Ad copy

"𝗦𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗲, 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗳#𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗿." The sound of my palm on his face cracks through the marble elevator, sharp enough to make me wince. The drunk staggers back but his smirk refuses to budge. "𝗙𝗲𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘆. 𝗜 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗺—" The elevator chimes. Penthouse level. And then—Anatoly Ovechkin walks in. "𝗙*. 𝗠𝗲. 𝗦𝗶𝗱𝗲𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀."** I straighten my blazer with hands that are absolutely not steady. "𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝘁. 𝗦𝗵𝘂𝘁 𝘂𝗽, 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆." He doesn’t just step into the elevator—he owns it. Six feet four of lethal sophistication wrapped in tailored Armani. Shock floods me like I’ve downed three shots of espresso. My very Russian, very terrifying boss never uses the staff elevator. The security footage. Was he watching? Anatoly has aged like fine wine left to ferment into something dangerously intoxicating. Dark hair, ruthlessly styled, threaded with silver at the temples like the universe just had to flex. Eyes like winter ice forged into blades. A jawline that could split granite, sharpened by time and trimmed with perfectly disciplined scruff. It's almost unfair. Every inch of him screams danger and discipline, wrapped in a suit that probably costs more than my annual salary. And of course, I’ve spent two years memorizing everything about him—all for the sole purpose of keeping off his radar. Apparently I suck at that. Those predator-cold eyes sweep the scene with lethal precision. Mirrored walls reflect infinite versions of this disaster playing out in perfect, horrifying clarity. My flushed face. The drunk swaying with entitlement. The way I stand straighter now, shoulders back in defiance that surprises even me. "𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗺?" The word cuts through the space like a blade, low and lethal—wrapped in that Russian accent that sounds like it could bend laws of physics and sanity alike. Good grief, even his voice is a weapon. The drunk sobers so fast I almost applaud. It’s the fastest I've ever seen someone go from entitled jacka** to terrified church mouse. He knows exactly whose empire he just stumbled into. "𝗡𝗼 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗺, 𝗠𝗿. 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗸𝗶𝗻. 𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆—" "𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂." My lungs forget how to lung. Because now those frostbitten eyes are aimed at me. "𝗧𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗼𝗿." My name on his lips shouldn't sound like foreplay. And yet… here we are. Low, deliberate, like he's been practicing it in the dark, rolling it around his tongue like expensive brandy before finally letting me hear what it sounds like when he owns it. "𝗙* 𝗺𝗲."** I'm unraveling. He’s not just hot—he’s the brand of lethal that ruins women for lesser men. Heat pools low in my belly, a slow, traitorous ache I have no business feeling. "𝗚𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗴𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿, 𝗧𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗼𝗿." "𝗜’𝗺 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲." I lie. His jaw hardens, diamond-cut. He steps closer, close enough that his cologne wraps around me like smoke: dark woods, leather, and something dangerous enough to make my knees threaten mutiny. His hand brushes the control panel with casual precision. He stops the elevator with one long finger, like trapping us is nothing more than fluffing a pillow. The elevator jerks to a stop. Emergency halt. My world tilts, and I'm not sure if it's the elevator or the way he's looking at me. Perfect. Now I'm trapped in a mirrored box with my boss who looks like he was carved from marble by angels with dirty minds, and I probably have mascara under my eyes like a deranged raccoon. "𝗗𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻?" The question hangs sharp and thin, loaded with the promise of violence. And somehow that level of protective fury is doing things to my body it really shouldn’t. The drunk shifts nervously, trapped in a mirrored box with a man who built a billion-dollar empire by crushing anyone foolish enough to cross him. Poor guy. I almost feel sorry for him. I debate lying. Then don’t. "𝗬𝗲𝘀." The drunk swallows. Hard. Something lethal awakens in Anatoly’s expression—a glimpse of the predator beneath the expensive suit that should terrify me but instead sends a dark thrill racing down my spine. I should be running. Normal people would be running. Instead, I'm standing here like an idiot thinking about how his angry face is somehow even hotter than his regular face. His knuckles crack, echoing like bones in a graveyard. "𝗧𝘄𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗿𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀," he tells the drunk, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow feels more threatening than any shout. "𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲." The drunk pales to the color of old cheese. "𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗸, 𝗜 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻—" "𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹." Anatoly doesn't even blink. "𝗥𝘂𝗻." The man scrambles for the emergency exit like his rear is on fire, disappearing into the stairwell with a crash of metal that reverberates through the shaft. And now? It’s just us. This is fine. Everything is fine. The silence breathes differently. Charged. Thick. The air thrums with electricity that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. My pulse hammers against my throat. "𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗶𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺." His voice is smooth, but his eyes are on fire. He restarts the elevator with casual precision, but those pale eyes never leave my face. I lift my chin, channeling dignity I learned from two years of faking confidence in boardrooms full of men who underestimated me. "𝗛𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝘁. 𝗜 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗳𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵. 𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲." "𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱." "𝗔 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁." His gaze runs over me, unapologetic, his voice a growl dipped in velvet. "𝗪𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱." A laugh bubbles up—part hysteria, part disbelief, wholly inappropriate. "𝗔 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝗲? 𝗠𝗿. 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗸𝗶𝗻, 𝘄𝗲'𝘃𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗳𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲." "𝗜 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘀... 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗽 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗺𝗲." "𝗬𝗼𝘂... 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁?" "𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗹𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗲... 𝗪𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗜 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘄." "𝗜'𝘃𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗯𝘂𝗱𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘆𝘀𝗲𝘀... 𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘁, 𝗧𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗼𝗿. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮." The elevator dings. My floor. But he doesn't step away. He's a wall of heat and power, so close I can feel his presence like electricity against my skin. "𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴." "𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗱." His eyes darken to storm clouds. "𝗡𝗼. 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗱." His jaw clenches like he's fighting every instinct he has. He finally looks away. "𝗚𝗼 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝗧𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗼𝗿." Find out what happens in Under His Control https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FMFY7H9D Available on Kindle Unlimited ★★★★★ "Their chemistry is fire."-- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "Must read story filled with family drama, betrayal, anxiety, violence and steamy encounters, combined together with a few twists, that kept me at the edge of my seat and on tenterhooks." -- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "You might want to make sure to double check that you are buckled up." -- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "Another amazing mafia story with all the good and bad and spicy you could want in a neat little package." -- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "What starts as a marriage of convenience blossoms into something more." -- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "Engaging, and gripping story of two people who needed something from the other and found love in the process." -- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "The ending was not what I was expecting. Definitely worth the read. Just remember- not everything is as it seems." -- Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "This was every curvy girl fantasy romance." -- Goodreads Review