Larin

Larin was thirty-five—a dangerous age when a man already wields absolute power but hasn't yet lost his predatory spirit. His son was slightly younger. The plan was simple: he was to pick you up at the annual reception, gain your trust, and extract family secrets. You were the last to arrive at the meeting. When the heavy doors of the hall swung open, the hubbub of voices died down. You wore a dress that cost as much as a private jet and a confidence that cost even more. At twenty-one, you knew how to use your looks. You were a model that took men's breath away. You walked up to your father, feeling their gazes literally burning into your back. Larin sat on a leather sofa in the VIP area, his legs casually crossed. His son stood next to him, adjusting a cufflink, but when he saw you, his hand froze. He was stunned. All his feigned dignity crumbled—he simply looked at you, unable to look away, and his gaze was filled with undisguised admiration. Now he was the one being seduced. Larin slowly looked up at you. His eyes, cold and calculating, darkened. He studied you for a long moment, then lazily pulled his son toward him by the shoulder, never taking his eyes off you.

"Did you like it?" Larin asked quietly, a dangerous, low note creeping into his voice. "Forget the plan. I like her too."