L’Orchidée Rouge

Midday — that exact hour when the city still hasn’t exhaled after the morning rush, but has already started allowing itself the luxury of lazy lunches.
We stepped into L’Orchidée Rouge — a restaurant that pretends to be a monastery and an opera house at the same time.
I looked around.
Heavy curtains the color of aged garnet swallow the half-light.
On the tables — fine silver, its shine desperately trying to appear welcoming, but clinking against the porcelain so timidly, as if apologizing for making noise.
The air smells of fresh pastry and the expensive perfumes from neighboring tables; everything is too proper, too even.
The hostess greeted us with a smile so strained that even the Botox in her face seemed to quietly sigh:
“God, just a bit more — and the seams will burst…”
Every eyelash of hers looked like it had rehearsed its pose.
Every nail stood strictly according to state standards.
The waiters were a whole separate opera.
They moved so carefully, as if they were mice at Cinderella’s ball:
rustling, flickering, sliding through the air, yet none of them daring to breathe louder than a whisper.
It almost felt like if one of them sneezed, they’d all get reprimanded on the spot.
Our table was in a separate VIP room, closed off from the rest of the hall.
I love that: as if the world has been switched off, leaving only us and the people who matter.
Another ten minutes of seating and greetings — and it begins.
We’re sitting at a long table that resembles a conference one: everything strict, even, predictable.
Across from us — the important investor behinds: polished watches, confident jawlines, navy-blue jackets, the same manner of adjusting their cufflinks as if they rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
Shoot me.
Nate speaks confidently — that very calm, deep tone that usually sends shivers down my spine.
But right now… right now he’s in strategic-beast mode.
He draws out charts with his voice.
As if his fingers were sorting through mechanisms.
He assembles the Earth Angels ecosystem into an architecture of meaning — so precise, so cold-blooded, as if what’s in front of him isn’t a business but an ancient precious mechanism he knows how to dismantle to atoms.
I try to breathe more often.
Nate for the world — is entirely different.
Mine — is insane, wild, an untamed predator who sweeps me off my feet, teases, grips, kisses me until I lose my thoughts.
But at work — he is a predator of another order.
Here, his mind is cold and ruthless.
He sees three, five, ten steps ahead.
He reads people as if his eyes were slicing open their intentions.
He understands why they came, what they want to hide, why they ask that question.
The depth — the almost maniacal obsession with competence — drives me crazy.
No carelessness.
Not a single “later.”
No slips, no emotions.
Any major purchase is already covered by another income source.
The streams are expanded so much that even I no longer know exactly how much money we have.
The children are secured for years — for decades.
Every one of ours is sheltered.
Every risk is closed by the net he and Jonathan have built over the years: if something dips, dozens of income sources immediately pick up the weight.
The only case I remember when he made a mistake.
More precisely… all three of them did.
We were expecting huge profit from a project any day — so huge that the three of them walked around glowing and practically licking their lips.
And then — they showed up at my place like schoolboys.
I was sitting in the living room, drinking tea.
Nate, Jonathan, and Josh walked in — and it was instantly clear: something had happened.
I squinted.
“Darling, we need to discuss something,” Nate began.
I lifted my eyes to the three of them.
I already knew: this was going to be nonsense.
The guys braced for the scolding.
“Darling, that project that…” Nate began carefully.
I saw Nate glance over at Jonathan, as if negotiating who exactly would say the most unpleasant part.
I was already starting to tremble.
I was no longer relaxed.
They would never come like this for nothing — which meant something very serious — and I did not like that.
“For heaven’s sake, be a man and say it as it is.”
All three had the same face: “we are grown men, but right now we’re genuinely scared.”
“About the construction company,” Nate exhaled.
There it is.
That enormous direction, our monster-project:
the construction of the new cluster for Earth Angels and Future Leaders School,
an entire network of buildings, children’s spaces, playgrounds, farms, laboratories,
plus the land acquisition for expansion, plus supplier contracts,
plus tenders for concrete, steel, engineering, logistics.
A project worth several tens of billions, and the one we run as the core of the entire ecosystem.
And if the three of them came together — it meant something had failed not on the Excel level.
Something cracked in the foundation, in the contractor chain, in the area where everyone was supposed to hold the line like at war.
“There was…” Jonathan. “A delay.”
The word “delay” in their execution means only one thing:
someone from the major contractors messed up so badly that the consequences cost millions.
“And now…” Nate sighed, as if choosing the most careful way to say, “we lost money.”
I felt everything inside me rise.
My gaze sharpened:
“If you tell me that our general contractor didn’t deliver, or that logistics failed, or that an investor shifted deadlines, or that we need to tighten up, or — God — do something with the money…
I will be very displeased.”
Nate closed his eyes for a second.
He hates moments like this.
He’s used to everything holding perfectly.
And when he opened them — I already understood everything.
And I exploded.
“Damn the three of you!
How do you even dare stand in front of me and say something like this?!
I rely on you! I trust you! I know you’ll always cover us!
How am I supposed to sit here calmly if I can’t trust you?!
What if your mistake costs us a home?!
Or — worse?! If I have to economize you will live on the street!
Damn you! I will gut each one of you!”
All three lowered their eyes.
I slapped my palm against the table.
“This is your responsibility!
Don’t you dare act like victims! I don’t care what happened!
This is unacceptable! I will strangle each of you!”
I was furious.
But the issue wasn’t even the mistake.
Everyone makes mistakes — that’s normal.
What enraged me was something else:
their power.
Their level.
Their potential.
These three — are such strong men that the very idea of a mistake from them sounds like sacrilege.
Each one of them is a titan.
Not a figure.
Not a partner.
Not a “man who tries.”
A titan.
A man of that level is someone who holds structures, businesses, streams, and decisions on which too much depends.
The ones who can cover a million-dollar hole without raising their voice.
Who manage flows the way others manage their own fridge.
All of them — minds like sharpened blades.
Endurance.
Strategic vision.
That’s exactly why the expectations for them aren’t human.
From each — as from a hundred ordinary men.
Because they are a hundred.
Mistakes for them
are not according to the rules of the game.
Not according to their status.
Not according to their level.
Oh, I was so angry.
“How are you not ashamed?! You came here with your tails tucked in.
It’s shameful to stand in front of a woman and say your financial streams didn’t align!
How could it even happen that the asset wasn’t backed up?!
How, for heaven’s sake, did you allow this hole?!
Why isn’t this landing covered by other streams?!
What, did we put everything into one?
How on earth could this not be foreseen — if something is put on one pillar, there must always be a support structure!”
They said nothing.
Eyes — down.
Like children who failed their own favorite task.
“And what now? I’m supposed to fix this?
I have to be the boy and solve everything for you?!
Maybe I should put on a suit and trousers, and you sit here with the kids — damn you!
The whole family, everyone relies on you! Everyone, for heaven’s sake!
And you here…”
I slammed the table again.
“Darling…” Nate began quietly.
“Don’t you dare,” I stopped him with a look. “Until you fix everything, don’t come near me, don’t you dare show up here, and don’t you dare look me in the eyes. Without clear papers and proof that everything is resolved, I won’t accept a single one of you.”
I had been so furious that even now, remembering it, something inside me trembled.
Brr.
Thank God, nothing like that ever happened again.
And — like a snap: Nate’s voice brings me back.
I shook my head and blinked a couple more times.
These guys will never allow something like that again.
They won’t.
My back relaxed.
And once again I’m a satisfied kitten.
purr.
So, what do we have here.
Jonathan nods every three sentences — approvingly, professionally, the way people do when they’re used to holding millions in their heads.
Sometimes he adds short clarifications: one word, one phrase, one stroke — and Nate’s whole argument becomes even sharper, as if their thoughts have long been connected by an underground cable running at the height of the 24th floor.
Everyone around is trying to look extremely serious.
The investors lean forward, take notes, raise their eyebrows at the places where Nate makes accents.
He works like a surgeon of strategy:
cutting out the unnecessary, highlighting the important, leading them to the conclusion in such a way that the investors themselves start believing the idea was theirs.
Quieter than him — only the expensive Swiss watch on his wrist.
I look at him — and my chest warms.
Jonathan is incredible today.
Not just brilliant — solid, a titan, the right hand every corporation dreams of, but the one we have.
He holds the line so confidently that Nate can allow himself to be pure force — knowing the strategy behind him is covered.
After the meeting, I’ll definitely praise him.
And I’m terribly proud of him.
Jonathan is such a good boy, such a smart one.
Everything around is the same.
The waiters walk almost soundlessly, as if afraid to disturb the atmosphere of importance.
I’m already in inner-child mode, quietly drawing a little cat on the margins of my consciousness while the grown-up boys play their big, serious games.
On the outside, I’m perfect, composed, the mistress of the ecosystem.
Inside — a little fox resting her head on her paws: “mm, go on and finish already, I love you all so much, but this is so long…”
Damn, why do we need to expand even further?
We already make money by the ton.
The Aristocrat, sitting diagonally from me, caught my eye.
His shoulders twitched barely noticeably — there it is, our tiny secret war with propriety.
We make faces at each other like two children punished to “sit nicely and quietly” at an aunt’s Sunday lunch, and between us flies an invisible needle of humor.
I try not to laugh.
I really try.
But the moment one of the investors says “long-term capitalization,”
the Aristocrat mimics fainting, lowering his head onto his hand — quietly, barely visible.
And that’s it.
I dissolve into soft giggles.
Nate keeps talking — and of course I hear every word.
I know he feels my inner despair, but he doesn’t look up: he’s in God-of-negotiations mode — and that’s exactly what makes him beautiful.
So adult, so strong.
And that shirt… oh, that shirt.
And underneath it — my favorite torso, and lower… oh.
“Nazokat.”
I flinch like a cat whose tail wasn’t even stepped on — something just cracked nearby.
Calm down. They want something. Fine. Pretend we understand. We’ll figure it out as we go.
My back straightens automatically.
My shoulders become regal.
And it makes me laugh.
Because I’ve been doing this ever since school.
Every time they called me up to speak, my mouth always managed to say something that saved everyone — and me first of all.
The old, reliable magic of improvisation.
“Come on, baby. So what, investors — you sleep with such a predator that they’re practically kittens,”
And anyway, as the Aristocrat says:
“Don’t worry, darling: with that pretty mouth of yours you could be reciting poems about potatoes — they’d be satisfied.”
Perfect.
We’ll use that right now.
I adjust my skirt — a subtle, almost invisible gesture:
a wing-check before takeoff.
Yes, the show begins.

A smile.
That very one — all 32 teeth, where each tooth is worth one investor and, as a bonus, their consciences.
The hair is perfect: it lies so flawlessly I want to applaud myself.
And I lean forward — a light movement, but inside it is my entire nature:
I’m here to decide, to charm, and — if needed — to flip the table.
Across from me — Nate.
Oh God.
With that look of his…
“Baby, you have no idea what I’m going to do to you tonight.”
Damn.
This is not helping at all.
As if I need his hints right now, when there are twenty investors in the room.
He’s doing it on purpose.
He loves that I get all flustered, blush, lose my words.
I inhale and force myself to look away.
I gather my voice, like a hairpin behind my ear, and begin my painfully familiar aria:
about children, about environment, about safety, about emotional intelligence —
as if everything is under control.
Inside — a fire.
Just a few more seconds.
Nate keeps entertaining himself —
a lazy half-smile, shameless and obvious glances at my chest, at my lips.
I’m already bright red.
And that’s when Jonathan steps in.
On the one hand — he’s in the flow of numbers and analysis.
On the other — he sees perfectly well what Nate is doing.
He catches my thought exactly where I paused for half a second because of Nate’s eyes, and gently, as if it had always been planned, adds:
“I’ll add an important point…”
God, what a salvation.
He does it without pomp.
He simply, steadily holds the space so that I can exhale and get my voice back.
He throws me a quick glance — just a second —
and in that glance:
“I’m here. Holding the line. Don’t worry. Breathe.”
Thank you, thank you, my dear.
Nate, noticing this, leans back slightly and…
of course, looks at me again.
Now slower.
Deeper.
He knows I’m burning.
He knows my cheeks are red.
He knows I lose my breath.
And he likes it.
Ridiculously.
Shamelessly.
I feel that predator-mode switching on inside him:
he is absolutely certain that tonight he will remind me of every look.
One by one.
In detail.
Fuuuh, breathe, breathe.
I straighten my back.
Pull myself together.
And speak again — confident, calm, as if my nervous system isn’t collapsing from the way he keeps his eyes on me.
Jonathan nods — and picks up what I said, unfolding the thought into a perfect argument.
He’s the bridge between my voice and Nate’s strategy.
He weaves everything into structure so subtly that the investors don’t even notice I slipped for a second.
And Nate?
Nate just smiles with that predatory, almost invisible corner of his mouth.
Rascal.
All this time I’m glancing at the huge clock on the restaurant wall like it’s my salvation.
The seconds run as if they’re helping me.
Just a bit more and the torture will end.
According to the plan, my speech should last exactly 1 minute and 30 seconds — no more, no less —
otherwise Jonathan will be giving me his strict CFO-look afterward.
“If only you knew how sick I am of repeating this text… I can recite it in my sleep, in a coma, or under hypnosis.”
And — stop.
Smile.
Nod.
Soft exhale stepping out of the role.
Hurray. I’m free.
I pretend to listen carefully to the next speaker, but inside I’m already running up the walls, kicking off my heels, bouncing on a trampoline, and making faces at the Aristocrat, who is barely hiding the praise he wants to send my way.
And mentally cursing Nate.
The first shot after this meeting is mine, that’s for sure.
The bridal hit parade.
Four meetings in a row in the same restaurant.
At the first one I still held it together — ignoring Nate and his shameless games.
At the second I folded my hands in prayer:
“Guys, maybe without me?”
“No way,” they said. “You’re the spark of the project. These people are waiting for fire.”
Two deals closed.
Two more.
Finally.
Folders snapped shut.
The air filled with oxygen.
We’re standing in a row like the penguins from “Madagascar”: smile and wave.
Nate — like the first penguin, serious, composed, with eyes reflecting control of the whole zoo.
The Adventurer — the second: doing everything right, but her eyes already plan an escape.
The Aristocrat — the third, his smile so wide it looks like he’s about to turn himself inside out.
Jonathan — the only one who actually looks decent. He’s way too serious, way too composed. So much so that I, unable to resist, gently tap his shoe with my heel under the table.
He doesn’t even blink. Just exhales a bit deeper.
I smile even wider.
The smile is stuck on me like a sticker from a past life.
We wave — synchronously, perfectly, absurdly.
The door is about to close behind them.
I can’t feel my face anymore.
One more second — and it’s over.
“Three, two, one…”
Click!
The door slams shut.
“Thank God!” — in unison.
We burst into laughter.
Nate pulls me toward him.
His hand lands on my waist, he draws me close:
“Baby, you’re as brilliant as always.”
And my head spins — from him, from the warmth, from that softened masculine voice of his, as if he’s telling me a secret meant only for me.
“Mm-hmm,” I breathe barely, but happy.
Oh, this Nate.
Everyone’s thrilled, and then — the bar, shots, dancing, and…
And then Jonathan stands up, pulls on his jacket, serious and collected — CFO mode:
“Guys, I have to go. It’s my father’s birthday.”
“What?! Jonathan, you’re such a pain in the butt!” — the Adventurer.
“You can’t do that! The table is booked!” — I wave my hands.
He just shrugs.
And then darkness comes out in all her beauty.
The part that trembles at the ends of men’s fingers when they’ve decided to persuade someone, to pressure, to wrap someone in words so well that even the walls start listening.
Nate is the first to give the signal — a light, shameless wink that feels like someone flipped a switch inside me.
The Aristocrat picks up the game instantly: he puts a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder — softly, almost friendly, but it’s the kind of softness that always hides a plan.
I narrow my eyes.
Damn.
What are they plotting?
The kind of silence where you can hear the devil’s silk tail brushing somewhere in the dark.
Nate takes a step forward — predatory, beautiful, as if he has the whole evening and the world will wait.
“Well, John,” he draws out, his voice mixing sweetness with threat, “what time do you have to be there? You definitely have an hour.”
The Aristocrat delivers his line like the perfect second lead in their little performance:
“Oh, come on.
Relax a bit…
We’ll dance a little.”
Two luxurious devils politely holding the door to hell open — and smiling in a way that makes arguing with them pointless.
Jonathan looks first at one, then at the other — and I can see how hesitation flickers in him, how finance rule #1 begins to lose to rule #2:
when Nate and the Aristocrat unite — resistance is useless.
I feel the air around us grow dense.
The men’s game has begun.
I feel sorry for Jonathan — I know better than anyone how hard it is to refuse Nate.
Refuse? Oh please, you flatter yourself — Aide.
Yeah, I don’t remember you ever refusing him even once — Mushu.
Oh, get lost, both of you.
Another second —
Jonathan gives in and, strictly:
“Only for an hour.”
They both nod as if to say of course, of course.
rascal.
Finally the restaurant stays behind us — like the last warm light going out, the world switching into night mode.
Matching S-Classes roll up to the entrance — sleek, silent, like shadows in expensive suits.
Black, heavy, with the soft growl of a V8 under the hood.
They look as if they grow straight out of the asphalt — part of the landscape, part of the power.
I’m about to go down the stairs to the car, but Nate lightly stops me by the elbow — subtle, almost weightless.
“Kitten, wait a second.”
The drivers sit back in the cars in sync.
Like on command.
As if someone clicked an invisible “pause” button.
I blink — not understanding.
The ground under my feet trembles, barely, barely.
First like the breath of a large beast…
And then — like its growl.
The rumble grows thicker.
Louder.
Closer.
Ferrari Enzo.
Red like sin, like fire, like a warning.
One of 399 in the world.
A V12 engine roaring.
And the chassis sits so low it looks like it’s biting the asphalt.
“Mother of—…” — the Adventurer.
Behind it — a black Mercedes S-Class, but not just an executive one.
It’s an S-63 AMG.
Full tint — windows like cold obsidian.
The exhaust is raspy, low — that unmistakable handmade AMG V8 sound even car-illiterate people recognize.
The last to fly in is a BMW M6.
Tuned so heavily I feel it with my body, not my ears.
Spoiler, body kits, widened arches — everything screams this is no ordinary car.
This is a tuned, wild, impossible M6 with a V10, a Formula-1 engine.
Its sound is unlike anything else: a scream, a rip, a lunge — like a metal beast trying to break from chains.
I swallow.
“We’re going in that one?”
Nate smirks.
Oh damn.
The blazer — into the trunk, as if it exhausted him with its rules and boundaries.
One sharp, almost dismissive motion.
The shirt pulled free from his jeans — so he can breathe easier.
The top button undone — not intentionally, but because he can’t stand anything restricting him.
His body always lives faster than the fabric around it.
His hair is tousled — he ran his hand through it like he’s mixing up his thoughts and shaking off the overly adult haze left by investor meetings.
The beast is coming out.
Oh, this Nate.
Oh, this Nate.
Bar—
The bar greets us with a muted bass — not loud, but so dense it vibrates in the ribs, as if checking whether we’re worthy of entering.
The light is low, dim, everything in shades of coal, copper, and warm amber.
At the very door — me.
Mini-skirt, crop top, Nate’s blazer on top.
A confirmation of his right and his power:
“this is my woman.”
The Adventurer —
in a sparkling dress that glitters with every movement, as if it lights half the room on its own, separate from the chandelier.
Lips — red lipstick.
The Aristocrat steps in next — gorgeous like the devil.
He enters as if his gloves are too white for this place and he knows it perfectly well.
Back straight, gaze lazy, lips in a faint smirk.
He looks like he’s here by accident — like a duke who wandered into a bar that serves cocktails far too strong.
Jonathan comes last.
His energy is softer — tired, warm, grown.
He loosens his tie right in the doorway, pulling it off with one hand, as if finally giving himself permission to breathe.
He frees the top two buttons.
A small exhale.
A barely visible smile.
His shoulders relax, and there’s so much magnetic honesty in that single movement that the bar counter seems to crack under the tension of the women’s stares.

We head to our table.
And I feel — with my whole body — how the looks hit us, how the air thickens around us.
God.
How satisfied I am.
At our table sit the most beautiful men in the world.
Not just because of “looks,” but because their energy is incompatible with anything ordinary.
The music explodes like hot steam under the skin.
The dance floor lives its own life — light breaks in torn patches, shadows curve like snakes, the air trembles from the bass.
We don’t change the ritual:
Half vodka, half Sprite, napkin on top, three taps on the table — and drink.
Laughter. Claps. Shots, glass clinking, whistles.
How Deep Is Your Love.
“Come on, come on!” — the Adventurer.
I throw back my shot instantly.
Let’s go.
Light, burning, like a spark.
My body moves on its own in the rhythm — the music leads my soul and body.
The skirt slides along my hips.
Shoulders gleam.
Hair catches golden highlights.
Around us — boys, girls —
but who cares.
I need only one gaze.
Nate.
He sits in half-shadow, but the darkness doesn’t hide him — it emphasizes him.
Night mode at maximum:
a face sharp as if carved from steel;
eyes — dark, focused, impossible.
And he sees me.
I turn, feel the music in my chest — and in that moment he tilts his head slightly.
And licks his lips.
Slowly.
Unashamed.
Unhidden.
Like a predator who has already chosen his prey and is simply waiting for her to come closer.
Everything inside me tightens.
Heat rises from my stomach to my neck.
I dance — but it’s no longer a dance.
It’s an invitation, a challenge, a fire.
He follows every movement I make.
Doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t look away.
Just watches, as if memorizing the trajectory of my body so he can trace it later with his hands.
In his eyes — pure power.
“Keep going. You’re mine. And you know it.”
And I keep going.
Because I do know.
Because Nate is a night beast.
And right now he’s hungry.
He runs his tongue along his lower lip.
Leans back just a little.
His hand rests on the armrest — relaxed, but tense from the inside.
He is one solid “I’m waiting.”
One solid “come here.”
One solid “I’m going to eat you, little mouse.”
And I move further, looking at him over my shoulder,
knowing:
every step I take — on his nerves.
Every turn — on his breath.
Every movement — in his nighttime hunger.
And in this moment the world stops existing.
There is only the dance floor.
The music.
My pulse.
And Nate — the predator licking his lips in the dark, watching
as I slowly burn for him.
The music shoots up in a new wave, light slicing across the dance floor.
I move — almost laughing now, already burning, already knowing:
he won’t hold out.
He can’t.
Just a little more — and he’ll snap.
And then—
as if someone unlocks something inside him—
Nate stands up.
He doesn’t rush.
But he also doesn’t drag it out.
He walks the way men walk when the world is their territory.
He walks only toward me.
I bite my lip.
God.
He comes right up close — and for a second he just stands there.
Dark.
Big.
Calm like a storm right before it tears open.
I take a step back —
he catches my wrist.
Slowly places his hand on my lower back.
— precise movement,
— confident step,
— rhythm in his body,
— power in his gestures.
He leads me like he knows my body better than I do.
His fingers slide along my sides,
his breath brushes my temple,
his gaze — unbroken.
I laugh.
Because this isn’t dancing anymore.
This is hunting.
Shameless Nate.
I try not to think about how the whole place is dreaming about him,
how women are barely breathing.
Another second.
He stops.
“Kitten, come with me.”
I laugh.
“Nope, not going.”
“Oh, little mouse, don’t make me put on a show.”
I laugh and dart away.
“Stop.” — he growls the order.
“Aaa!” — I push through people.
“Stop it, you lunatic!”
The crowd whistles.
Nate licks his lips.
A quick grab — and I’m over his shoulder.
He’s pleased like a cat.
The guys bump fists with him.
I laugh loud, honest, almost to tears—
“Nate, put me down this instant!”
He carries me through the club
as if it’s his territory,
as if I’m his trophy,
as if the whole world is just a set built for our scene.
Only Nate can do that.
VIP.
The VIP room is quiet.
Only our breathing.
Nate takes a step.
One.
Slow.
And suddenly there is nothing between us — only air, hot, dense.
He guides me toward the wall.
He doesn’t push.
Doesn’t pin.
He just walks forward in a way that forces me to step back—
step by step,
inch by inch,
until my back touches the cold surface.
“Kitten, you’re shaking… are you afraid of me?” — with his most innocent look.
“I— I— I’m not— I—”
“You’re repeating yourself, little mouse.”
I swallow.
He stays at breathing distance.
He doesn’t touch.
But I feel all of him —
his chest, his shoulders, his hands, his warmth, his strength.
And the sensation is so strong it feels like every inch between us is electric.
He speaks quietly:
“I saw how you were dancing.”
Shivers run all over my skin.
He slowly, almost without touching, traces a line in the air along my collarbone —
and I no longer know if I’m breathing.
“What a tiny little skirt…”
I close my eyes — I can’t take it.
He leans closer.
So close I feel his breath.
God, Nate.
He smiles. Dark. Soft.
“And what am I supposed to do with you, little mouse?”
I try to answer —
but only stuttering comes out —
and he raises his hand to the wall beside my face, cutting off any escape.
His brow lifts.
My cheeks burn.
He tilts his head slightly — savoring it.
“Was it worth dancing like that, little mouse?
Were you trying to get something?”
“Me? I— I— I wasn’t— I—”
He licks his lips.
And his voice drops to that tone that makes my knees shake.
“My gentle, innocent kitten…
did you try to tempt me on purpose?
Did you want me to touch you—”
He gripped my ribs hard enough to make my breath hitch

Oh—I cried out in pleasure

Or 

His hand moved under my skirt, slow and sure.

“Oh God, Nate.”
I feel my cheeks burn even hotter.
He smiles with the corners of his mouth — slow, painfully slow.
The silence thickens around us,
like a night that knows the dawn is about to break
but still holds its breath for just one more moment.
He kisses my neck, and I can’t hold myself together anymore
I don’t even know where we are anymore.
Nate is ahead of me — and that’s all I need…


We step out of the VIP area.
The music slams into my chest,
like someone just switched the world back on.

Nate keeps his hand on my waist — firm, confident, as if I’m his antidote, his air.
He’s drunk.
Drunk on me.
Drunk on his thoughts about me.
And, frankly,
drunk on the shots.
At the table he waves the waiter over.
We take another one — napkin on top, three taps on the table —
and everything bursts again into laughter,
into sharp claps,
into hot, nocturnal energy.
Meanwhile, the classic of the genre unfolds:
the Aristocrat.
Josh is standing at the bar as if it’s not sticky wood but marble at the Palace of Versailles.
Elbow elegantly tilted, chin lifted, hair styled so perfectly it looks like each lock signed a behavioral contract with him.
And — of course — he’s flirting with the barista.
The barista — a cute boy with a piercing and a tattoo on his neck — looks both flattered and slightly stunned, because Josh talks to him as if handing him an invitation to a coronation.
“Oh my God, darling, you work in a bar?”
He opens his eyes wide, genuinely shocked.
“A bar — that’s just so… vulgar. No one could endure that amount of sticky surfaces, you understand?”
The barista laughs.
I laugh.
Even Nate smirks, though he pretends not to hear.
But Josh continues, waving his hand as if he has a kilo of Cartier diamonds on each finger:
“But of course, you adorn this establishment!”
He places a hand on his chest — theatrical as always.
“A flower in the concrete jungle. Ah, what you’re doing to my soul!”
The barista blushes so hard it becomes obvious:
Josh is not going home alone.
And, in his own words,
“the boy will be happy even if I simply allow him to look at my hairstyle.”

Then, with a content sigh, he turns back to the barista:
“Darling, two more shots.”
Meanwhile, my lazy cat — all warm, heavy — leans on me with his shoulder.
Not just touching — hugging with his whole body like a big, predatory animal that decided:
“This is mine. Don’t touch.”
And inside me spreads such pure, childlike happiness I almost laugh out loud.
“Guys,” the Adventurer drawls out of nowhere, as always.
Her voice — shiny like her dress.
We all turn.
There.
Damn.
Within a three-meter radius the club begins hosting a national-scale disaster:
The financial genius is tilting sideways.
The very man who can control dozens of streams, millions, structures, charts —
is now slowly, slowly falling,
like a tower tired of holding its vertical.
Shots take their toll.
I instantly look at the time.
“Oh God,” I exhale.
Nate catches my gaze.
He’s still leaning on me, but now his body changes — as if he’s oscillating between “I’m fine” and “baby, I’m sober as glass, it’s just the lights blinking.”
The Adventurer sees my look too.
She raises a brow.
Smiles her feline smile:
“Well, showtime has begun.”
And Josh…
Josh is still shamelessly flirting with the barista.
The bar counter glitters, bottles shine, and the barista is thrilled.
We exchange glances.
“Guys, this is a catastrophe—”
“In an hour he has his father’s birthday.”
Nate tries to rub his eyes.
“Wasn’t that hour the one when we left the restaurant?”
“Sweetheart, it’s Jonathan — everything for him is planned ahead, everything is very responsible. If he said an hour, he actually meant two or two and a half, just to have a buffer.”
The Adventurer:
“And his ex will be there.”
And immediately — her signature, lightning-fast, absolutely inimitable:
“That damn witch.”
I burst out laughing.
Laugh so hard I nearly fall onto Nate, because her sharp, stinging inserts are like a knife into a loaf of bread:
unexpected, precise, perfect.
“Oh damn…” — I exhale, this time for real.
Jonathan is sitting perfectly straight, but his eyes are already slightly drifting.
His cheeks are warm.
His eyes shine with such sincerity that you want to wrap him in a blanket.
“John, sweetheart, how are you?”
He shakes his head.
Slowly.
As if it’s a luxurious spa procedure.
“All right,” I sigh. “Time to take him out.”
And then the realization hits my conscience.
Damn.
I should’ve been watching him.
Damn.
“This is my fault,” I whisper, almost to myself.
“I should’ve kept an eye on him…”
“How did he get drunk this fast…”
“Damn, this is my fault…”
Nate hears it.
Of course he hears it.
His hand immediately lands on my back — warm, heavy, steady.
He leans to my ear:
“Baby. He’s a grown man. He just did three shots in a row. This is not you.”
The Adventurer winks:
“Well yeah, who knew our iron Jonathan would be the first one to drop?”
Josh, without even looking away from the barista, throws back:
“Oh, leave him! Great minds fall beautifully!”
And the barista nods, though he has no idea who we’re talking about.
He’s just glowing under Josh’s pheromone parade.
We all exchange glances.
“We gotta go.”
“One more minute!” — begs Josh, practically pulling the barista into a hug.
“No time!” — she snaps, shining so bright in her dress she looks like a traffic light switched to “blinding.”
The Adventurer drags the Aristocrat by the collar — like a lost peacock.
On our way out, I grab a couple of vodka bottles, the Adventurer grabs Sprite.
“Let’s take a walk,” Nate suggests.
“Excellent idea,” he agrees with himself before anyone answers.
And we go.
Like a tiny procession of chaos, wrapped around each other, interwoven, holding onto elbows, hands, and bottles.
Vodka flows like a river,
Sprite keeps up,
the Aristocrat complains about the wind,
the Adventurer threatens him with a heel,
and Nate — my lazy cat — leans on me again with his whole body, so much that warmth blooms inside me and I kiss him.
Cold air hits our cheeks,
and the city smells like cigars, expensive perfume, and what feels like the electricity of the night.
Heels click on the pavement.
The Adventurer hiccups loudly — then again.
We burst into laughter.
“Guys,” I say, trying to walk straight, “Jonathan is wasted, and his dad’s birthday is in 42 minutes. What do we do?”
Nate looks at me like everything is under control, even though he’s clinging to me as if I’m the last functioning source of stability.
My mind races.
Just sober enough to realize:
this is a catastrophe, but we’re the kind of people who can turn a catastrophe into a carnival.
And it wouldn’t be our first time.
I raise my vodka bottle like a torch.
“Carriage!”
The Adventurer instantly picks it up:
“Carriage, damn it!”
Josh theatrically raises a finger:
“I choose the golden one! With crimson velvet inside!”
“As long as it gets us there.”
And the three of us — me, Nate, and the Adventurer — look back at our “sleeping beauty.”
Jonathan stands there swaying, eyes soft like an angel’s.
“Sweetheart,” I tell him, “are you ready?”
He nods. Slowly.
Too slowly.
Cobblestone.
We tumble out like heroes from the wrong fairy tale:
I’m holding Jonathan’s hand,
Nate is holding me,
the Adventurer is holding Nate,
the Aristocrat is holding a bottle of Sprite (and his dignity — barely).
The city glows.
The streetlights pretend it’s just another shift, not the bohemian elite let loose on the streets.
We need a carriage.
And then — as if on cue —
a carriage.
But for it to appear, you must see the prelude to the chaos.
The Adventurer and the Aristocrat burst onto the street first —
like two dwarves staging a revolution among the taxis.
“Carriage!” shouts the Adventurer, throwing her arms up like she’s summoning spirits.
“CARRIAGE, I SAID!” yells the Aristocrat, as if ordering an attraction at an amusement park.
Pedestrians jump aside.
Taxi drivers honk.
One cyclist falls over.
The Adventurer takes control:
she grabs the Aristocrat by the elbow —
and they run.
Across the cobblestones.
Through the narrow streets.
Into the dark corners where only cats and our future adventures live.
The Aristocrat, panting, glances over his shoulder:
“I demand a bohemian vehicle!”
“You demand it — you find it!” snaps the Adventurer.
“But you do realize I am art, and art is not obligated to run.”
She rolls her eyes:
“Move it, peacock!”
They swing around the corner.
Run past a taxi.
Past blacked-out cars.
Past a limousine the Aristocrat rejects instantly:
“That’s hideous.”
And suddenly —
around the corner —
in the middle of the night —
as if it had been waiting just for them —
there it stands.
A carriage.
Huge, festive, absurdly beautiful.
Golden lanterns trembling.
Horses snorting.
Wheels shining as if someone polished them with Dior perfume.
The Adventurer freezes.
The Aristocrat lifts his hands to the sky:
“DESTINY!”
“No, it’s just a carriage,” says the coachman.
“For you — a carriage,” says the Aristocrat with dignity, “but for us — a symbol of divine intervention.”
The Adventurer pats him on the shoulder:
“Grab it. And don’t negotiate.”
The Aristocrat smooths his hair,
straightens his back,
sighs theatrically,
and approaches the coachman:
“Darling, we’ll take this miracle.
Whether you want it or not.”
The coachman blinks:
“You pay — you ride.”
“We are wealthy!” shouts the Aristocrat, having not a cent on him.
“He’s not wealthy,” the Adventurer corrects. “But someone will pay for him.”
And the two of them lead the carriage back to you —
like two shamans who found the sacred chariot meant to save your tiny night civilization.
And here the carriage—
“— for respectable tourists,
— for very wealthy tourists,
— or for those capable of saying way too loudly:
‘We’ll pay.’”
The horses prance, the golden lanterns flicker, the wheels tremble lightly as if they themselves understand that tonight they have a strange assignment.
The coachman sits above, wrapped in a scarf, expression carved in stone:
“Nothing in life can surprise me anymore.”
He looks at us:
— a storm,
— a farce,
— and a tip all at once.
“Carriage!” I announce solemnly.
We approach.
The coachman raises a brow, evaluating us the way one evaluates merchandise at an auction:
“Well then… get in… if you can make it.”
The Adventurer is already trying to drag Jonathan inside,
Nate is trying to help,
I’m trying to keep my balance,
and the Aristocrat —
oh God —
the Aristocrat climbs in before everyone,
settles into the corner and suddenly starts SHOUTING:
“I WON’T HAVE ANY CHILDREN AFTER THIS! THIS THING WILL BREAK EVERY BONE I HAVE!”
The coachman doesn’t even blink.
“Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Oh, please,” Josh waves a hand dramatically.
“My organs have survived far worse.”
“Darling,” I tell him, “nobody believes you.”
The Adventurer throws the Sprite into the carriage.
I throw the vodka.
Jonathan we shove inside with combined force.
The coachman sighs — as if signing a contract with fate.
“Hold on.
We’ll go slowly…”
“Oh absolutely!” yells the Aristocrat. “Only slowly! Only carefully! My bones are white! Crystal!”
The coachman gives him a long, exhausted look
and sniffs — the kind of sniff that says God Himself has once again handed him a bizarre assignment.
We sit there, hugging, laughing, bottles clinking.
The city floats toward us in light and smoke.
The torture lasts maybe 18 minutes, but feels like an entire lifetime — and now we owe someone a karmic debt.

Finally — the hotel.
The carriage stops, doors swing open, and for a second everything freezes: the night, the lights, the whisper of the city.
“Sweetheart, I’m so worried about you…” I whisper to Jonathan.
He’s asleep on my lap,
like a child,
like an angel who survived three shots, a barista apocalypse, and the Aristocrat all at once.
The streetlights glide over his face.
So grown, so strong, so iron-willed usually —
and suddenly a boy.
I stroke his hair — softly, slowly.
I feel him breathe.
As if I’m soothing a titan temporarily unplugged from the system.
“Just hold on a little longer, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“Just a bit. We’re almost home.”
The Adventurer and the Aristocrat are already on their feet and — of course — they have connections everywhere.
Anywhere.
Everywhere.
Even where connections shouldn’t exist.
“We’re going to negotiate!” the Adventurer calls out, already climbing into a car.
“If his father sees him like this, he’ll die from shame, then resurrect just to kill us!”
“I shall manage the atmosphere,” the Aristocrat declares grandly.
“Even if I must sacrifice my noble rating for it.”
And they vanish into the night like two spirits of nocturnal management.
We, meanwhile, head straight into the hotel —
Jonathan hanging on Nate like a big warm blanket.
Nate is almost sober again.
Well — as sober as one can be after seven shots and one VIP-room incident.
And of course…
he’s back in command.
He disappears down the hallway, giving short orders to the staff —
polite, but in that way where no one even considers arguing:
“Blankets here.”
“Hot tea.”
“Two rooms next to each other.”
“Yes, she’s staying with him.”
“No, don’t let anyone in.”
“Yes, it’s urgent.”
I stay with Jonathan in a soft armchair by the panoramic window.
He’s curled up, cheek pressed to the pillow, as if trying to crawl back into a world where there are no shots, no exes, and no birthdays.
I lean down and kiss his temple.
“You’re so gentle,” I whisper.
I stroke his hair and stare out the window.
My phone chirps.
I flinch.
A message.
The Adventurer:
“We convinced him! We’ll bring Jonathan’s father to the hotel. We’ll say there’s a secret party here.
The Aristocrat will add drama if needed.”
Next message, from the Aristocrat:
“Of course it’s needed. I already ordered candles and velvet. And prepared my ‘I know everything’ face.”
I close my eyes and exhale.
Perfect.
I trust them.
The screen goes dark.
My stomach tightens — I can’t hold it anymore.
I need to pee.
I glance at Jonathan — still completely out.
And the guilt hits again.
This is your fault.
You didn’t watch him.
What kind of person are you?
Ugh.
Not now.
I rise gently —
so carefully, I don’t even let the mattress breathe.
Every step is soft, quiet, like I’m walking inside a dream.
And then —
his fingers.
He grabs my wrist fast, instinctively, like he’s drowning in his sleep.
“A-ah!” I yelp from the shock.
His eyes are half-closed, lashes trembling, his voice small, almost childlike:
“Please… don’t go.”
“Sweetheart, I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll come back,” I whisper into his hair.
He looks up at me — those eyes that steal my breath.
Dark, glossy, soft.
Full of trust.
“Fast.”
“Fast, sweetheart, fast. I won’t leave you.”
He slowly lets go of my hand, his fingers still reaching after me, as if they don’t want to release even the air around me.
IN THE BATHROOM
I’m sitting there, peeing, thinking:
Damn.
How did this even happen?
Why did he get this drunk?
Why didn’t I watch him?
He’s a grown man, yes.
But today is his father’s birthday.
Today mattered.
Today he wasn’t supposed to get this drunk.
And guilt starts nibbling at me —
quiet, disgusting, precise, persistent.
Not panic —
but that thought that slides under your ribs and refuses to leave:
“I should’ve been more attentive.
Nazokat, this isn’t how you do it.
You’re a family — not everyone for themselves.”
I exhale.
Wipe my own thoughts off my face with my palm.
I stand up.
Wash my hands.
Look at myself in the mirror.
“Alright… we’ll fix everything.
Just stay close,” I whisper to myself.

RETURNING
I open the door very, very carefully.
One step out of the bathroom — so quiet, as if I’m stealing a second from the night itself.
He’s lying exactly the same.
Exactly.
Breathing deep, heavy — the way only very tired men breathe.
I step closer, sit on the edge of the bed, reach out to fix the blanket—
And then—
as if someone shut the world off.
A moment.
A second.
Curtain.
I simply black out.
Not dramatically — but the way you do after a long day, alcohol in the air, and far too many emotions.
My head falls onto the pillow next to him, my breath slowly melts into his…
And I don’t even notice when I fall asleep.

KNOCK.
Sharp. Confident.
Like a fist saying, “open up, we have a mission.”
I jolt upright.
“Damn… did I pass out?” I whisper, trying to understand what year it is.
The door opens—
Nate bursts in.
Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair slightly messy.
He’s glowing, like he just organized a successful government coup.
“Everything’s ready!
The Adventurer and the Aristocrat are even drunker than before!”
And we both burst out laughing.
“Where’s Jonathan?” he asks, scanning the room.
And then…
The bathroom door cracks open.
Steam spills out — like there’s a tiny sauna of discipline and desperation inside.
Soft golden light.
A quiet rustle.
Jonathan steps out.
Fresh.
Collected.
With the face of a man who’s about to walk out and accept an award for his contribution to the global economy.
As if the night never happened.
As if there were no shots, no carriage, no barista, no dancing, no collapsing sideways.
Nate hands him the suit —
the perfect one, strict, dark.
Jonathan takes it, silently,
puts it on with the confidence of someone who was born in it.
Buttons the jacket.
Fixes the cuffs.
Looks in the mirror.
And there he is again — our genius.
I walk up closer, quietly.
Because this is a moment.
“You’re impeccable,” I whisper into his ear.
He smiles.
He’s embarrassed.
I kiss him on the cheek.
Everyone’s ready.
Final check before we head out.
The Adventurer and the Aristocrat have their arms around each other’s shoulders —
two sparkling, drunk, inseparable spirits of chaos already rehearsing the line:
“We didn’t drink anything, it’s just the climate.”
Next — Jonathan.
Straight.
Confident.
Powerful.
As if it wasn’t him lying on my lap forty minutes ago whispering into my palm:
“come back quickly.”
I’m about to step out — already shifting my weight forward, already inhaling—
And then — behind me:
“Kitten…”
A soft, velvety purr.
“No. No-no-no-no.
No, Nate!”
He pulls me by the hand —
gently, sweetly, lazily.
His look — feline, predatory, wicked in the very best way.
“He needs me,” I whisper, trying to slip away. “He needs me.”
“Little mouse,” he pulls me closer, “Jonathan’s a big boy. He’ll manage.”
“And I…”
He pauses.
And then—
he pretends to faint.
Right in my arms.
Tilts his head back, closes his eyes, waves a hand like a dying swan.
“Sweetheart… I feel awful… oh… I feel so awful…”
“Oh really!” I laugh. “How unexpected!”
He opens one eye — assessing the effect.
Realizes I’m laughing,
and instantly switches modes.
Now he makes a face like… a therapy client.
Straight out of a movie.
Empathy, concern, deep moral burden — all performed by a man who’s holding me like a hungry cat.
“Oh… I don’t even know how to say this…”
“Today I had such a stressful meeting,” he sighs theatrically.
“I barely made it. Barely, barely carried all that weight on my shoulders. And… there was this woman.”
He lowers his eyes.
“Nothing serious. A colleague.”
I’m already blushing.
“And then she… walks out…”
He gestures dramatically.
“Talking about her little nursery.”
I blush even harder.
“I don’t even know… it was terrible… it was so hard for me…”
He lifts his eyes — full of fake suffering.
“I just couldn’t focus. Should I look at her chest…”
A pause, he savors it.
“Or at her lips.”
“You scoundrel!” I laugh, pushing him in the chest.
He catches my hand, pulls me closer, his eyes shining:
“My little mouse, my little little mouse… I love you more than life.”
I lit up.
He pulled me closer.
God… how can you ever say no to him,
how can anyone say no to him.
A kiss on the neck,
and the door closes slowly…