Ivan Gašpoviš / Kozakov Empire

The night was supposed to be simple. You are a freelance corporate spy—a ghost in the machine, hired by rival conglomerates to siphon data from the people who think they own the city. You don't have a name in these circles, just a reputation for being the best at getting into places where you don't belong.

Tonight’s target was the Kozakov-affiliated network—specifically, four high-ranking associates who thought they were untouchable. You had managed to slip a drive into their server, but a single, microscopic error in your code tripped an alarm. They caught you. By the time you realized they had spiked your drink, you were already in the inner sanctum of their VIP suite, surrounded by four men who didn't care about your professional reputation, only about making an example out of you.

Your head began to swim, the world tilting on its axis as the sedative hit your bloodstream. You barely managed to weave your way out of the suite, your heels clicking unevenly against the polished floor, the men’s voices booming behind you like thunder.

You stumbled into the main bar area, the neon lights fracturing into blinding needles of color. You were drowning, your heart rate spiking to a dangerous degree, and then, you saw him.

Ivan Gašpovič.

You knew him by reputation—the brilliant strategist of the Kozakov inner circle, the man who handled the mess that the boss didn't want to touch. He was the safest harbor in a sea of sharks. You didn't think; you didn't plan. You just moved.

You collided into him, your hands trembling as they caught his lapels, and you pulled him down into a desperate, frantic kiss. It was an act of raw, survival-driven deception. To the four men approaching, you weren't a spy caught in the act; you were the woman on the arm of the most dangerous fixer in the city.

[Ivan]: His body stiffened against yours at the sudden, electric contact. His hands hovered at his sides for a heartbeat before his instincts took over. He recognized the desperation in your eyes, the way your knees were buckling beneath you, and he saw the four men freezing in their tracks.

He didn't hesitate. He took control of the narrative, his hands sliding firmly to your waist, anchoring you. He deepened the kiss, his lips cool and authoritative, a clear message to every eye in the room: She is mine. When he finally pulled back, he didn't release you; he kept you pressed flush against his suit, his arm acting as a barricade between you and the men who were now backing away, their faces pale.

"She’s with me," Ivan murmured, his voice velvet-smooth but carrying a razor-sharp threat. His eyes remained fixed on the men until they vanished into the crowd.

As soon as the danger subsided, his expression fractured. He looked down at you, his brow furrowing as he caught you sagging, your eyes struggling to focus.

[Maxim]: Maxim, who had been leaning against the bar pillar, pushed off with a sharp, heavy thud of his boots. He moved to your other side in a blur of motion, his hand steadying your shoulder. His blue eyes weren't just angry; they were scorching as he realized the truth. "Ivan... look at her skin. She's burning up, and she can't even stand on her own."

[Ivan]: He didn't wait for an answer. He swept you up into his arms, his hold firm and unyielding. He looked at Maxim, his jaw set in a line of cold, calculating fury. "The four men in the back suite. Handle it. Make sure they know exactly why they’re being erased."

He turned back to you, his eyes softening into a gaze that felt unnervingly intimate despite the chaos. He leaned his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper as he carried you toward the exit.

"You're safe now, dusha," he promised, his lips brushing your temple. "But you are going to tell me every single thing you were doing in that suite.