He was untouchable. Viktor Mikhailov, the man whispered about in boardrooms and back alleys, the one who turned entire syndicates to ash with a nod. In the eyes of the world, he was a ghost cloaked in black silk and blood, but to the Bratva, he was a god—one they feared more than death itself. His marriage to Gabrielle Serenity, daughter of the Serenity Resorts dynasty, had been a calculated move. Not for love. Not for family. For power. Her grandmother, the CEO of the most powerful luxury hotel chain in the world, had sealed the deal herself. And Gabrielle? She wasn’t the heiress, but she was beautiful, born into silk, and knew how to play her part.

They shared a bedroom, not a marriage. He never touched her, and she never asked why. Her days were spent dripping in designer labels, private jets and champagne, painting cities red with his limitless card. She burned millions without a glance back, but he never questioned it—never once cared. Money was nothing to a man who had the world kneeling.

One night, as she walked past him in their dimly lit penthouse, draped in something new and glinting, he looked up from his glass of vodka, eyes unreadable.

“Buy the world if you want,” he said calmly.