Chapter 3: Breakfast Negotiations
Danny jerked awake to the sound of a keycard beeping and the heavy door swinging open. Morning light, harsh and unforgiving, cut across the suite. He blinked, disoriented, his neck stiff from the couch.
A waiter in a pristine white jacket wheeled in a cart piled high with silver domes. The smell of fried potatoes, bacon, and sweet pastry flooded the room. Behind him, Viktoria appeared, already dressed in a robe of pale pink silk, her black hair a loose wave over her shoulders. She directed the waiter with sharp, impatient gestures in Russian.
“There. Leave.”
The waiter bowed and vanished. The door shut, leaving Danny alone with her and the mountain of food. She surveyed the cart, then him, a faint smile on her lips. “You sleep like dead man. Snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” he croaked, pushing himself upright.
“You do.” She flipped open a dome, revealing a stack of golden waffles. “Come. Eat. Is too much. I hate waste.”
Danny stood, his suit crumpled. He felt grubby, at a disadvantage. He approached the cart cautiously. She had ordered enough for six people: eggs, sausages, pancakes, fruit, pastries, a pot of coffee, a carafe of orange juice.
She dropped into a plush armchair, tucking one leg beneath her. “Sit. Eat.”
He took the chair opposite, loading a plate with eggs and a single strip of bacon, just to be polite. She watched him, her eyes tracking his movements as she plucked a strawberry from a bowl and bit into it slowly.
For a few minutes, they ate in silence broken only by the clink of cutlery. Danny kept his eyes on his plate. The tension from last night hadn’t left; it had just changed shape, solidified into the morning air.
Then, as she leaned forward to reach for the coffee pot, the tie of her silk robe loosened. The front fell open.
Danny froze, a forkful of egg halfway to his mouth.
She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The robe gaped, revealing the full, heavy curve of her breasts. They were as absurdly large as he’d imagined, pale and tipped with dark pink. They swayed slightly with her movement. He quickly looked back at his plate, his face burning.
A low, knowing laugh came from across the table. “You see something you like, Danny?”
He couldn’t speak. He shoved the eggs into his mouth, tasting nothing.
“I ask question.” Her voice was harder now. “You like what you see?”
He forced himself to look up. She hadn’t closed the robe. She was watching him with a cool, analytical expression, like she was assessing a piece of art. Or meat.
“Ms. Volkov, I…”
“Viktoria. And answer.”
He swallowed. “They’re… very noticeable.”
“Noticeable.” She rolled the word around her mouth as if it were a stupid flavor. “Americans like big tits, yes? I hear this. You are American man. So. Do you like?”
The bluntness was a slap. There was no correct professional answer. There was only her demand, filling the space between them. Danny’s career, Martin’s deal, all of it felt suddenly very small and very far away, hanging on this single, crude admission.
He took a breath. “Yes. I like them.”
A brilliant, spoiled smile broke across her face. She clapped her hands together once, a delighted, girlish sound. “Good! Is honest.” She finally, lazily, pulled the robe closed, but didn’t tie it. It stayed loose, a promise of another glimpse. “This is good. Honesty is what I want from you.” She picked up a croissant, tore it in two. “You know what else I want today?”
He shook his head, numb.
“I want to shop. To spend stupid money on things I do not need. I want to drink champagne in afternoon. I want to look at ugly modern art and laugh.” She took a bite, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “And I want my new pet to be with me. To carry bags. To open doors. To smile when I tell him to smile.”
“Your… pet?”
“Da. My pet. My good American pet who likes my big tits.” She giggled again, but there was a sharp edge to it. “You think this is strange? This is better than business talk. More fun.” She leaned forward, the robe gaping open once more. This time, she made no move to close it. “And pet gets rewards. If he is good. If he obeys.” Her gaze dropped to her own chest, then back to his flushed face. “You will get very close to my girls before day is done. I promise this.” She stood up, the robe flowing open completely for a staggering second before she casually gathered it closed. “Now, shower. You smell like couch. I want to leave in one hour. Do not be late.”
She walked toward the bedroom, then paused at the door. “Your clothes for today are in the closet by entrance. Martin sent them. He understands the… uniform.” She disappeared, leaving Danny sitting amidst the ruin of the breakfast cart, the taste of eggs and shame thick in his mouth.
He found the closet. Inside hung a set of crisp, dark designer casual wear—trousers, a polo shirt, a blazer. All in his size. Underneath, a pair of expensive sneakers. Martin’s message was clear: you are part of the service.
In the bathroom, under a scalding shower, Danny tried to scrub the feeling of her gaze from his skin. He tried to think of the deal, of the bonus, of his career trajectory. But all he could see was the unashamed, overwhelming sight of her, and the cold, glittering look in her eyes as she called him her pet. The terms had shifted entirely. The game wasn’t about mergers anymore. It was about submission.
He dressed in the new clothes. They fit perfectly. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like someone else. A well-dressed attendant. A companion.
Precisely one hour later, he stepped out of the guest bathroom. Viktoria was waiting by the elevator, now dressed in a tight, leopard-print dress that strained at her bust, her lips a violent red. She looked him up and down, nodded once in approval, then pressed the elevator button.
“Come, pet,” she said, not looking at him as the doors opened. “We have money to burn.”