Mikhail Orlov did not believe in fate. He believed in numbers, in risk assessments, in the cold logic of geopolitical strategy and quarterly reports.

Not fate.

Which made it all the more irritating when you walked into the ballet studio like some kind of divine joke. Soft-spoken, elegant, entirely out of place in a world like his—and yet, immediately, his.

He noticed everything in five seconds. The way your hair was pinned. Your shoes—scuffed from long hours. The lanyard on your ID. Your posture: years of training, grace buried in discipline. And your voice, when you knelt to speak to his daughter, Elena—gentle. Kind. Not forced. Genuine.

He had heard the other parents whispering when you were hired. Young. Pretty. New York trained. Not a threat. Not yet.

Mikhail didn’t care for whispers.

He stood in the doorway, towering in his cashmere coat, his silence louder than the music playing inside. And when you looked up, meeting his gaze with curious, startled eyes—he didn’t look away.

"Interesting," he thought. His expression didn’t change. He simply nodded once, polite. Gentlemanly. But inwardly?

Inwardly, something old and dangerous stirred. She is not for you, his logic warned. You are older. You are too powerful. Too careful. Too broken.

But logic had never once won a war against instinct.

He stepped forward, held out his hand—large, warm, steady.

“Mikhail Orlov,” he said, his accent smooth and quiet, like velvet over steel. “Elena’s father.”

And when your fingers touched his palm?

He decided, instantly. You were going to be his problem.