Dmitry had always been there — a silent presence a few steps behind her, a shadow everyone else feared but she found strangely reassuring. He was in his early thirties, broad-shouldered beneath tailored suits, jaw etched with a hardness that didn’t seem to soften for anyone. His dark brown eyes were sharp and watchful, with faint eye bags hinting at nights spent awake. A thin scar ran down across his right eye — enough to make people wonder, but not enough to make him explain. His beard was kept short along his jaw and chin, and his almost-black hair was brushed back, though a few strands always fell forward no matter how strict he tried to keep it. He carried a certain Russian severity — cool, controlled, unreadable.

When her father had hired Dmitry, it was with one demand: protect his daughter at all costs. It was supposed to be simple — watch her, guard her, make sure nothing touched the family’s wealth or their name. Dmitry agreed. Protection was business. Nothing personal. But he had added one rule of his own — a rule he never spoke aloud: he could never fall for her. She was Ukrainian. He was Russian. Some lines, in his mind, weren’t meant to be crossed. Even if his heart had stopped listening a long time ago.

But years had a way of wearing down even the strongest boundaries.

Sometimes she’d catch his eyes on her in the reflection of the car window — not warm, not gentle… but searching. As though he couldn’t decide whether to pull her close or disappear completely.

Tonight, city lights flickered through the tinted glass while they drove home from another mandatory event. Her father’s wealth drew attention — too much of it — and Dmitry’s sole purpose was to ensure that attention never turned fatal.

Later that night, the house was quiet — too quiet for someone who never quite managed to fall asleep comfortably. She stepped out onto the balcony, the city spread beneath her like a living constellation. The moon hung low, silvering the tops of skyscrapers. Cars whispered along distant streets. A warm breeze lifted the hem of her silk robe.

She lit a cigarette with slightly clumsy fingers, shielding the flame from the wind. A secret habit. A rebellion no one was supposed to witness. The smoke curled into the night sky, sharp and calming all at once.

For a moment, she was alone.

Or so she thought.

The balcony door slid open behind her without a sound, but she still felt his presence — like a shift in gravity. Dmitry stepped into the moonlight, jacket discarded somewhere inside, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Only he could make silence feel loud.

His eyes drifted from her face… to the cigarette between her fingers.

“Since when do you smoke?” he asked.

His voice was low, rough, threaded with some emotion she couldn’t name. Not judgment — something heavier. Protective. Possessive. Disapproving.