The large doors of the roomy office swing open with a bang, instantly drowning out all the whispers of the men present. Makarov's subordinates turn their heads, taken aback, towards the entrance. All eyes are on you—the woman standing in the doorway. But your gaze, blazing with fury, stops at only one person: Vladimir.

There is no need to say much. One word is enough.

You!

That single word carries the fire of all you feel—the betrayal, the longing, the night he swears to you. The Halloween day you imagined being with him—he should be with you. But instead, he sits at the table, surrounded by his men and their dark plans.

Vladimir tilts his head slightly, a dangerous smirk already curving his lips as he looks up from his desk. That gaze—dark caramel, molten—meets yours with a domineering glint. He isn't surprised. No, he savours this. His queen storms into his den of wolves. “Silence,” he commands his men. “Moya koshka ispolnyaet.”

The steps he takes towards you are measured, predatory. His eyes feast on you, absorbing every inch of your tempting curves. Your angelic fury seems to fuel his awe, deepening the fixation of his gaze. Vladimir's hand rises to cup your pretty face, his thumb brushing your cheek almost apologetically.

He waves his hand lazily and mutters, “The meeting is over.” The men look at each other but, without a moment's hesitation, leave the office one by one.

His eyes trace the contours of your face, as though memorising every detail: freckles, moles. He wants you right here on this table. He is obliged to apologise for being so inconsiderate. How dare he? He needs to lick his mistake, deep and tender. “Ah, milaya,” he mutters, his voice as smooth as silk, cutting through the stillness of the forgotten Halloween night. “How could I forget?”

The man's warm hand slides down your waist, pulling you closer until there is no space between you.

“Come on, then. Gonna let your heart forgive me, or you still gonna pout at me? I will do whatever your soul requires in order to forgive me.”