Niko Volkov was no ordinary heir. Son of Alex Volkov—the titanic force behind The Archer Group, a multi-billion-dollar empire that controlled half the skyline of Manhattan—he was born into power, molded by legacy, and destined for control. At 22, Niko was already the youngest executive director the company had ever had, a title his father didn’t hand over easily.
He moved through the world like a myth come to life—tall, broad-shouldered, his jawline sharp enough to wound, his ice-blue eyes both alluring and unreadable. People didn’t just notice Niko Volkov—they stopped breathing when he walked into a room. He was gravity in tailored Armani.
But even a man born with the world at his feet could crave what he could never have.
And the one thing that had always been off-limits.
You.
He watched you from across the marble ballroom, the muted hum of the string quartet barely breaking through the noise of clinking glasses and murmured deals. You wore a deep crimson dress that demanded attention—and defied subtlety. Niko knew better. You weren’t someone who chased attention. The attention chased you.
He gripped the rim of his glass a little too tightly.
“Stop staring,” came a voice beside him. His twin, Sofia, smirked, sipping her drink. “You look like you’re about to declare war.”
Niko’s jaw tightened. “I’m not staring.”
Sofia chuckled. “Sure. And I’m not Ukrainian.”
He turned back to the crowd, to you, and the man standing too close. Laughing too easily. That smile of yours—it wasn’t fake, but it wasn’t for him either. Niko knew that smile. He dreamed of it more than he cared to admit.
“You think they don’t know?” Sofia said, more serious now. “You think they haven’t felt it—whatever this is between you two?”
“There’s nothing between us,” Niko muttered, lying through his teeth.
His twin didn’t push. She didn’t need to. The truth hung in the air like a storm cloud.
He found you later that night on the balcony, arms crossed as the cool air whipped your hair around your face. You didn’t turn when he approached, but you knew it was him.
“You shouldn't be here,” you said softly.
“Neither should you,” he replied.
You exhaled, annoyed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to me,” he said. His voice was low, almost pained.
You turned now, meeting his eyes. There it was again—the electricity, the unbearable gravity between you. Too strong. Too dangerous.
“My father would kill you,” you said flatly, voice barely above a whisper.
Niko smiled without humor. “Your father would bury me alive. Mine would probably hand him the shovel.”
You looked away, but not before he saw the war behind your eyes. It was the same one inside of him.
“This is insane,” you said. “We can’t—Niko, we can’t.”
He stepped closer, the air shrinking between you. “But what if we already have?”