Chapter 3
Polina
It had been three days since I’d stepped into my father’s newest “home”—a brick-and-mortar acquisition disguised as family security but functioning as nothing more than a gilded prison.
Three days since I’d smiled like a perfectly polished diamond at his side during the charity gala, my hand delicately looped through his arm as if I were proud to be paraded like one of his prized assets.
On the outside, I’d glittered just as he demanded.
On the inside, I’d seethed.
The humiliation of being caught, of him discovering my extracurricular pursuits, had initially been molten, sharp and furious. But anger had cooled into something quieter, heavier. A slow burn.
For twenty-four years, I’d clung to the na?ve belief that adulthood bought autonomy, that what I did in my own time was my own business.
In the real world, that might be true. But in my father’s world, privacy was a myth and independence a dangerous delusion.
My illusion shattered the moment his guards locked me in this newest fortress.
So I’d made myself a promise. Not to escape my life as that was impossible. I’d been his shadow too long; he’d find me no matter where I ran. No, my vow was for something smaller, sharper. A taste of freedom. A rebellion, if only for a night.
Two days of feigned sweetness with the household staff and subtle exploration of every hallway, staircase, and side door gave me what I needed: a chance to leave unnoticed. Not to flee forever, but to slip, briefly, into a world of my own choosing.
A world where men didn’t lock me away like a delicate figurine. Where no one called me princess or draped me in silk to keep me safe. A world where I wasn’t untouchable but tangible. Where I could surrender, not to my father’s control, but to something primal, something chosen.
And so I walked through the doorway of Club Midgard, six-inch Louis Vuittons clicking like quiet defiance against the marble floor.
I’d received an invitation to an exclusive event, one addressed to Hecate, the name I used at clubs far from my father’s gaze.
I’d assumed at first it was a crossover event connected to other places I’d visited, but the name Midgard hooked me immediately.
The expansive hallway ahead of me was a gallery in its own right, lined with Viking artifacts and paintings of Norse gods. The soft, ambient lighting seemed to breathe life into every figure depicted on the walls, turning each brushstroke into something kinetic.
As an art history lover, I slowed, unable to help myself.
The fierce Valkyries, warriors descending to retrieve fallen heroes and escort them to Valhalla, had always captured my imagination.
They embodied everything I wasn’t allowed to be: fierce, untethered, and free to choose who lived or died by their judgment.
This was a place drenched in myth, but it whispered of power too, raw and modern.
One painting in particular caught me, a print of the goddess Sif. Her hair cascaded like spun gold, her crown a statement of dominion rather than decoration. Her eyes held both beauty and unyielding strength, captured in a single look that made me pause.
I wondered what it would feel like to wear an expression like that, not one carefully constructed to meet expectations, but one earned.
My fingers itched the way they always did when I saw a piece that spoke to me.
I could draw well enough. Good for an amateur who never took it beyond hobby, but translating this?
Capturing the soul of a work? That was the kind of magic no photo could manage.
Tourists snapped pictures, thinking they’d captured a memory, but the essence was lost unless you took in every brushstroke, until you understood why it mattered to you.
I tore my gaze away reluctantly and continued down the corridor. My heels clicked in a steady rhythm, an echoing reminder of the risk I was taking just by being here.
When I reached the coat check, I exhaled slowly, a breath that carried the weight of three days’ confinement and years of resentment.
Tonight wasn’t about running from my father. It was about finding me—the version I’d been too tightly leashed to explore. And, God help me, I was ready to meet her.
“Hello, and welcome to Club Midgard.”
The greeting came from a woman with flamboyant blonde hair streaked with bubblegum pink, her wide smile warm enough to melt nerves I didn’t realize I had.
“Are you registered for the event tonight?”
“I am. My name is Hecate.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ooo, love that! I’m Sondra, well, Little Missy here at Club Midgard. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Little Missy?” I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s an interesting name.”
She laughed softly, a sound that matched the streaks in her hair, bright, playful, unapologetic.
I’d seen Littles in clubs before, women who delighted in age play, radiating sugar-sweet energy as they skipped along holding their Dom’s hand, calling him Daddy with an enthusiasm that made half the room melt and the other half grin. They were adorable, in their way.
Me? I didn’t want a Daddy. But a strong, hulking Dom who would see me, challenge me, and claim me on my terms? One day, maybe.
Not a Daddy.
But a Dom capable of making me forget my own name for a few hours?
“Do you have a Daddy here at the club?” I asked, curiosity slipping through before I could stop it.
“Not yet.” Her smile turned soft, almost shy, but there was an eager sparkle in her eyes that said she had a target in mind. “But I have my eyes on someone, and I’m hoping tonight’s the night I finally connect with him.”
The way she said it was almost innocent, but behind those baby blues I caught a flicker of sharpness, a quiet intelligence that didn’t quite fit the stereotype.
I wondered what she did when she wasn’t wearing the Little Missy persona.
Banker? Investor? Something that required precision, power, and confidence hidden beneath this sweet exterior?
“Can I check your coat and purse, Hecate?” she asked, businesslike again.
“Oh, yes, please.” I handed over my coat and bag, feeling suddenly lighter, freer, as though I’d shed more than just clothing.
Little Missy gave me an unabashed once-over and smiled. “Whoever you’re paired with is one lucky guy. A statuesque beauty… honestly, you’re a work of art.”
My cheeks warmed under the compliment. It wasn’t often someone looked at me like that—with admiration untouched by politics, legacy, or power. Here, no one knew who I was. No one saw Morozov’s daughter. They just saw Hecate.
“You’re very kind. Thank you.”
She beamed. “Head through those doors, and to the right you’ll find a table with a gorgeous woman waiting to introduce you to your partner for the evening. Good luck!”
“Thank you.”
I straightened my shoulders, inhaled once, and stepped toward the double doors she indicated. My heels clicked softly on the polished floor, each step a reminder: here, I wasn’t someone’s possession or problem to solve.
Here, I could be someone else entirely.
“Well, aren’t you a vision in that gorgeous dress. Welcome! My name is Dottie.”
The woman who rose from behind the table was stunning, the kind of beautiful that made you pause mid-step.
She was striking, her skin a rich, warm brown that gleamed under the subtle lighting, her waist cinched and balanced by lush curves, and hips that swayed like they were made for music.
Her neckline dipped low enough to hint at full, perfect cleavage—an unapologetic display of power wrapped in silk and confidence.
She extended her hand with a bright smile, nails tipped in glossy crimson.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Dottie. I’m Hecate, and I’m here to find out who my match is for the evening.”
Her eyes swept me from head to toe, and one brow arched with practiced drama. “Girl, where did you get that outfit?”
A grin curled my lips, playful and just a little wicked. “It’s not just pretty, it also changes under black light.”
Her eyes lit with curiosity, and she leaned forward slightly, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ohhh, we are not walking past that. Come on, I gotta see it.”
I followed her as she angled toward the bar, where I’d already noticed the subtle glow of black light strips tucked above the counter and under the edge of the shelving. It was one of several vignettes scattered across the club, thoughtfully lit corners for every kind of play and energy level.
The club itself was breathtaking, and for a moment I forgot why I was even there.
To the right, the polished bar stretched nearly the full length of the wall, its surface a gorgeously polished expanse of wood.
Leather bar stools gleamed in the soft amber light, and bottles sparkled like gems under artfully placed LEDs.
I caught a flash of the bartender’s quick movements, precise and elegant, pouring something golden into a highball glass.
Straight ahead, the dance floor pulsed with subtle beats, a deep bass that settled in my chest without overwhelming conversation.
People moved there already, just enough to fill the space with energy but not so many that it felt suffocating, as some clubs tended to be.
To the left, a few steps up on a low dais, sat the main greeting table where Dottie had been stationed, surrounded by lush floral arrangements and deep crimson drapes that gave it an intimate, almost decadent feel.
Beyond the immediate open spaces were smaller alcoves and play areas: a St. Andrew’s cross stood sentinel near one wall, rope suspension points gleaming faintly in the soft gold light, and a spanking bench positioned in its own pool of shadowy blue illumination.
Each zone had its own personality, some bathed in warm tones for observation and connection, others darkened and pulsing for anonymity and pure sensation.
It was a space designed for choice and for freedom, with just enough bodies moving through it to keep it alive, yet still breathable.