Ivan Sidorov wasn't a man who misplaced things — especially not things he wanted to keep.

And yet here he was, standing in his corner office high above London, staring out over the city like it might cough up the woman who had slipped through his fingers two weeks ago.

He told himself he hadn’t meant for it to happen. He told himself the whiskey had made him reckless. But the truth—the one he hadn't even admitted to his closest men—was that he hadn't been nearly as drunk as he'd let on.

He had seen you across that dimly lit bar, laughing with friends, wearing a simple black dress that clung to you just right. You weren’t like the women who usually circled men like him. You were... untouched by his world. Pure in a way that had made something vicious stir inside him.

He’d gotten you drunk enough to forget about the world for a night, but he had stayed just sober enough to remember every damned detail.

Your laugh. Your scent. The way you had gasped his name.

And now, he knew only two things for certain: You taught at Imperial College London. And you belonged to him — whether you knew it yet or not.

Ivan smiled to himself, cold and slow, as he turned from the window. Finding you hadn't taken long. His men were good, and now they were telling him you had just finished work.

He smoothed the cuffs of his suit jacket and strode toward the elevator, impatience simmering under his skin.

The café just across the street from Imperial was crowded at this hour, students hunched over laptops, the air buzzing with low conversation. He spotted you immediately, tucked away in a corner with a book in your hand.

You hadn’t changed. Still too beautiful for your own good. Still too unaware of the way the world could devour something as soft as you.

As if sensing the weight of his gaze, you looked up — and froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The noise of the café faded into nothing.

Then Ivan smiled as he came to stand in front of your desk, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promised things you hadn’t even learned to fear yet.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said, his voice dark silk. "Miss me?"