Page 13 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

S loane

I didn’t waste time.

The second the cash hit my hands, I already knew what I was going to do with it.

No shopping spree. No dumb designer bags. No bottle service at clubs I was already too bored with.

This was bigger.

This was freedom.

By noon the next day, I was sitting in a sun-drenched penthouse suite downtown, sipping espresso and signing the lease on my new apartment—two bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble countertops, and a walk-in closet that might have healed me spiritually if I needed that sort of thing.

It was all glass, beautiful angles, and rich-girl minimalism. It didn’t scream home, it screamed independence, and right then, that was way better. My allowance would offer me plenty to keep the rent paid going forward, but that was something I’d worry about next month.

The woman in the leasing office blinked when I handed over the deposit in cash, but I just gave her a smile that said don’t ask, don’t judge, and don’t slow me down.

She didn’t.

By the time I left, keys in hand and head held high, I already had a mood board in my Notes app and a curated furniture cart ready to blow half my monthly allowance, as well as a long list of ethically questionable Etsy finds.

I could practically taste the dopamine.

When I got home, I waited until the house was quiet—late afternoon, staff minimal, Dad somewhere between a photo op and a donor dinner—and I walked into his office like I owned the place.

He looked up from whatever sanitized, highly redacted speech he was editing and narrowed his eyes at me.

“I’m moving out.”

He paused. Then set the pen down.

“Where?”

I told him.

He didn’t blink.

Just leaned back, nodded once, like I’d said I was grabbing dinner downtown instead of fundamentally altering the terms of our cohabitation agreement.

“That’s… fine.”

Wait—what?

I squinted at him. “That’s it?”

“You’re an adult, Sloane. You’ve been threatening to do it for years. I figured it was inevitable.”

Okay.

That was suspiciously easy, but I didn’t press it because, the truth?

I was high on winning. Still riding the rush of the night before—the thrill of the risk, the payout, the fact that I’d pulled something off and no one even noticed.

And maybe, just maybe I liked the idea of walking away while I was ahead.

Some gamblers didn’t know how to do that.

Still, something about the way he said it itched under my skin—like he knew something I didn’t.

I ignored it though.

“I’ll send a change-of-address card,” I said with a mock salute, then pivoted on my heel and headed upstairs to pack, like I hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of his carefully managed campaign schedule.

By nightfall, I had three suitcases stuffed with a good portion of my clothes, some overpriced skincare products, and more black boots than any reasonable person should own. My new space was echoing and empty and exactly what I needed .

I sat on the edge of the wide marble windowsill, toes curled against the cold tile, city lights glittering below me like stars, and I grinned like I’d just gotten away with murder.

No one knew what I did. Not my dad. Not the Bratva. Not the fighters. Not the people who lost their money on my little social media scheme.

I beat the system. I played dirty and walked away clean, which made me wonder.

Could I do it again?

I pulled out my phone and opened the thread with Ghost.

Me: Hypothetically. If someone wanted to do that thing again—rumor, perception shift, odds play—how hard would it be?

The typing bubbles appeared immediately.

Ghost: Hypothetically? Easier the second time. More believable. Got a name?

Me: Not yet. Just testing the waters.

Ghost: Say the word. This is the kind of game we could play for a long time.

I leaned back against the glass and smiled.

This could turn out to be fun.

It took three days, a personal shopper, and an absurd amount of my father’s money, but my apartment was finally done.

And it was perfect.

Cream linen couches, black marble coffee table, gold bar cart stocked with bottles I probably wouldn’t even drink, but looked good in a photo.

Custom art on the walls—abstract, expensive, and probably meaningless.

My bedroom looked like something from a boutique hotel in Paris, all moody lighting, velvet pillows, and a bed I could get lost in for days.

I walked barefoot through the space with a glass of red wine in hand, admiring every square inch like I personally crafted it with my own two hands and didn’t just pay a woman named Elise to make all the decisions for me.

Whatever. Same thing.

The place smelled like new. Like fresh paint and ambition, and maybe a little bit like defiance.

I was so fucking proud of myself.

So proud that I did another loop around the apartment just to soak it all in before heading into my bathroom to wash off my makeup and slip into my favorite little sleep set: a cropped t-shirt and matching shorts.

Pale gray cotton, soft as sin, with a hem just short enough to be interesting. If anyone was looking anyway.

I downed the rest of my wine, padded into the kitchen, put the glass in the sink, then flicked off the lights room by room until the whole apartment went dark—save for the skyline glowing outside my window.

It was almost midnight.

My first night here . Alone.

I should have been thrilled, and I was , but when I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up, the silence hit a little too hard.

Not the peaceful kind. The other kind. The kind that makes you hyper-aware of every creak and hum in the building.

Every shift of the pipes. Every gust of wind blowing against the windows.

I laid there, one arm tucked behind my head, staring up at the ceiling fan rotating in slow, hypnotic circles, and sighed. This place was big. Bigger than it felt earlier, when the daylight made it glow, and the delivery guys kept ringing the doorbell with box after box of all my expensive shit.

Now it felt… too still.

Like I had built myself the perfect little kingdom, but forgot to invite anyone to live in it.

I wasn’t scared.

I didn’t do scared.

There was just a weird twist in my gut that I couldn’t shake.

Not fear, exactly. Just a muted buzz of unease I couldn’t quite place.

Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the fact that no one other than my dad knew I was here.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Or maybe it was that, for the first time, I realized just how easy it is to disappear in a place like this.

I turned over onto my side and pulled the covers a little higher, lips pressed together, heartbeat just a touch too fast.

Just nerves.

That’s all it was.

Still… I left the lamp on.

Just for tonight.

A short while later, I turned over in bed and started at a sound. I told myself it was nothing, just a creak, maybe the wind, or maybe even the building settling. Anything normal to settle the nervous energy coursing through me.

For a while, I just stared into the shadows, that weird twist still sitting low in my stomach, the one I pretended didn’t exist when I smiled my way through the lease signing, and when I handed over the deposit like I’d earned it with clean hands.

I threw back the covers and swung my legs out of bed, padding barefoot across the cool hardwood.

The hem of my cotton shorts brushed the top of my thighs, my little cropped tee clinging to my skin in the worst possible way—and somehow, I still felt exposed even though I knew I was all alone up here.

I was being ridiculous.

I was safe here. Locked in. It was a high-rise. It had security. There were doormen downstairs. Keypad locks. I double-checked everything earlier, but now I just needed to make sure.

So I walked quietly down the hall, flipped on the light over the entryway, and checked the keypad again.

Locked.

Of course it was.

I reached out and pressed my fingers to the number pad anyway, just for the tactile reassurance. The beep felt oddly comforting.

I let out a breath and turned to walk away.

And then I heard something.

Click.

Not a normal sound. Not mechanical. Something gave behind me, and before I could spin around fully, I heard the door open.

I froze.

The door. My door. The one no one should be able to open.

It creaked open just a few inches… and then more. And then he walked in.

Tall. Broad. Beautiful.

Like he belonged here. Like this was his apartment and not mine .

I recognized him instantly—the ink on his arms, the cold blue of his eyes, the terrifying stillness of him.

His dark gray shirt fit him like a second skin, tailored perfectly to his broad chest and powerful shoulders, the sleeves rolled up casually enough to show off the intricate tattoos wrapped around his muscular forearms. His trousers were black.

Polished black shoes clicked softly against the floor, marking every step toward me with that predatory calm.

Nikolai Morozov.

In my apartment.

I stumbled back a step before I could stop myself, the air leaving my lungs all at once. He closed the door behind him with one hand, his gaze dragging slowly down my body before rising back up to my face.

He looked calm. Too calm.

That kind of dangerous calm you only see in men who already knew exactly what was going to happen, like he’d already decided what he was going to do with me.

He took a step toward me.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Immediately, I knew that he knew, and all my self-preservation instincts rose to a head.

I should have lied.

I wanted to lie.

That’s what I usually did—I stayed in the shadows, manipulated quietly, bent perception, and walked away clean. I didn’t get caught. I didn’t get confronted. And I definitely didn’t get cornered by a Bratva boss in my brand-new apartment in the middle of the night while I was half-dressed.

But in that moment, my brain couldn’t keep up with my body.