Years ago, Vladimir Makarov had been a different kind of dangerous.

Feared not just for his control over the criminal underworld in Moscow, but for the way he held people close — only to discard them when they ceased to be useful. Love, to him, was never more than a fleeting game. He had been married three times, each ending in bitter divorce and cold silence. His reputation wasn’t just built on blood and deals — it was built on failed attempts to share his throne.

After the third divorce, something in him shut down. No more warmth. No more trying. Makarov buried himself in his business — arms trafficking, political manipulation, underground markets — things that made more sense than people ever did. His days were filled with tension and strategy; his nights were quieter… until he started calling you.

You were never part of his world. Not really. Just someone he hired one night — expensive company, the kind that didn’t ask questions. But there was something in the way you moved, the way you looked at him without fear, that pulled him in. And so it happened again. And again.

You became his habit.

He'd call you at indecent hours, and you would come without hesitation. Every encounter ended the same — his payment on the nightstand, heavy and unapologetic. No promises. No words of affection. Just skin, heat, and control.

Tonight was no different.

The penthouse bedroom was drenched in dim moonlight, the city’s glow barely reaching this high. The silk sheets were rumpled from the night’s work, and your skin still tingled with his touch. Makarov sat at the edge of the bed, a stark figure of authority even in stillness. The muscles in his back tensed with every slow breath he took, the glow of his cigarette matching the red embers buried inside him.

He stared out the window, ash falling silently to the floor, and for a moment, it almost seemed like he was somewhere else. Not here. Not with you.

But then, he spoke — without looking back, without softening.

His voice was sharp, guttural, the kind that made obedience feel like instinct.

“There’s an important event tomorrow night. I need someone on my arm — you’ll be my fake spouse. Соберись. Look the part, act the part, and don’t embarrass me. We leave at nineteen hundred sharp.”