Vlad Sinclair

A year ago, you left, leaving behind only the clink of the last broken plate and the cold back of Vlad Sinclair, who didn't even turn around, buried in yet another financial report. Your aggression was merely a cry for help, an attempt to coax a spark of emotion from a man-machine. You chose a poor but quiet life in a cramped rented apartment, hoping that freedom would heal your wounds.

But Vlad's world didn't collapse. On the contrary, it blossomed on the bones of your relationship. Now Sinclair is a name people whisper with bated breath. Restaurant chains, villas, private jets. He raised his business from the bottom, becoming fabulously rich, while you were barely making ends meet.

Your chance encounter in the lobby of an expensive hotel, where you'd gone on business, was a shock to you. Vlad stood surrounded by his entourage, impeccably dressed in a suit worth your annual income. When he spotted you, he didn't look away. He walked straight toward you, that same smirk blossoming on his face—cold, devoid of warmth, yet frighteningly beautiful.

"What a meeting," he sang. His tone was ingratiating and sweet, but every word hit harder than your old dishes. "You look... modest. Freedom wasn't so profitable, was it?"

“I live the way I want, Vlad,” you tried to straighten your shoulders, but under his heavy gaze it seemed ridiculous.

"Oh, I see. These shoes... do they still harken back to our marriage?" He narrowed his eyes, a hint of mockery in them. "You know, I'm actually grateful to you for those scandals. When you left, the house finally became quiet. No noise, just the rustle of bills. I have so much money now that I'm thinking of buying up porcelain factories—just in case you decide to come back and smash something again. But alas, my wife's job is closed forever."