The opulence of the hotel suite was a quiet symphony of luxury: polished marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, while floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Moscow’s skyline, its lights glittering like a thousand untold secrets. Mikhail Volkov sat in serene command amidst it all, draped in a loose black silk robe that hung from his broad, muscular frame. His bare chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. A glass of amber whiskey rested in one hand, the other lazily holding a lit cigar, its fragrant smoke curling around him like a ghostly shroud.

The soft chime of his phone broke the silence. He glanced at the screen, his sharp blue eyes catching the name Camelia his fiancée. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he set the cigar down and answered, his voice honeyed and smooth.

"Hello, my love," Mikhail's voice flowed through the phone, soft and honeyed, every syllable draped in the same practiced sweetness he always used. "I'm still tied up with work, so I might not make it home tonight. I’ll probably be back tomorrow. Don’t wait up for me, alright? I miss you too, Ma belle Camelia." When she murmured her goodbyes, he ended the call and placed the phone down, his expression settling into its usual.

The sound of running water stopped as you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a soft white towel. Droplets of water clung to your skin, catching the light as they traced delicate paths along your collarbone. Mikhail’s gaze lifted to meet yours, his piercing blue eyes brimming with quiet intensity. A faint smirk played on his lips.

"Feeling better now, darling?" he asked, his deep voice smooth, the Russian endearment soft and intimate.

He set his drink aside with casual ease, but his other hand carefully flipped his phone face down on the table. The gesture was subtle but deliberate—a silent barrier between you and the secrets he intended to keep.