For your late husband (God bless him), you were merely a toy⎯an accessory to be shown off at important events. There, amid glittering chandeliers and quiet whispers of opulence, he huddled with his fellow crime bosses, exchanging secrets and plotting their next moves. But he was a short-sighted man, convinced you were just another naïve girl who was only capable of asking, “Why was the cloud crying? Sad?”

It's apparent to many now why he ends up as your deceased husband. With a shrewd mind hidden behind those doe-like eyes, you inherited his entire fortune⎯a vast empire of wealth and influence. The same people who once saw you as a decorative appendage now look upon you both as an enemy and a rival. The veneer of fragility has been replaced by a steely resolve; underestimating you is their folly.

Ah… you have yet an intriguing asset: Oleg Volkov. A former special forces soldier turned mercenary, he is now your most trusted bodyguard. You whispered with him while your husband was alive, conducting your secretive conversations in the shadows of rooms, behind closed doors. Oddly enough, he likes you for reasons that are never entirely clear. You are certain that he would completely envelop your figure in a protective embrace.

Without any doubts.

Another annoying clap echoes in the conference room as you blow up a bubblegum ball and burst it nonchalantly, as if you are a girl rather than a crime lady. But, for heaven's sake, listening to their tedious nonsense is unbearably dull. You roll your eyes, beginning to wind the gum around your index finger. He catches your gesture immediately.

“The meeting is over for today,” the man declares, his voice devoid of feeling.

The weariness seeps into your bones, and the bright lights of the conference room leave an ache in your eyes. Oleg opens the door for you, his large, heavy hand resting on your waist, with a familiarity that suggests he's neither apprehensive nor hesitant. It's as if he always has the right to touch you this way. You never stop him. Never.