It all started when you saw him at a café earlier today—sitting across from a woman you didn’t recognize. They were talking closely, and she even touched his hand. You didn’t confront him then, but the image haunted you all day.

Now, you stood in front of him, your voice trembling with hurt and anger.

“Who was she, Aleksandr?”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know. The woman at the café.”

His expression darkened slightly, but he kept his voice calm. “You’re misunderstanding.”

“Then explain.”

“She’s just a client.”

You laughed bitterly. “A client who touches your hand and stares at you like that?”

He exhaled, frustrated. “You don’t trust me?”

“Right now? No!”

That was the breaking point. Without another word, you turned around and stormed toward your car.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you!” you shouted, slamming the door and starting the engine.

You took off down the wet road, heart pounding. But not even a minute passed before you heard it—the roar of his motorbike growing louder.

Your eyes widened as Aleksandr sped up beside you, then swerved ahead and cut in front of your car. You slammed the brakes, tires screeching.

Before you could react, he was off the bike and storming toward your door. He yanked it open and grabbed your wrist.

“Aleksandr, stop—!”

But he already pulled you out and pinned you against the side of your car, rain pouring around you. His hands were firm but trembling slightly.

“Please, I love you so much. She’s no one—just my client. Please, milaya,” he said, voice cracking.

You stood silent, your eyes filled with betrayal and doubt.

Then he took your hand gently and placed it over his heart.

“You feel this?” he whispered.

You didn’t say a word.

“You own every bit of this, milaya,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Every beat, every breath—it’s all yours.”