11. Kate #3
I take my place at the bar, legs crossed, posture perfect, every inch of me screaming: I belong.
The bartender doesn’t ask. He sets a glass of champagne down with a nod.
Compliments of the host.
Michael’s eyes are on me. I feel it.
Even through the crowd, even from the upper deck—the possessive weight of that stare sinks into my skin. A pulse between my legs.
I sip my drink.
I don’t look up.
But my lips curl into a wicked smile.
Because if Michael thinks this game is his alone to play...
He’s about to learn how dangerous a queen can be on a white yacht at dusk.
The engines hum beneath my heels as the yacht eases from the dock, slicing through harbor waters like it owns them. The city lights start to shrink behind us, replaced by the open dark of the Atlantic and a sky full of stars.
I weave through the crowd, my champagne glass still half full, the cool salt breeze wrapping around my bare shoulders. The party is shifting—louder now. Looser. The sound of laughter has a slur to it.
That’s when they surround me—a pack of tall, model-thin women with glitter-dusted eyelids, accents thick as honey, and perfume that could knock out a heavyweight.
“You’re new,” one says, eyeing me over her wine glass. “Who are you here with?”
I smile politely, dodging the question. “Just enjoying the night.”
Another giggles, exhaling a cloud of flavored vape. “Then you picked the right boat. These parties? Always wild. No rules once we hit open water.”
They clink glasses, laughing again.
“We were in Monaco last month. Michael’s parties are always the best.”
“Did you hear about the one where the prince brought his snake?”
“… and the ropes?—”
“And the room with mirrors?—”
“Vasili likes feet, by the way. Watch your toes.”
The conversation spirals—fetishes, orgies, piles of coke in designer bags, women being paid ten grand for a weekend, men who want to be slapped, choked, branded. They talk like it’s just brunch gossip.
I nod along, but inside, I feel like I’ve walked into a world I’m not dressed for.
Not because of my outfit—but because I still believe sex means something. Even though, I had behaved in an atypical way for myself. It still meant something… exactly what I had yet to define.
I shift uncomfortably, sipping my drink slower now. The laughter rises behind me as I step away, needing air, space—him.
And then I feel it.
That pull.
I glance up across the deck—and there he is.
Michael.
Standing with a cluster of men, talking business from the look of it. But his eyes? Locked on mine. Like he’s been watching me this whole time.
One of the men beside him—tall, dangerous-looking, expensive everything—follows Michael’s gaze, then looks me over slowly. Like I’m meat. A challenge.
I don't flinch.
But Michael does.
His jaw tics.
And then he lifts a finger—just one.
Come here.
That’s all it takes.
The world around me fades as I walk toward him, heels clicking against the deck, spine straight, pulse climbing.
The game has shifted.
And I’m not sure who’s holding the cards anymore.
Michael’s eyes track me with the kind of heat that would make a lesser woman blush and run.
He’s standing with three other men, all sharp suits and sharper accents. European. The kind of men who were probably fed caviar off gold spoons as toddlers and learned to shoot before they could tie a tie.
The one closest to him, tall and icy blond, flicks a glance at me as I approach.
“This her?” he asks Michael in a thick accent, sipping something dark and neat.
Another man—French, maybe—dark-haired and prettier than should be legal, chuckles. “She’s better than the last one.” He leans toward me, smirking. “Where is Krystal anyway?”
Michael doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on me.
So I answer instead.
“She’s out,” I say, cool and clear, taking a sip of my champagne. “I’m in.”
There’s a flicker of surprise. Maybe even respect. And then the Frenchman tips his glass in my direction with a smooth, “Enchanté.”
The third man—dark, muscled, Russian—watches me like I’m a live wire. That has to be Romanov Vissili.
“I’ve heard stories,” he says in slow, measured English. “But they don’t do you justice.”
His tone is heavy with implication. Michael’s jaw tenses.
Romanov smiles like he enjoys that.
Michael reaches for me without taking his eyes off him. His hand lands at my waist, warm and sure.
“She’s not a story, Romanov.”
“No?” Romanov sips his drink. “We’ll see.”
The air between them chills, a power struggle folded into expensive suits and velvet words.
Michael leans in, brushing his lips just below my ear. “Go to the upper deck, baby. Get some air. I’ll be up in ten.”
I want to stay. My spine is steel, and I’ve never needed a man to fight my battles.
But I know a command when I hear one.
And I know when a situation is about to go nuclear.
I press a kiss to Michael’s cheek—slow, deliberate—and then walk away without looking back, my hips swaying like a promise.
Let them all watch.
Let them all wonder.
He might be playing king of this floating empire tonight…but I’m the one keeping every man guessing.