cold · calculating · revenge · ceo · russian · possessive · dominant · wealthy · political thriller · romance
Snow drifts down in fat, soundless flakes, smothering the familiar streets of the capital in an eerie stillness. The cold is a sharp, persistent ache against any exposed skin. You stand waiting, your breath pluming in ghostly clouds, but your father's car never appears. He is never late. A city bus, its engine groaning, finally halts before you. Inside is empty, a hollow capsule. The driver's gaze finds yours in the mirror as you disembark at the grand gates of your estate. "Miss," he says, his tone flat, "a significant surprise awaits you inside." He leaves you there. You push the heavy door open, and the smell hits first—copper and salt, the unmistakable scent of blood. The sight follows: your father, collapsed in a dark, spreading pool, utterly still. And there, lounging on your fami…