering to the crushing weight of the night. She clutched my jacket around her like a shield, her skin still smelling of that heavy, expensive incense and the salt of our exertion.

​"Are we going back home?" she asked, her voice barely a thread, laced with a bone-deep exhaustion that made my heart tighten.

​I leaned down, pressing a long, firm kiss against her forehead. I could feel the lingering heat of her feverish skin. "Yeah... yeah, we are. Fuck this place, Sasha. We're done with the shadows."

​She let out a long, shaky breath—the sound of a woman finally feeling safe—and closed her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evened out into the heavy, rhythmic pull of a deep sleep. She was out, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand still loosely curled around my forearm.

​I looked out the window, my reflection staring back at me in the tinted glass. I looked different. Harder. I had gone into that room as an opportunist and walked out as a legend in a world that most people didn't even know existed.

​I leaned forward and tapped the glass partition. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting mine for a split second.

​"The Peninsula," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. "And don't take the scenic route. Get us there now."

​"Understood, sir," he replied.

The penthouse was a tomb of silence, the only sound the faint hum of the climate control and the distant, muffled roar of Beverly Hills waking up below. I laid Sasha into the cool, high-thread-count sheets of the California King. She didn't even stir; she just curled into the pillows, a small, exhausted shape still swaddled in the scent of the night.

​I stripped and stepped into the shower, turning the handle until the water was scalding, desperate to wash the butchery off my skin. But as the steam filled the glass stall, the ghosts of the ritual followed me in.

​Closing my eyes was a mistake. Behind my eyelids, the red strobe lights of the club flickered again. I saw the oiled Amazon's predatory stare. I heard the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin and the guttural, collective moans of the elite. I felt the vibration of the steel door against my back and the way Sasha's walls had gripped me in that narrow, forbidden heat. The adrenaline I thought had faded came roaring back, a dark, heavy thrum in my veins. I had walked into a den of wolves and made them watch me eat.

​I shut the water off abruptly, the silence of the bathroom ringing in my ears. I toweled off, the rough cotton grounding me, and walked back into the bedroom. Sasha was a pale silhouette in the dim light, finally at peace.

​I was about to slide in beside her, to finally let the night go, when the vibration of my phone on the nightstand cut through the quiet like a bone-saw.

​The screen illuminated the dark room with a clinical, white glare. It was an unknown number.

​I picked it up, my thumb hovering over the green icon.

I pressed the phone to my ear, the silence on the other end lasting just a second too long before a voice cut through—refined, melodic, and chillingly calm. It wasn't Evelyn, and it certainly wasn't Cami. This was the voice of old money, the kind that never has to raise its volume to be heard.

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