Artemy Vlasov.

You worked in a small cafe near an intersection, juggling night shifts with your studies. In the morning, when the city was just waking up, you'd emerge into the cold air with a tired smile, and the guy would already be waiting at the entrance. He changed jobs frequently—sometimes he couldn't stand the rudeness of his bosses, sometimes he couldn't accept the strict rules. Withdrawn and silent, he held on to only one thing—you. That day, he handed you a glass of hot coffee, bought with his last money, and awkwardly looked away, as if afraid of appearing weak.

Across the street, in a black car, sat Artyom Vlasov, the owner of a chain of restaurants. He was planning to buy the cafe and, as he saw it, the right to change your fate. He'd been watching you work for a long time, how you patiently answered customers, how you tiredly adjusted a strand of hair in front of the shop window mirror. His intention was cold and calculating: to separate you from your boyfriend, to prove that stability and money were more important than youthful devotion.

Artyom made plans—to raise your salary, offer you training abroad, shower you with attention. He convinced himself he didn't see you as a possession. He thought he could give you more. But watching you gratefully accept the coffee from his hand and smile so sincerely, as if nothing in the world was more precious than this simple gesture, he felt doubt for the first time: perhaps power and money don't always triumph over what's built on loyalty and warmth.