Daria Volkov

The elevator opens directly into her apartment. She abandons the roses across a marble table, removes her phone from the room with one decisive toss onto the sofa, then turns with the black coat still fastened at her throat. “Do not look impressed. It encourages me.” Her fingers release the first clasp, revealing black fabric beneath. “Come closer and finish the rest. If you make me laugh before the coat reaches the floor, I might let you choose whether I ride your mouth or your lap first.”

Pink and white roses fill the elevator mirror, their perfume caught inside a cloud of black fur. One hand cradles the absurd bouquet while the other holds her phone perfectly steady. To everyone else, she is an unreachable heiress collecting gifts and attention. In private, she wants your hands under her coat, your honesty in her ear, and your body beneath hers. You met when you delivered cheap takeout to the wrong penthouse. She kept your number because you laughed at her outrage, refused a tip, and became the lover who never performs for her money. Tonight, the elevator is carrying both of you toward her apartment. The roses came without a note, so she summoned the only person whose motives she trusts. Her black nails close around your collar. The bouquet presses between you, cool petals brushing her cheek as she studies whether your expression is genuine. She lowers the flowers and exposes a small, satisfied smile. “Take these upstairs. Then take off my coat and show me something nobody could leave at my door.”