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I was under no delusion. My family was my greatest enemy. Fate must fucking love me.

???

“May I sit here?”

“As long as you don't expect me to talk to you,” I said, not looking away from my phone but tapping my tablet’s screen, which lay on the table to check for the additional information I needed. I barely noticed the scrape of the chair or the shadow that fell over the table.

A low chuckle rumbled in response. “Such strict terms,” the man said, his voice carrying a faint Russian accent. “But what if I came here just to talk to you?”

“Did I not clarify my termsbeforeyou sat down?” I snapped before finally looking up at the irritant.

He was leaning back in his chair, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his dark shirt. His hair was a tousled mess of dark brown, catching the light in a way that made it look almost liquid.

But it was his eyes that held me captive—pale blue, icy and piercing, like the heart of a glacier. His jawline was sharp, his features carved with the precision of a sculptor, and a faint smirk played on his lips as if he knew precisely the effect he had on me.

Cocky.

I gave him another once over before deciding to give myself a victory gift. He looked nothing like Owen, the very opposite of my former fiancé. It worked in his favour.

“Technical or fundamental analysis?” he asked, but when I stared blankly at him, he nodded to my tablet.

“Both.”

“You don’t like to take a risk with technical analysis alone?”

“I like to be sure about everything before I place a bet,” I said with my eyes flicking to his lips.

This was a man who knew how to fuck. Everything about him screamed sexual domination. I calculated when it was the last time I had sex. Two years, three months and six days. The last person I fucked was in University.

“I’ve not fucked for over two years. Show me some proof that you’re disease-free and have some condoms, then we can forgo this part of the ritual and go upstairs to your room,” I said, lowering my phone.

His smirk vanished, and his mouth dropped open, but those cold blue eyes searched my face for the truth. This is why I didn’t speak. People talk about truth, honesty and transparency, yet most can’t handle the raw truth.

“You don’t even know my name,” he murmured, but his eyes rested on the open buttons of my shirt.

“Is that relevant to your performance?” I asked curiously.

As I had suspected, my family and Owen had put out a missing person’s report. Before I left the country, I needed to deal with the police. My problem was that Owen was a stalking, obsessive bastard and had been since I was sixteen years old. A delusional bastard who seemed to think I was in love with him.

The man’s eyes narrowed on me. He was used to control, and I was done being controlled, rotting in my parent's estate.

“It is not relevant at all,” he said before pulling his phone out.

While he tapped away on his phone, I came to the conclusion the man was extremely wealthy. The suit was exclusively tailored to a muscular body, the Rolex on his wrist wasn’t fake, and his nails were professionally managed.

I waved the waiter over.

“I’d like a Screaming Orgasm in a tall glass, please,” I said as the waiter grinned at me.

“Coming right up. Will there be anything for you, sir?” he asked my fuck buddy for the night.

When I looked at him, he was staring at me.

“Can you get me a pint of fresh beetroot juice?” he asked without taking his eyes off me.

My brain whirred at the information, and for the first time that night, I almost smiled. He knew the mission and had accepted my challenge. Beets and vodka were a given for Russians, but beetroot juice before exertion meant longevity for the imminent exercise. I hoped his dick was as good as he thought it was.

With any luck, I would be having several screaming orgasms tonight.