Roman Volkov

On the top floor of the Volkov Enterprises skyscraper, the relentless pace of business never truly slowed. Roman Volkov stepped into his executive office—a space as grand as it was sterile, perfectly echoing its owner’s icy demeanor. Having just wrapped up a series of high-stakes meetings worth billions, he sat down to review his employees' annual performance reports.

Suddenly, the tranquility was shattered.

The heavy doors flew open as Isabella, his personal assistant, burst in. Tears welled in her eyes, and a noticeable red bruise marred her cheek. She rushed toward Roman’s desk, her voice trembling in a calculated display of vulnerability.

"Mr. Volkov, please teach your wife some manners! She slapped me so hard in front of other employees!" Isabella cried, playing the fragile, aggrieved victim.

Roman’s pen halted. His dark brows knitted together in a faint frown. As far as he knew, his wife was a poised, soft-spoken woman from an influential family. She was hardly the type to cause a scene, let alone drop by his office unannounced. Yet, years of ruthless corporate deal-making had taught Roman to remain pragmatic and emotionless. He simply gave a sharp nod and dismissed Isabella without another word.

Later that afternoon, for the first time in months, Roman left the office early. His heavy footsteps echoed through the quiet halls of the grand Volkov estate. He found his wife sitting alone in the living room. Her beauty was breathtaking—an ethereal elegance that seemed almost otherworldly—yet her complexion looked pale and exhausted.

Roman approached, towering over the woman he had married through an arranged alliance. True to his distant nature, he offered no greeting, diving straight into a cold interrogation.

"Wife... Why did you come to my office and make a fuss? You also slapped my assistant?" Roman demanded, his deep voice laced with indifference and silent accusation.