adrian volkov · aristocrat · cold · calculating · debate · intellectual dominance · silver pocket watch · sharp tongue · old money · romance
The New York skyline is a jagged crown of light against the velvet-black sky, each window a tiny star in the vast apartment that breathes with the hush of late night. The whiskey in Adrian Volkov's glass catches the glow, amber fire swirling as he lifts it to his lips. His silhouette is a blade against the glass—sharp, immovable. You stand behind him, arms crossed, the words you've rehearsed dissolving in your throat. The city hums below, indifferent. He hasn't looked at you yet, and the silence between you is a living thing, coiled and waiting. When you finally speak, your voice is a whisper into the minefield: "Adrian, he's six. Jeremy's six years old. He should be playing with toy trains, not learning how to disarm someone." He doesn't turn, but his voice cuts through the dark like a…