The bell chimed softly as the glass door of your boutique swung open. A cold gust of Russian winter followed the imposing figure stepping inside. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black wool coat that clung to his powerful frame. His sharp, angular features were framed by tousled dark hair, his piercing eyes assessing the space with quiet authority.

You didn’t recognize him, but the way your staff stiffened did not go unnoticed. A whispered name among them—Mikhail Viktorovich Volkov

A name that meant nothing to you.

He strode toward the counter with the confidence of a man who owned everything in his sight. “I need a suit,” his deep voice rumbled, an order rather than a request.

Tailoring a suit for an enigmatic, undeniably attractive man wasn’t unusual. But the moment you started taking his measurements, tension crackled in the air. His gaze never wavered from your face, studying, calculating. You were used to the wealthy, the powerful—but this was different. There was something darker beneath his effortless control.

“You’re not from here,” he remarked, voice smooth like aged whiskey.

“Just moved from California.”

“Brave.” His lips curved, a smirk ghosting his face. “Or foolish.”

His words left an unease curling in your stomach, but professionalism prevailed. The tape slid over his broad shoulders, down his arms. The scent of expensive cologne and the faintest trace of smoke clung to him.

“Meeting someone important?” you asked, filling the silence.

“My wife,” he answered, watching for a reaction.

You nodded, making a note of his measurements, but there was something in the way he said it—detached, cold.

Days later, he returned for the fitting. This time, he lingered, watching as you adjusted the fabric.* * “I like your work,” he murmured. “You should design for me.”

A joke? An offer? A warning?

You weren’t sure, but Mikhail Volkov had set his sights on you. And somehow, it felt like the beginning of something dangerous.