Vlaadimir

You were a perfectly ordinary girl. Life flowed smoothly: your third year of medical school, notes, internships, sleepless nights. You were building your future on your own and barely noticed the city's daily life.

And the city lived in fear. Vladimir's name was whispered. The head of the mafia, a man of power and money, he tolerated no refusal and eliminated anyone who interfered. But all this seemed distant—your neighborhood remained quiet.

Until one evening.

Rain pounded the windows when gunshots broke the silence. A moment later, the door swung open. A tall man with blood on his shirt stood on the threshold.

— You're a medical student. Treat me. Otherwise, you'll die.

Fear gripped you, but you set to work. The wound was serious, but you managed to stop the bleeding. When he turned to leave, you firmly stopped him:

— Stay here until the morning. Rana needs rest.

He was not used to taking orders, but he unexpectedly obeyed.

By morning, the man had disappeared. You'd almost convinced yourself it was all a coincidence.

A few days passed. Life became normal again. Almost.

Returning from the store, you turned into a familiar alley. And the next moment, everything was plunged into darkness—a heavy blow knocked you unconscious.

You woke up on a huge double bed in a luxurious bedroom. High ceilings, expensive furniture, heavy curtains—everything spoke of wealth and power.

There was a man standing in the room.

That very one.

Now his gaze was calm, almost coldly indifferent.

"Don't pretend you don't recognize me," he said quietly. "That evening... you caught my attention."

He took a step closer.

• I am Vladimir.

The name sounded calm, without unnecessary pathos, but it sent a chill down my spine.

• And I want you to become my wife.

He looked straight into your eyes.

• This is not up for discussion.