Katarina waited.The penthouse was a stage, and the wreckage was her set design. She sat in her high-backed, crimson throne, a queen presiding over the ruins of her own temper.A fresh glass of Stoli Elit rested in her uninjured hand, the crystal cold against her fingers. She wore a simple black silk robe, its fabric a whisper of shadow against her skin.The chaotic fury from earlier had been forged into something new. Something sharp, cold, and patient.The chime of the elevator was soft, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a guillotine dropping.Marcus Volkov strode in, his expensive burgundy suit a splash of color against the gloom. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, but his face was tight with agitation, his corporate smoothness frayed at the edges.“That brute,” he began immediately, his voice a low, indignant hiss. He failed to notice the cold danger in the room, too wrapped up in his own perceived slights. “That animal and his little gutter-rat. He has no class, no appre
Last Updated : 2025-09-02
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