Cara entered the lavish hall with a dazzling smile that barely masked the tightness in her jaw. Roman was practically glued to her side, his clammy hand brushing against her bare back every now and then. She wanted to flinch, to pull away-but she didn't. Not now.

Her long bodycon gown shimmered under the chandelier light, hugging her curves like a second skin. A deep crimson hue matched her bold lipstick, and her waves cascaded down her shoulder. She looked stunning-she knew it. And she had made damn sure of it tonight.

She scanned the crowd with calculated ease, her eyes flitting past billionaires and socialites, looking for the one man who made this evening worth enduring.

Roman chuckled beside her, sipping his champagne. "Looking for someone, dorogaya?"

She tilted her head and gave him a honeyed smile. "Just wondering... What time will Mr. Cozlov usually arrive?"

Roman glanced at his watch with a sigh. "He always comes at the end of the hour. Fashionably late, I've heard. The czar likes to make an entrance."

Cara raised a brow and sipped her drink. Of course, he does. She could already imagine it-how the music would shift, how people would hush, how heads would turn when he walked in.

The chandeliers seemed to gleam brighter the moment he stepped in.

All heads turned toward the entrance like puppets pulled by a single string. Conversations fell into hushed murmurs, laughter silenced as though even joy paused for his arrival.

Mikhail Cozlov.

Cara's breath caught in her throat. Her hand froze mid-air, glass of champagne trembling slightly between her fingers. Her lips parted in awe, eyes wide, taking in the very man she'd spent years dreaming of. He was more than just a name now. He was here-towering, composed, impossibly magnetic.

Roman puffed out his chest and straightened his tie, failing miserably to suck in his large stomach.

Cara clutched her glass tighter, as though anchoring herself in a moment that felt surreal.

Mikhail strode inside like the air itself bent to his command. Dressed in a sharp black suit tailored with deadly precision, his presence sucked the air out of the room. He didn't spare anyone a glance. Leonid followed at his side like a shadow.

Mikhail made his way to the far corner of the hall, where a private bar was set up. He took a glass from the bartender without saying a word. It was only after a few sips that high-profile businessmen dared to approach him, each trying to gain a sliver of his attention.

Roman tugged Cara gently. "Come, darling. I'll introduce you."

Her gaze never faltered. Her heart pounded like a war drum inside her chest, but her expression remained composed, sultry even.

"Yes, please," she said, voice breathy.

Roman led her through the crowd, and Cara felt every step vibrate in her veins as they approached the man who'd ruled her fantasies for half a decade.

Roman stood beside the businessman who was desperately trying to pitch a negotiation. Mikhail listened with all the enthusiasm of a lion watching a fly buzz around his throne. His expression was unreadable, but the stiffness in his jaw said enough.

The businessman, clearly unnerved by the silence, cleared his throat.

"I hope you will give thought to my proposal, Czar," he muttered, bowing slightly before retreating like a dog sensing a storm.

Roman saw the opening and seized it.

"Mr. Cozlov," he said with an overly sweet smile, stepping forward and extending his hand, "it's really nice to finally meet you."

Mikhail looked at the hand with mild disinterest, then raised his eyes to Roman.

"Germophobic," he stated simply, not a hint of apology in his tone.

Roman's smile wavered for half a second before he chuckled awkwardly, withdrawing his hand.

"Haha... of course. No worries, sir."

With a theatrical gesture, he turned to Cara, as if revealing a prized jewel.

"And this is Cara Moore. Soon to be the next supermodel of our industry."

Cara stepped forward, smiled poised, every movement calculated. Her eyes locked onto Mikhail's with a hunger she didn't bother to hide.

Mikhail's gaze flicked to her-just once.

A slow, measured glance that skimmed over her with the cold precision of a man who have seen diamonds, queens, and goddesses-and remained unmoved.

"Hmm," he hummed vaguely, offering only the briefest nod before turning his face away entirely.

"Leonid," he said sharply, now facing his right-hand man, already dismissing the pair in front of him.

Cara's smile faltered for the tiniest moment. Her jaw ticked as if to hold down the sting of bruised pride. But she caught herself. Straightened her back. Tilted her head. The game wasn't over.

Not yet.

Roman, sweating slightly beneath his collar, cleared his throat with a sheepish smile.

"Excuse me-I'll be back. Nature's call."

Cara barely registered his departure.

Her eyes were locked on Mikhail.

He stood like a carved statue of war-tall, powerful, unbothered. The kind of man who didn't demand attention because the world bent naturally toward his gravity. His black suit hugged every muscle, his watch glinted like it carried the weight of empires. He scrolled his phone like this is thr only thing deserve his slight bit of attention.

Cara stepped closer, the hem of her body-hugging gown brushing his polished shoes. She adjusted her neckline just enough for her breasts to spill slightly over the edge-red lips parted, voice dipped in seduction.

"I would like to give my greetings to the Czar," she purred.

Mikhail flicked his eyes toward her. One glance. Impersonal. Dismissive.

Still, she pushed forward.

"Your drink's empty," she whispered, fingers grazing the sleeve of his coat. "Let me get you another one....maybe something stronger."

Her body leaned in slightly-soft breasts brushing the edge of his arm, her voice close enough to feel on his skin.

Then it happened.

His hand shot out-not to touch her, but to stop her. His fingers hovered centimeters from her chest. Not a graze but a prohibition.

"Don't touch me," Mikhail said flatly.

Cara froze, breath caught in her throat.

His eyes finally met hers.

There was no desire in them. No interest. Just the cold precision of a man who have dissected women like her a thousand times before.

"I don't take drinks from women who fuck their way into guest lists," he said. "And I don't entertain desperation."

Cara's throat tightened. Her legs threatened to betray her, but she smiled-cracked and too forced.

He leaned in, lowering his voice until it curled behind her ear like smoke.

"If I want a whore, I'll choose one."

Then he leaned away like she was nothing but stale perfume.

Cara blinked. The room spun for a second. She clutched her champagne glass harder to keep herself upright.

Mikhail turned away and left from there.

Cara stood still, her skin prickling with humiliation. She had painted herself like temptation, and he had wiped her away like dust.

Her blood boiled beneath her flawless skin.

Five years of waiting.

And he didn't even see her.

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Mikhail stood with his hands loosely clasped inside his pocket, conversing with Mr. Petrov-an elderly titan in the tech industry whose age had only sharpened his mind. Mikhail listened with quiet respect, nodding at the man's seasoned insights, a rare flicker of interest on his otherwise stoic expression.

Leonid approached with a purposeful stride, cutting through the crowd like a blade through silk.

"Czar," he said lowly, leaning just enough for discretion. "Someone tried to throw a grenade in one of our warehouse. Idiot didn't make it far. Our men caught him."

Mikhail's jaw ticked. The corner of his lip curled-half smirk.

"Fool," he thought. "He brought a firecracker to a goddamn fortress."

Leonid's mouth twitched with amusement, but his eyes remained hard.

Mikhail turned back to Mr. Petrov, composure instantly restored.

"Mr. Petrov," he said smoothly, "It seems someone has requested my attention... the loud way."

Mr. Petrov nodded, offering a respectful bow. "Always a pleasure, Czar."

Mikhail returned the nod and turned, his expression hardening like cooled steel as he walked beside Leonid.

"It's been too many days since I last peeled skin," he murmured, voice like velvet dipped in venom. "Let's make tonight memorable."

Leonid gave a slight nod, matching his pace.

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Niamph stood alone on the small wooden bridge, her gaze fixed on the gentle ripples of the stream below. She tossed a small stone into the water and watched the circles expand outward, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The chill in the air kissed her cheeks, but it was the emptiness inside her that made her shiver.

Flashback

"Where are you going?" Niamph asked, watching Cara step out of her room dressed to perfection in a sleek gown, heels clicking against the floor.

Cara barely glanced at her, a bored expression on her face.

"Can’t you see? I’m going to a party," she said, then paused with a smirk. "Oh—sorry. How would you know? You've never been to one."

The mock in her tone stung deeper than the words themselves.

Niamph’s heart sank. It was true. Despite being Conor Moore’s daughter, she’d never been invited to any party—family or otherwise. The only ones who ever went were her father, her stepmother Aira, and Cara.

She remembered once mustering the courage to ask Aira if she could join them.

"You’d embarrass us there," her stepmother had said with a sneer. "Stay home where you belong."

Niamph hadn’t asked again after that. She learned to stay in the shadows—to be invisible.

As Cara brushed past her that evening, not sparing even a second glance, Niamph swallowed her hurt and turned away.

Flashback ends

She sighed, tossing another stone into the stream.

The ripples danced outward once more.

She could pretend their words didn’t affect her.

—but sometimes, like tonight, the pain slipped through the cracks.

No matter how much she tried to ignore the sting... it still hurts.

The crisp evening breeze brushed past Niamph as she stood quietly on the bridge, lost in her thoughts. Her solitude was broken by the voices of two girls standing nearby, their giggles piercing the calm.

"You know, I finally saw him in person," one of them whispered with barely contained excitement.

"Who?" the other asked, curious.

"The Czar. Mikhail Cozlov," the first girl breathed out like a secret. "Trust me, he’s even more than a Greek god up close. Those icy blue eyes—uff—I could drown in them."

The other girl giggled. "Perks of being a waitress."

Their laughter faded into the air, but the words stayed with Niamph. Her heart gave a strange little jolt. Czar… Mikhail Cozlov.

Maybe it was the same party Cara had gone to tonight.

She closed her eyes.

The name alone sent a chill down her spine. She’d never seen him in person.

But she remembers how her father warned cara that day. That how much dangerous he is.

He was a man whose name carried more fear than fame. People said he was powerful—untouchable—but behind that power lay violence.

Then how can people speak of him like that? she wondered. How can they admire someone so terrifying?

The thought of women swooning over someone capable of taking lives made her skin crawl. Her fingers gripped the wooden railing tighter, a faint shiver running through her.

she told herself. They only see the face. The charm. Not the blood he walks on.

The night had grown colder, and a quiet shiver ran down Niamph’s spine. Hugging her arms around herself, she decided to head back to the hotel. Her boots clicked softly against the pavement, the street dimly lit and nearly deserted.

Suddenly, a roaring sound pierced the quiet.

Her eyes darted toward the road just in time to see headlights blur past—a car speeding like the driver had lost control. The tires screeched. Metal groaned. And before she could even register it, the car flipped—once, twice—before slamming upside down with a thunderous crash.

Niamph’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum.

For a second, she stood frozen. But the sharp hiss of leaking fuel jolted her into action.

It’s going to explode.

Without thinking, she sprinted toward the wreckage. Her shoes skidded as she knelt beside the overturned vehicle, flames flickering at the hood. Through the cracked glass, she saw a man slumped against the steering wheel—blood trickling down his forehead. He wasn’t moving.

“jesus—please no,” she whispered.

She searched around frantically, eyes landing on a broken iron rod by the pavement. Grabbing it, she began smashing at the passenger window with trembling hands. The glass cracked, then finally shattered, slicing her arms in the process. She flinched, blood seeping from her cuts—but she didn’t stop.

With a cry of effort, she reached in, unlocked the door, and struggled to pull it open. It groaned against her weight but finally gave way. Smoke choked the air. Her lungs burned.

She grabbed the man’s shoulders, grunting as she dragged him out, inch by inch. He was heavy—dead weight—but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

When they finally tumbled to the ground, she gasped for air, crawling back to check his pulse.

His face turned toward her slowly, barely conscious—blood smeared across his brow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

And that’s when she saw it.

Her breath hitched.

Her blood ran cold.

"The rooftop man," she whispered in disbelief.

His hand twitched, then slowly rose—bloodied and trembling. Before Niamph could pull back, his fingers brushed against her cheek with a reverence that made her still.

As if he wasn’t just touching her skin…

…but recognizing something far deeper.

Her heart skipped a beat, eyes widening as the foreign word rolled from his lips.

His voice was broken, low—like a prayer from a man on the edge of damnation.

"Нимфа," he breathed.

(Nymph)

Then, his hand fell limp, his body going slack in her arms.