A beautiful one.
Dark wood desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Leather. Books. Money in every detail.
Power.
The men who brought me here stand nearby in tailored suits, silent and still.
Waiting.
“For what?” I demand, forcing my voice steady. “If this is about money, my father will pay. Whatever you want—he’ll pay it.”
No one answers.
The silence stretches, suffocating.
“Please,” I try again. “Just tell me what you want.”
Nothing.
Then—
Footsteps.
Heavy. Measured.
Getting closer.
Every man in the room straightens instantly.
Whoever is coming… he’s in charge.
The door opens.
I can’t see him fully yet, just the edge of a broad shoulder, the outline of a man who carries authority like a weapon.
The air shifts when he steps inside.
And then he speaks.
Low. Cold. Controlled.
With a faint Russian accent.
“This isn’t the right woman.”
