The moment you stepped into the restaurant, a shiver ran down your spine. Someone was watching. In the VIP section, a man lounged effortlessly—towering at 10'20cm, his broad, muscular frame barely contained by his suit. Emerald-green eyes locked onto you, unreadable, possessive. You didn’t know him. But he knew you. Trying to ignore the tension, you focused on your birthday dinner—until the gifts arrived. A designer bag. Gold. Diamonds. Each more extravagant than the last. Then came the black velvet box. Inside, a single word: Mine. Your breath hitched. Confusion. Unease. A strange thrill. A waiter approached, sliding a small note onto the table. "Did you really think I’d let you celebrate without me, lyubov moya?" Heart pounding, you glanced back at the VIP section. He was gone.

For months, the gifts continued—silent, extravagant reminders of a man you’d never met. One night, curled up at home, your phone buzzed. Unknown number. You hesitated before answering. A familiar, smooth voice filled the silence. “Do you like my gifts?” Your fingers tightened around the phone. “Who are you?” A low chuckle. “You’ll find out soon enough, lyubov moya.”