No one understands the pain of losing everything you have in the twinkle of an eye. Ayala goes from having millions in her account due to her multi-millionaire father to being content with just a few thousand, her standards drop and so do her friends. In a bid to make money, she decides to work for the Igor’s. She meets Alexie and gets into a relationship with him with a promise that he would restore her father’s company to status quo, she’s not in love with him but she endures his lack of emotions, constant sexual urge, and poor treatment to accomplish this. While working for Vladimir, her boss, she develops feelings for him but tries to keep it under the radar because of her relationship with his cousin and she doubts he, Vladimir would ever feel the same. She also faces constant teases from his ex-girlfriend, Irina but tries to look past it. When she and Vladimir eventually confess their feelings to each other, they get into a relationship, but would the relationship last if she discovers that Vladimir was the one that led to the bankruptcy of her father’s company?
View MoreWe have the rich and we have the wealthy, and Manhattan isn't referred to as the playground of billionaires for nothing. From frivolous shopping sprees to overpriced boarding houses, exclusive country clubs, and bratty kids acting up to be on the tabloids, Manhattan had them all…
“Excuse me miss, please can you insert your pin? “ said the red-haired girl to Ayala with growing impatience for the third time.
“Oh, I'm so sorry “ came Ayala’s reply as she put in her pin, carried the cosmetics she just got, and rushed out of the drug store.
Never would she have thought herself to be in a place like this, her friends and her usually scrunched their noses at the sight of it and would rather have a hand chopped off than be caught dead in a place like that. But sadly, this had become her reality.
She kept a reasonable distance from the store while holding the leather containing her purchase with both disgust and anger. She missed shopping at her favorite cosmetic brands; L’oreal, Fenty, Rare beauty, and Rhode… she missed putting her personal shopper to work when a new foundation or lipstick shade was out because she just had to be among the first to get it. Now, she was putting on no designer and with footwear she got from Walmart. Well, she still had her designer wears in her closet but they were not in trends anymore and everyone knows that; No designer is better than an outdated one.
As she stood waiting for a cab, she was still grateful she could afford one because taking the subway or train was bottom-barrel.
Suddenly a shiny black Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail pulls up to her and stops, the door swings open, “get in” says the voice from inside.
She needed no one to tell her the prospective owner of the car, the customized plate number, “ Igor 1” gave it out.
We have the wealthy and we have the Igors, the one-percenters. They had business in every sector of the economy and were rumored to be engaged in big underground activities. Everyone had mixed emotions towards them, it was that of dread and also longing to be associated with them.
AYALA
I stepped in, not particularly knowing why any of the Igors would want to give me a ride, sure my junior brother was friends with a member of the clan but our familiarity ended there.
“ Thank you so much, my house is at Jump Rock Estate, 27th Crescent. I'll call the Estate security to let us in” I said and was met by a loud silence.
I repeated it, just to hear “Ty mozhesh' zatknut'sya? ( can you shut up ) I heard you the first, I'm not your chauffeur, Shomer”.
The mention of my last name made me shudder, but I tried to remain calm. Once he had dropped me, before I could mutter a thank you, he had raced off.
“Ivan! Ivaaaaaaaan!” I screamed as I ran up the stairs,
“The only person permitted to scream my name, is my girlfriend “ came Ivan’s reply as he shifted his gaze from the p**n magazine in his hand. It always amazed me how he read that with no shame, not like I didn't have mine stuffed under my bed, but they were there for a reason.
“ I see you still have jokes,” I said, giving him the fakest smile I could muster. Ivan has to be the corniest person I know, but he's however the only person who would possibly have answers to what I was going to ask, just had to be him.
“Tell me about the Igors, I say “ he considers me for a while then replies, “You are not their type”, my face reddened with anger, I didn't care much about them, but being told I was not their type still sent me to a frenzy.
“For starters, I don't care about being their type, they aren't mine either if for anything I believe them to be overhyped but one however, who isn't your friend, Yuri, gave me a ride and raced out before I could show my gratitude…rude much! and I just want to know who he is “
“If it's not Yuri, try giving me a description then, “ Ivan said. “Well, I didn't see his face, he had on a black suit, his hair was slicked back, and yeah, he was driving himself, which was weird because what are drivers for? Whatever, and yeah, his plate number read, “ Igor 1” ”.
As I mentioned the last statement, I felt my brother’s face grow pale, “ You mean; “Igor 1”? There's no way Vladimir gave you a ride, that's Yuri’s elder brother and he is said to be colder than the Ice king! Yuri did say he was in town, but why would he?… he doesn't even know you…”
I really couldn't tell if Ivan was shocked by who gave me a ride or if he wished it was him that the ride was given to. “ well, he did give me a ride” I said as I shut the door leaving him with unasked questions neither of us had the answer to.
As I got to my room, I began arranging my purchase in my cosmetic cabinet. I noticed my Voce viva intensa Valentino perfume I got last summer was half as well as most of my designer perfumes, two of which had already finished, can life get any worse… The universe probably read my mind because immediately my Tom Ford black violet perfume fell to the ground and broke. I used my hands to cover my mouth to prevent myself from breaking down the house with my scream.
I wanted to call my old friends to tell them about the horrible day I was already having, but ever since Papa’s company declared bankruptcy, my friends avoided me like it was contagious, the ones that didn't ,treated me like a charity case and I hated that even more. I wanted dialing any of their numbers, but I thought it better not to, my life was now different and I had to learn to accept that.
Ayala's POVThe paper felt heavier than it should have, like it carried more than a destination. Like it carried a choice she wasn’t ready to make.Greece. Athens.Two days from now.Return: open.It wasn’t just a trip. Matteo was offering her air. Distance. A world without Vladimir’s shadow stretching over every step she took. She had always wanted to visit Greece, but why was she reluctant? Why did it feel like she owed it another person to turn down the offer, why was she choosing another over herself again.She set the ticket down on the counter as though it might burn her fingers if she held it any longer. The quiet of her apartment wrapped around her, but it wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of quiet that made her hear the blood in her ears, the echo of her own breathing. She looked at the wildflowers Matteo had given her, now beginning to droop at the edges. They smelled faintly of sun and earth, so different from the cold, calculated perfection of roses Vladimir once sent her
Ayala POVThe envelope sat on her desk like it had a life of its own.Unassuming. Cream-colored. Embossed with the familiar monogram—V.I. It was unmistakably from Vladimir.Ayala had stared at it for a full twenty minutes before daring to touch it. And even now, with it opened and the neatly folded letter inside laying before her, she couldn’t bring herself to read the words again.Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, then recoiled as if the paper had burned her.Everything about Vladimir had always been intense—his eyes, his presence, his control. Even his handwriting bled with precision and restraint. No mess. No emotion unless calculated.So why did this letter feel… different?She had read it once. Only once. But the words refused to leave her mind.“Ayala,I never learned how to say sorry without sounding like a man who’s used to being forgiven.So this isn’t an apology. It’s a confession.I watched you that morning. At the studio. You didn’t see me — at least, I don’t thi
VLADIMIR POVThere was something insulting about sunlight when your soul was dragging behind you like a war-torn flag.The sky outside his floor-to-ceiling windows had bled into a weak gold — the kind that looked like hope from a distance but felt more like judgment up close. Vladimir Lancaster stood barefoot on the cold marble, a scotch glass in one hand and silence coiled in the other.His shirt was wrinkled. Hair unkempt. The man reflected in the window was barely the version of himself he liked to parade around boardrooms and balconies. He looked tired. Human. Possibly a little haunted.He would’ve called himself a fool if there were anyone left around to argue with him.Andrei had dropped the letter off yesterday. No fanfare. No tracking number. Just a sealed envelope, cream paper, black ink, his handwriting — careful, brutal honesty in cursive. It had taken him three false starts, two crumpled drafts, and one very loud curse in Russian that had startled a maid before he’d manage
VLADIMIR POVFLASHBACKVladimir’s Private Library – After MidnightThe city had gone quiet by then. New York’s usual hum had settled into something softer — like the moment between breaths. In his penthouse library, the only sound came from the low crackling of the fireplace and the gentle rustle of pages turning. Ayala sat curled on the corner of the leather chaise, her legs tucked beneath her, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized shirts that swallowed her frame in the best way.Vladimir had watched her for over five minutes without saying a word.He didn’t know why this particular night felt heavier — maybe because the world outside had paused, and for once, so had they. No meetings. No rivals. No Irina. No Alexei. Just her. Her and that damn book she barely seemed to read because her mind kept wandering.“Are you bored?” he asked finally, his voice low.She didn’t look up. “No.”“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”She smiled, the kind of smile that tugged more at his
AYALA POVThe sound came just as I stepped back from the canvas to evaluate the color balance—three soft knocks on the studio door. Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just… measured.My heart jumped.I wiped my hands on a paint-stained rag, my pulse already quickening. Part of me whispered Vladimir. But it was too soon, wasn’t it?I crossed the room slowly, peeking through the window first.It wasn’t him.A man stood on the stoop. Mid-thirties, maybe older, in a sharply cut gray coat and dark trousers. His hair was cleanly trimmed, his jawline angular. Hands behind his back like he’d been waiting a while.And he wasn’t alone.Behind him, parked across the street, was a black town car. Not flashy. Just… expensive in the way quiet power always was.I opened the door a crack.“Can I help you?”The man nodded politely, his voice low and smooth. “Miss Shomer?”“Yes,” I said cautiously.“I represent the foundation that awarded your grant. I was asked to deliver a personal letter—along with a few c
Vladimir POV – Two Days After the GalaI watched her from the sidelines.Not literally, no. Ayala had vanished from my physical world the moment she ran out those gallery doors, the hem of her navy silk dress fluttering like a war flag in the wind. But I watched her everywhere else — the headlines, the interviews she ignored, the photos flooding my inbox from agencies trying to capitalize on the scene. And what a scene we had made.I had never felt so ashamed in my life.Alexei and I, raised like two branches from the same cursed tree, had brought our feud to the altar of her career. We turned her moment into a battlefield — two egos jousting for dominance in front of a crowd that only wanted to watch her shine. I had wanted to protect her. And instead, I humiliated her.I could still see the betrayal in her eyes when she looked at me. Not anger — not rage. That would have been easier. What she gave me was worse: disappointment. As if she expected better of me. As if some part of her
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