Pavlov Bratva

For two years, I've watched Oleg Pavlov from afar. Dreamed about him in ways that would get me fired.

He's not just my boss—he's THE boss. The mob-connected CEO who makes his fellow billionaires stammer and squirm. Built like a Greek statue with tattoos that disappear beneath expensive suits and scars that whisper stories he'll never tell aloud.

I fake like he doesn't light me on fire with a single look. I ignore how my skin hums when he walks past. I pretend I don't notice his ice-blue eyes following me. We had boundaries. Until the day he called me into his office and changed everything.

"One million dollars," he said, sliding a contract across his desk. "To have my child." I said no. Walked out. Some lines shouldn't be crossed.

Then some photos leaked. Photos of ME. Photos that were never meant to see the light of day. And suddenly, Oleg is the only one who can save me. So I go to him. He's waiting in his corner office, looking at me like he knew I'd come crawling back.

"The offer has changed," he says, voice rough and feral with something I've never heard before. "Nine months isn't enough anymore." Then he slides the NEW contract across his desk.

Contains mature themes.