The air on the one hundred and twenty-ninth floor of Central Park Tower was so thin it felt suffocating. I stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, swirling half a glass of untouched San Pellegrino. Beneath my feet, Manhattan lay like a colossal, electrified circuit board, with countless yellow taxis flowing through artery-like streets. It was the eve of Thanksgiving, and the entire city was bracing for revelry, yet I felt nothing but cold. The building’s subtle sway—an engineering marvel designed to withstand the wind—served as a constant reminder: I was suspended above reality. This was the highest residence in New York, and also its most expensive prison. The property management was draconian; even the delivery boy bringing flowers had to clear three security checkpoints. There were no neighbors here, only indifferent nods exchanged in the elevator. The elevator doors chimed open, shattering the deathly silence of the penthouse. Roman was back. I didn’t even need to turn around to feel the shift in air pressure. That specific blend of Cuban Cohiba cigars, aged Macallan, and something sharper, more dangerous, instantly filled the foyer. It was the scent of power. Or perhaps, the scent of blood. "Elena." His voice was low, carrying that habitual weight of command. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. He was the kind of man who moved effortlessly between boardrooms and underground casinos, accustomed to the world revolving around him. I turned, squeezing out the perfect smile I had practiced a thousand times. "You're back, Roman. Did the merger go smoothly?" Roman Sterling, CEO of the Sterling Group and the de facto ruler of New York's underworld. He loosened his deep blue silk tie and tossed it carelessly onto the six-figure Minotti sofa. He strode toward me, those gray-blue eyes scrutinizing me like a hawk, as if inspecting his private property for damage. "The old man was stubborn," Roman said, stopping in front of me. His fingers grazed my cheek, the pads rough with calluses—traces of his gun-wielding youth. "But he eventually understood that in this city, no one says no to me." I caught the faint scent of gunpowder on his cuffs. I shouldn't ask for details; that was the rule. "This is for you." He pulled a long black velvet box from the pocket of his bespoke suit and flipped it open with one hand. Inside lay a Van Cleef & Arpels ruby necklace. For a split second, it didn't look like jewelry; it looked like a string of coagulated blood droplets. "It's beautiful," I said, my voice dry. "Turn around," he commanded, his tone laced with an unquestionable, possessive affection. I obeyed, turning and sweeping my hair up. The cold metal touched the nape of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. He fastened the clasp, his warm lips immediately falling upon the hollow of my neck, his arms encircling my waist to lock me tight within his iron embrace. "Wear this to The Met Gala tomorrow night," he whispered in my ear. "The color suits your skin. And don't wear that white gown. I've had a black Givenchy haute couture piece sent over. White is too weak. You are my queen; you need presence." My fingernails dug hard into my palms. Even what I wore was under his control. "I like the white one," I protested in a whisper, trying to chip even the tiniest crack in his fortress of control. "I designed it myself. It took me a month." Roman chuckled lightly, as if he’d heard an adorable joke. He turned me around by the shoulders, his eyes full of arrogant confidence. "Elena, sweetheart, your designing is a cute hobby. But for an occasion like this, you need to display the majesty of the Sterling family, not your... little amusements. Behave." *Behave.* The word was like a nail, driven mercilessly into my dignity. "By the way," he released me and walked to the bar to pour himself a drink. "Pour that water out. Drink bourbon with me tonight. You need to learn to handle stronger things." I watched his broad back. The boy who had once clumsily handed me coffee in the Columbia University library had vanished completely. In his place stood this beast, forged in the concrete jungle. He thought he had given me the best view in the world, forgetting to ask if I had a fear of heights. Outside, Central Park was a pitch-black void. "Yes, Roman," I said softly, obediently pouring the water down the sink. But in my heart, I could hear the sound of a countdown. ---