People talked about the war like it was everywhere. In this house, it barely existed.
If anything, it made things easier for men like my father.
Ukraine didn’t change. The rules stayed the same—you were either powerful or invisible. Criminal or starving. There was no clean money. No honest men. And if you thought the police or the enforcement system were any better, you were naive. Most of them had sold themselves to the same rot, trading badges for envelopes and silence for survival. Criminals did whatever they wanted in broad daylight because they knew the strongest always walked free. Maybe there were a few decent ones, the kind who still believed they could change something. But around here, men like that didn’t last. They either bent… or they ended up buried.
So no, it didn’t bother me that my father was feared. That people crossed the street when they saw his car. That his business partners always smiled too wide and left looking paler than they came.
What bothered me was that he didn’t care.
Not about me. Not about my mother. Not about anyone who wasn’t a useful piece on his board.
He was a control freak to the bone. Every step I took, every meal I ate, every word I spoke in public had been rehearsed or corrected. I was raised like an asset—groomed for obedience, polished to impress. And when the time came, I knew he’d marry me off to whoever extended his reach. Some son of an oligarch. A politician’s heir. Whoever brought the highest return.
That’s what I was to him. A future transaction. He never even considered me his heir—not someone to teach, to shape, to lead. Just a daughter. Just a girl. And in his world, that meant I was currency, not legacy.
So no, I wasn’t surprised my mother checked out years ago. Especially not after that night. Whatever was left of her—whatever made her a person—broke then. And what was left was just... drift. I was just surprised I’d lasted this long without doing the same.
Anyway, I was on my way to her suite. And that’s when I saw him.
Standing by my father’s office.
Still as stone. Not leaning. Not fidgeting. Just...there. Like a guard dog. Or a soldier waiting on orders.
My father always said I should stay upstairs when new blood arrived. His men were dangerous, he’d say. Rough. Uncivilized. And maybe that was true.
But I was too curious not to check him out.
Even though my father controlled everything—I still had my instincts. And right then, my instincts told me to go down the stairs.
Not because I was brave. Because I wasbored.
Because boredom made me reckless, and recklessness made things interesting. Even if it got me burned.
So I went. Slippers padding softly against the floor, silk robe slipping over my thighs, no real plan except to look. To study. To poke the bear and see what it did.
He looked like a mistake I’d enjoy making.
Tall and solid, built like a wall. Blonde hair, messy and just long enough to run your fingers through—if he ever let you close.
And God—those arms. Thick and tense under his jacket, like he could rip the seams just by flexing. His hands were covered in tattoos—even his fingers inked with sharp, dark lines that hinted at violence and precision. Heavy. Veined. Calloused in all the right places.
I slowed my stride, letting the silk fall how it wanted—careless, calculated. He didn’t have to look. I just had to know he could.
He didn’t so much as blink.
He looked at me like I was a chair. Or a wall. Or maybe a problem.
Which irritated me more than it should have.
I was Kira Sokolova. People noticed me.
I crossed my arms under my chest. “You’re new.”
Nothing. Not even a nod.
His attention flicked over me once, sharp and clean. That’s when I saw his eyes—piercing blue beneath thick, messy brows that looked like they’d never been tamed. And then he went back to standing like a statue—except statues didn’t breathe like that. They didn’t have thighs like that either.
“You’re supposed to bow,” I said coolly. “Or at least pretend I’m interesting.”
