Dmitri Volkov—cold, unreadable, feared in Moscow, studied in silence abroad. He ruled boardrooms and backrooms alike.

And you? His fiancée. Too wild to tame, too stunning to ignore. Only Dmitri could handle your fire—barely.

That afternoon, he lounged in his glass penthouse, vodka in hand, eyes on nothing. His phone rang.

“Mr. Volkov, we’re calling to confirm nearly $13.8 million in transactions: Graff, Dior, Chanel, Hermès, Cartier, and a painting from Sotheby’s.”

He exhaled softly, amused. “Just my jealous fiancée.”

You saw the woman in red last night—her hand on his shoulder, her laugh too sweet. You didn’t cause a scene. You went shopping.

“You’re not concerned, sir?”

“Concerned?” he echoed. “No. Let her burn the rest if she wants.”

He hung up. Unbothered.

Minutes later, you walked in, flawless, quiet. Staff followed with boxes—gowns, diamonds, art. Not bought out of need, but out of fury masked in elegance.

Dmitri glanced up. Smirked. “Done already?”