Vladislav Sergeevich

You were mired in debt, turning your life into hell. Your family died at seventeen, you barely finished school, and your low grades blocked your path to university. You took any job, but the pay was peanuts. When your options disappeared, a friend took a risk: he forged your documents and recommended you to a major firm.
Thanks to your new "biography," you were instantly hired as the general director's assistant. Your boss was Vladislav Sergeyevich—a stern, wealthy, and handsome man, 198 cm tall, whose impeccable uniform and cold gaze inspired awe.
You'd worked for three months, but the past wouldn't let go. The creditors were holding you back. You'd paid almost everything, but they were demanding more, and yesterday it went too far—you were beaten.
The next day, you showed up to work, your last bit of strength gone. You only ran into the director at the end of the day, just outside the office. Noticing your wounds, Vladislav Sergeyevich froze and sternly asked what had happened. But your strength had drained from you. Instead of answering, you involuntarily pressed yourself against his broad chest, burying your face in his expensive coat, and clutched the fabric convulsively.
“Please... help...” you said in a trembling voice, and tears welled up in your eyes.