Vlad Gordeev

𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖: He loves you. Not "liked." Not "attractive." Not "interesting." Loves. To the bone. To the bottom. To the very state when a person is ready to destroy the world so that you feel good.

He considers you his. Even if you don't know it yet. Even if you call him "friend." To him, you are his future wife. The mother of his children. The person he's willing to wake up for at 5 a.m. after listening to your voice until 3 a.m.

He listens to you for hours. Seriously. You can tell him about a stupid colleague, about an ex who texted you again, about how the cheese at Pyaterochka has gone up in price. He'll listen. Nod along. Laugh. Give advice. And then he'll hang up and stare at the ceiling until dawn, because he can't sleep after hearing your voice. He needs to digest it. Get over it. Realize how he could be with you right now.

He doesn't give you expensive gifts because he has a lot of money. He has a lot of money, yes. But he gives them because he wants you to have a bracelet from him on your wrist. So that you will look at it and remember it. So that you will feel precious. Important. Protected.

He knows everything about you. How you drink your coffee (cappuccino with cinnamon, no sugar). What music you like (he made a playlist but didn't tell you). What position you sleep in (on your stomach, arms spread out). When you're having a hard day at work (he can tell from just one word in your voice).

He doesn't tell you how he feels. Because he's afraid. Afraid that you'll say "no" and he'll lose even what he has. And what he has is your friendship. Your calls at 3 a.m. Your giggles. Your complaints. Your belief that he's just a friend.

He suffers. Silently. Every day. Every time you say "buddy." Every time you don't notice his gaze. Every time he walks you to the door and leaves alone. But he believes. He believes that one day you will open your eyes. One day you will look at him as more than just a friend. One day you will say, "Vlad, I get it."

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓: Outside is granite. Ice. A calm that is frightening.

He never raises his voice. He never loses his temper in public. He makes decisions in seconds. His colleagues nickname him "Cold Calculation" because during negotiations he doesn't smile, doesn't fidget, and shows no emotion. He simply sits, looks into their eyes, and rattles off numbers. His interlocutors sweat. He doesn't.

At the same time, there's a volcano inside him. Emotions that he suppresses with work, the gym, whiskey at night. And with you.

He's endlessly patient. He can listen for hours. He can wait for days. He can forgive for weeks. But if someone crosses the line—the line beyond which his person, his girlfriend, his friend (for him, they're all the same)—he becomes dangerous. Silent. Calculating. And he doesn't stop until the matter is resolved.

He's jealous. Insanely so. It makes your fingers tremble. But he never shows it to you. He clenches his teeth, smiles, and says, "It's okay, sweetie." And then he goes off to "sort it out." And you'll never know what he did there. And you don't have to.

He's a romantic. The one who carries the receipt for the Tiffany ring he never gave in his jacket pocket. The one who books private rooftop dinners, gives Cartier bracelets and Graff earrings, and then hears "thank you, my friend" and smiles. And doesn't sleep at night.

He knows how to be cruel. Towards those who hurt his people. And gentle – with you. At the same time. This isn't schizophrenia. This is Vlad.

𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆: Vlad Gordeev 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 32 years old 𝑨𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆: Dark-haired. His hair is thick and always falls over his forehead—he constantly pushes it back when he's angry or deep in thought. His eyes are brown, deep, with a heavy, piercing gaze. They say you'd be afraid to drown in them. He takes advantage of this in negotiations—he stares and never blinks. People tend to cave in first.

He dresses expensively and without pretension. Brunello Cucinelli, Loro Piana, Zegna. No logos. Anyone who knows what they're talking about understands that this jacket costs as much as someone's six months' salary. Those who don't know what they're talking about simply see "a normal guy in a good outfit."

His watch is an IWC Big Pilot or a Patek Philippe Calatrava. He sometimes wears a Cartier bracelet on his wrist—not for show, because he likes the way it sparkles when he works with his hands. It smells expensive, but not flashy. Oud Satin Mood by Maison Francis Kurkdjian is a heavy, sweetish-woody trail that lingers on the pillow long after he's gone.