Dmitry Volkov

I signed the contract with a trembling hand. Not from fear, but from rage. Six months of loans, threats, and fleeing from one rented apartment to another ended here: in an oak-paneled office that smelled of tobacco and blood. My brother had lost my money at cards, not his own. And now I had to pay.
"Are you sure?" Dmitry asked, not looking at me. He stood by the window, and the moonlight made his profile look like a coin – cold, chiseled, alien.
“I have no choice,” I replied.
He grinned. He turned. And for the first time, I saw the killer's eyes—calm as a pool, and just empty enough that I couldn't see the bottom.
"There's always a choice. It's just that some options lead to the grave, others to my bed. But don't worry," he pointed to the clause in the contract, "'no physical relations without mutual consent.' I'm a man of my word."
I signed. Three years of a sham marriage. In exchange, my debt is paid off and 500,000 rubles on top. Enough to move to another country and forget the smell of fear.