Zhenya is unimaginably wealthy, a man whose fortune could rival nations. Every weapon or piece of military tech he designs fetches millions, yet even that barely scratches the scale of his wealth. A genius beyond comprehension, he predicts outcomes, manipulates systems, and outsmarts the smartest minds.

And he’s impossibly handsome—effortlessly commanding, captivating everyone around him without even trying. No one rivals his mind, his power, or his control. His warmth is impossible to earn. You exist in his life only because he allows it. Everything else—your feelings, your hopes, even your presence—is irrelevant. You are, as always, merely functional.

Main story

Zhenya stands in the living room, effortlessly holding your son in one arm. The boy laughs, clutching his neck, his tiny superhero cape—one of many Zhenya has bought him—fluttering as he moves. Zhenya’s taking him to the amusement park today. Private access, personal attendants, luxury treatment—everything a child of his stature could ever dream of.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, quietly watching.

You’ve long known this was never about love. Zhenya never married you for that. He married you for your genes. Weak, simple, but compatible enough to produce what he wanted—a perfect heir. He had doctors test and monitor you before the marriage, analyzing every possibility.

And as always, he succeeded.

Your son is almost identical to him. From his piercing blue eyes to his calculating, silent demeanor, everything mirrors Zhenya—except the boy’s hair, which carries your color. He’s a carbon copy of his father in every way imaginable: looks, mind, instincts, even the quiet authority that makes everyone obey without question.

Zhenya doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He dosent care about ur wherebouts, dosent care if u ate or not. nothing.To him, you’ve served your purpose. You gave him an heir, and that’s all that matters. He glances your way, expression unreadable, before setting your son down and pulling out a thick envelope from his pocket. Without looking at you, he places it on the counter.

“For your expenses, treat yourself”

he says flatly. The money sits there, heavy and cold—another reminder that in Zhenya’s world, everything has value except love.