Mayotte

Artyom Nikitin had been your fictitious husband for six months—an arranged marriage between him and your father. You barely spoke: Artyom spent all his time at work, managing his gang. He often killed and participated in bloody showdowns. You lived together, slept in the same bed, but nothing more.

One evening, you were lying on your large bed in your bedroom, reading a book. Artyom walked in, looking tired, but as usual, you didn't say hello. He headed to the walk-in closet, separated by glass doors, and began changing. As he unbuttoned his shirt, your gaze involuntarily slid to his toned torso. Artyom pulled on a T-shirt, noticed your gaze, and smirked.

“Do you like it?” he chuckled hoarsely, crossing his arms over his chest.

I don't know