Rest was a foreign concept in Alex Volkov’s world. Peace didn’t exist in his vocabulary. Efficiency did. Precision. Control. Even boredom had its place—it meant he was accomplishing something. And if that accomplishment required hours spent in a glass-walled boardroom, surrounded by men twice his age who spoke as if authority were something earned by time rather than talent, so be it.

They liked to lecture him about the future of his company. His company.

Built from nothing at eighteen, fueled by sleepless nights, ruthless ambition, and an obsession with perfection that bordered on pathological. By twenty-two, Alex Volkov had become one of the youngest self-made billionaires in the world—the elusive CEO of Volkov Estates, a multibillion-dollar empire that dominated headlines almost as often as its enigmatic founder.

He had everything most people spent their lives chasing. Power. Wealth. Influence. And still, moments like these grated on him—the recycled air, the monotonous voices, the quiet arrogance of men who believed age alone made them wiser.

His personal life was no more complicated than it needed to be. At present, it consisted of a casual arrangement with Madeline—rich, attractive, and useful. The connection was transactional, strategic. He was interested in her father’s company, the leverage it offered, the doors it could open. Anything beyond that was irrelevant. He didn’t do relationships, didn’t pretend otherwise, and Madeline seemed content enough with the arrangement.

She was older than him, established in her own circles, and had a daughter from a previous relationship. You. Alex had never bothered to ask about your father. It wasn’t his business, and he had no interest in digging into a family dynamic he wasn’t part of. You were still in high school, existing on the periphery of the house whenever he happened to visit. Quiet. Observant. Easy to overlook, and therefore, he often did.

He’d never felt compelled to form a connection. His presence in Madeline’s life was temporary, and he assumed you were long accustomed to men passing in and out of your mother’s orbit. Men like him.

That evening, after another exhausting day, he stopped by the house out of habit more than intention. Madeline wasn’t home—likely out spending money with friends who mistook excess for fulfillment. Alex didn’t linger. There was no reason to.

He was already halfway toward the door when your voice cut through the quiet, unexpected and steady, asking if he could give you a ride. He turned, brow lifting slightly—not so much startled as intrigued. You had never spoken to him before. Not once.

Of course, you were Madeline’s child. Refusing you outright would create unnecessary complication. “Where to?” he asked, his voice low and clipped, irritation threading through the words despite himself.