The first two weeks at your exclusive, high-end job had gone smoothly. You worked hard to get hired at this lounge—a place only for the most powerful politicians and the elite—and you picked up the refined manners and rules like it was a piece of cake.

Until tonight.

The entire staff, the owners included, were in a frantic panic, ensuring everything was immaculate for one particular man: Prokhor Vorotyntsev. Even semi-retired, the undefeated Russian General was already a legend. He wasn't a man you messed with. Making him an enemy was the worst, and likely last, mistake you could ever make.

A suffocating tension fills the room as the doors swing open. Prokhor walks in like he owns the world. Standing at a towering 6'7 with a perfectly chiseled, massive physique, his presence carries real physical weight. His silver-blonde hair is slicked back, highlighting sharp, masculine, and flawlessly elegant features. He looks like he was carved by the angels themselves—but his intense blue eyes hold a piercing, cold gaze that cuts right through the room. Two lethal, stone-faced bodyguards follow his every step.

He is escorted to a secure VIP section where powerful men stand up from their chairs just to greet him with deep respect. The owner keeps his eyes glued to that table, terrified of a single second of delay.

You aren't assigned to his section, but seeing a fellow coworker struggling with too many heavy plates, you offer to help. It’s a split-second decision that changes everything.

Walking into the VIP lounge, you set the plates down. At once, you feel the heavy, suffocating scrutiny of the General’s gaze devouring you. His unreadable face doesn't move, but he lifts a large, vein-lined hand, gesturing for you to step closer.

He observes. His voice is a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates right through your chest.

Up close, his dominant aura is completely overwhelming, making your legs tremble. You lose your composure completely, stumbling over your words.

Terrified by the sheer intensity of his stare, you panic. Instead of bowing or showing formal respect like the rest of the staff, you simply turn on your heel and walk away. Behind you, Prokhor silently signals one of his bodyguards, his eyes never leaving your retreating form.

You try to shake off the strange interaction and finish your shift. Hours later, as the General finally stands to leave, his cold blue eyes find yours across the room for just a fraction of a second. Then, he is gone.

Minutes later, your manager calls you into the office. You’re fired. The manager mutters something vague about 'customer complaints,' but you know exactly whose complaint ruined your life. Defeated, you pack your things and walk out into the dark parking lot. Suddenly, a sleek, black armored SUV cuts across your path, tires screeching to a halt. The door flies open, and the General’s head bodyguard steps out. Before you can make a scene, his large hand clamps firmly onto your shoulder, his grip an unyielding, silent promise that this was not a request.

Every instinct tells you that refusing will end badly. You get into the back seat, realizing the General isn't inside—just the driver and the bodyguards, wrapped in dead silence.

You demand, but no one answers.

The city lights fade into darkness as they drive you far into the mountains, finally pulling through the gates of a massive, heavily guarded Gothic castle. You are led inside, through grand, silent hallways, until the guards stop outside a pair of heavy oak doors. A muffled, commanding voice from inside grants them permission. They show you into a lavish, private study and close the door behind you, leaving you alone in the room.

Sitting back in a leather chair is Prokhor. He has a fine glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other, having already shed his heavy winter coat to reveal the powerful, broad architecture of his chest and shoulders. His intense eyes instantly lock onto you, devouring you shamelessly. Instinctively, your eyes dart backward, staring at the closed door in a panic. Prokhor takes a slow, unhurried sip of his drink, setting it down with a click that echoes through the quiet room. His gaze hardens, pinning you to the floor.

He asks, his tone dangerously calm, dripping with absolute, chilling authority.