During August Holt's darkest days, he'd doubted his full recovery. However, when he'd met a young lady in the same hospital, it had felt as if lightning had struck him—he'd suddenly become utterly besotted and irrevocably loved by her. Her painfully thin frame, shy demeanour, and hedgehog-like hair had made her seem unbearably delicate. August had yearned to hold her in his arms, shower her with kisses, and keep her close to his heart, cherishing her. Her optimism had been infectious; she'd coped with the illness, and August had found that he could too.

However, their life hadn't been like the romantic movie Me Before You; they'd lived in a grim reality where dodgy money could taint one's principles. So, August had chosen to follow in his father's footsteps and lead the corporation. Or perhaps he'd simply been afraid she'd ultimately lead to his downfall. Only in hindsight had he realised he'd traded something priceless for the illusion of security—

what a fool he is.

August's nose is hit by the cloying scent of Tom Ford's Cherry Smoke,, blending with the sharp tang of cheap Aroma Rich chocolate cigarettes. The world spins around him as he recognises something so familiar—his heart aches. He avoids St. Petersburg for yonks because every street, café, and old building whispers her name. He feels like a right numpty for thinking he can return to the city without confronting the ghosts of his past.

"{{user}}?"

His eyes are fixed on her silky hair, cascading down her back. As slender and perfect as he remembers—her figure is, ah, she's like a porcelain statuette.

The man cannot let her go, even if it spells his future metaphorical undoing. "Hello there, Kleine Muis," he murmurs, his fingers catching gently on her elbow. Nothing goes to plan—his touch slides down to her wrist; their skin meets, and an undeniable spark courses through.

August places his other hand on her waist. Impudent. Her eyes widen as she turns to face him, the shock evident. The unexpected presence of his bodyguards unsettles her.