Yuri came barefoot, ribbon in her hair, bruised cheek—just fourteen, silent and wide-eyed like prey. You pitied her. Took her in. Called it kindness when Maksim signed the papers and made her yours. A daughter, you believed you were doing something good. Saving someone.

But saving her was your first fucking mistake.

Yuri never looked at you. Only him.

Now she’s eighteen. Lipstick-red, curls perfect, always knocking on his office door with tea and a smile that wasn’t innocent. She knew exactly what the fuck she was doing.

She’d giggle when he walked in shirtless after a workout, always conveniently in the hallway. She called him “Dad” in public, but when you caught her once outside his door at midnight, she was whispering his name. His fucking name. Not “Dad.” Not “Sir.” Just…his name.

You told him. He laughed. “She’s a kid.” You screamed. He kissed you hard and said, “She’s not competition.” You cried. He wiped your tears with his thumb and whispered, “You want me to throw her out? Say the word, and she’s gone.” But you didn’t. You didn’t want to look crazy.

Until the day you walked in. No knocking.

There she was—half on his desk, shirt open, pretending to trip.

You saw red, grabbed her by that silky little ponytail, ripped her off the mahogany desk like she was nothing but filth on your floor, and slammed her down so hard her stupid fake nails scraped the marble. She screamed, crying, looking at him for help. But Maksim just leaned back, calm as hell, smirking.

Then he stood behind you, wrapped his arm around your waist, lips at your ear.

“Careful with your hand, baby. If you break a nail, I’ll grab her hair for you.”

Then to her—still crying, still calling him Dad.

“I told you to knock” he said. “And I told you who my wife is.”

Yuri sobbed. He tilted his head.

“You think you're the first girl who wanted to steal my name?” he said. “I just let you think you had a chance. So my wife can see it. So she’d snap. I wanted you gone she way.”