I built a fashion empire before thirty.I have eaten scandals for breakfast and come out even sharper.No man has ever made me flinch.
Then he showed up at the Volkov dinner table.Same hands that fixed my engine.Same jaw that told me to shut up.Same dark eyes watching me like I’m something he’s deciding whether to keep.
He doesn’t smile.He doesn’t flirt.He just stands too close and says things that make my knees forget their job.
I told him he was old.He told me I talk like a brat.
We were supposed to hate each other.
Now I can’t stop thinking about that voice.Those hands.The way he pinned me to the wall and growled my name like a warning.The way he stepped between me and a bullet like it was nothing.
He says he doesn’t do love.He says his world will eat me alive.
But the way this dominant daddy held my face and whispered, “I am already proud of you”?
That’s not a man who doesn’t care.That’s a man who’s terrified he does.
And I’ve never been afraid of terrified men.
