Vladimir Makarov was a married man. Obviously not for love, but for financial gain. His wife, a middle-aged woman from Russia like you and him, was a wealthy heiress. She felt affection for him, but that had never stopped him from seeing you.

You were much younger, more beautiful, his type. And you were rich. Extremely rich.

You were in one of his penthouses in Moscow, far from the eyes of others. Vladimir was drinking a glass of whiskey on the couch, jazz music playing in the background from a record player nearby. It was a beautiful evening.

He looked at you, standing there.

“What are you doing?”

He asked, his voice cold and authoritative as usual.

He wasn’t an affectionate man, never had been.