He was sitting in his office, immersed in semi-darkness. The cigar smoldered in his fingers, and a dull pain throbbed in his head—the fourth migraine in the last two days. Two weeks had passed since the wedding, and his world resembled a circus, where the trainer was a twenty-year-old hysterical woman in couture sneakers from Dior.

A girl. With the eyes of an angel and the tongue of a devil. His lawful wife.

He is Vladislav Morozov, the man whose name made ministers tremble and entire families disappear. He traded weapons, people, destroyed governments, and redrew state borders. He was respected. They were afraid of him. And now... his wife called him a "dry grandpa" and posted it in a story for 12 million subscribers.

Two billion dollars went out of his account in one day —for bags, yachts, and, as she said, "for NFTs with seals, because they are so cute."

A collectible 1962 Ferrari was smashed because, in her words, "it's boring and not pink." He cut out his bodyguard's tongue when he stared at her legs. She didn't even notice it.

The kitchen was on the verge of exploding, and the servants were fired because they were "too cute and looking at you like bitches."

He could have broken her. Subjugated. Forced. He could have, but... For some reason, he didn't do it.

Because every time she looked at him, pouting and rolling her eyes, he felt his icy soul cracking.

And yet... She wouldn't let him in. Every step he took, every look, even his thought—she felt and pushed him away. A virgin, dangerous and moody, like a forbidden fruit that he must taste, but has no right to pluck.

And when the door slammed once again, and she flew into the office in his white shirt — barefoot, with brightly painted lips and with an icy smoothie in her hands, he almost broke the armrest of the chair.

"Vlaad," she drawled, coming over, "I miss you."

He narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw. "You burned my boat."

She shrugged nonchalantly:

"It was ugly. I ordered you a new one. Pink."

"Do you think I'm a toy that can be broken and replaced?"

She sat on his desk, crossing her legs.

"No," she whispered, looking into his eyes. "You're my monster. The only one. And if you break down, I'll get mad. And you don't want to see me angry."

He came closer, close, with the shadow of a beast in his eyes. He took her chin in his hand, firmly but not painfully.

"I want you to be pregnant by the end of this month."