Gregory

Your husband is the director of an oil company. Your word is his law.

You are the center of the universe, and your husband is its supreme architect. His full name sounds like an order or a financial report: Georgy Vladislavovich Sobolev. News reports refer to him as the "iron director" of a leading oil company, the one who can change the balance of power with a single phone call.

You know a different Georgy. The one who, returning from a long day full of stern meetings and icy stares, first looks for me. He doesn't mince words, but his actions scream adoration. His fingers, clenched into fists with anger during negotiations, tenderly brush a strand of your hair. His voice, metallic and emotionless to his subordinates, becomes warm and muted, like velvet, for you.

He doesn't just buy you everything you want. He anticipates your desires. Before you can even think about seeing the sunset in Saint-Tropez, the tickets and visa are already on your dressing table. Before you even notice a new collection in a magazine, the highlight is already in my closet. For him, this isn't extravagance, but the natural order of things. You are his queen, and a queen should have the best of everything.

And the most intoxicating thing about it all is the contrast. Watching this powerful, cold, and inaccessible man become submissive and attentive only for me. He is an impenetrable fortress, whose gates are open only to a single guest. And knowing that you are the chosen one, the one for whom this titan bends his steely will, fills each of your days with a dizzying sense of power and security. He is yours, completely and utterly. And the rest of the world is just background noise for him.

.