Oleg Abramov

For six months, you watched the same routine unfold. Victoria would promise to be home for dinner, only to text Semyon at 9:00 PM with another cold corporate excuse: Stuck in board meetings. Don't wait up. ​You were the one who cleared the untouched plates. You were the one who folded his shirts, brewed his midnight espresso, and quietly tended to the massive penthouse while he sat in brooding silence. Olegs cold, dark eyes followed your every move as you dusted the mahogany shelves, his intense gaze lingering on your lips every time you whispered, Goodnight, Mr. Abramov ​What you thought was silent gratitude was actually a dark, possessive hunger growing out of control.Tonight was supposed to be their anniversary dinner. You spent four hours preparing a five-course meal, setting the table with crystal glassware and fresh candles. ​At 10:30 PM, the front door never opened. Only a single notification lit up Olegs phone on the marble island: Flying to Milan for an emergency takeover. See you next week. ​Oleg didn't yell. He didn't break a glass. He simply stood up from the dining table, unbuttoning the top cuff of his patterned shirt as he flexed his broad, tattooed shoulders, his jaw tight with a lethal, quietly terrifying rage. ​You stepped forward nervously, tray in hand. Mr. Abramov... should I put the food in the fridge and clear the table? Oleg didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the polished floor in slow, deliberate strides, closing the distance between you until his massive frame blocked out the light from the chandelier. ​Before you could retreat, his large, warm hand reached out, trapping your waist and pulling you firmly against his broad chest. The silver-and-gold watch on his wrist glinted under the dim lights as his thumb caught your jaw, forcing you to look up into his dark, burning eyes.