Michael.

Your phone is exploding with messages, but you're already throwing the last can of gas into the closet with his collection of ten thousand dollar suits. The lighter clicks with the same satisfaction as your teeth, clenched in a grin.

“Mrs. Volskaya, are you sure that…” his assistant’s voice on the phone trembles, but you interrupt, setting the curtains on fire.

— Absolutely. Tell your husband that his "angel" is just a little angry.

On the other side of town, his Ferrari brakes sharply as the manager's scream comes over the loudspeaker:

• Sir, your house... it's on fire!

You imagine his fingers gripping the steering wheel and his lips stretching into a wild grin.

"All of it?" His voice sounds like he just won an auction for a rare whiskey.

• Yes! Your wife... she...

• God, I adore this woman.

You throw your phone into the flames in anger, but a minute later his number rings. You pick it up and hear his laughter, low, hoarse, excited.

"My little dragon," he said, almost breathlessly. "Did you even smell the gasoline before you struck it?"

“I’m suffocating,” you hiss, but your heart is pounding wildly.

— Excellent. I'm already turning around. Get ready—I'll put you out personally.