WHEN HE BOUGHT THE RESTAURANT JUST TO WATCH MARCUS KNEEL

The champagne fizzed softly against my tongue, the bubbles providing a sharp, welcome contrast to the bitter numbness I had felt all evening.

I set the crystal glass down slowly, looking across the candlelit table at the man who had effortlessly hijacked my miserable birthday and turned it into something out of a surreal film.

“His name is Marcus,” I finally admitted, feeling a strange sense of liberation in saying it out loud to a complete stranger. “We were together for 3 years. Three years of apartment hunting, budgeting, listening to him talk about his career ambitions while mine were put on hold to support us.”

Viktor listened in absolute silence.

He didn't offer cheap platitudes or fake sympathy.

Instead, his dark eyes burned with a cold, analytical fury that made me realize Marcus had no idea what kind of storm he had accidentally walked into.

“And today, instead of celebrating, he dumped me via a restaurant hostess,” I continued, my voice dipping low. “Because he met someone who ‘matches his ambition.’ Whatever that code word means.”

“Ambition,” Viktor repeated, tasting the word like a bad wine. “A convenient excuse used by men who lack loyalty and spine. He traded a loyal woman for a temporary shiny object. He will regret that mistake before this week is over.”

“Please,” I sighed, shaking my head. “Don’t do anything to him. I just... I want to forget he exists. I want to move on.”

“You will move on,” Viktor said, leaning forward. “Starting tonight, your life looks different. But accountability is important in my world, Sarah. Actions have consequences.”

Before I could question what kind of consequences Viktor had in mind, a procession of waiters arrived, serving an exquisite five-course Italian dinner that made my meager lunch of stale office crackers feel like a distant nightmare.

As we ate, Viktor steered the conversation away from Marcus, asking about my life, my job processing insurance claims, my art history books collecting dust on my shelves, and the small apartment I shared with a dying houseplant.

He listened with genuine focus, remembering every small detail I shared.

For a man surrounded by brutal power and silent enforcers, he possessed an uncanny ability to make me feel completely seen.

“You process claims for corporate insurance,” Viktor noted thoughtfully as we reached the dessert course—a delicate raspberry tart decorated with spun sugar. “You spend your days cleaning up other people’s disasters.”

“Someone has to do it,” I smiled faintly. “Though most days, it feels like I’m just drowning in paperwork while the people at the top collect the checks.”

“That ends tomorrow,” Viktor said quietly.

I stopped mid-bite. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Viktor said, setting his napkin down on the table, “you are resigning from that miserable job in the morning. I have an opening for someone with your exact organizational skills. Better pay, better security, and an office with a window that actually opens.”

“Viktor, I can’t just quit my job because a dangerous mob boss—or whatever you are—offered me a position over birthday champagne!”

A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his throat.

“Who told you I was a mob boss?”

“It’s written all over you,” I retorted, suddenly emboldened by the wine and the surreal magic of the night. “The custom suit, the silent guards, the way the gallery owner practically wet herself when she saw you. People don't look at regular businessmen that way.”

Viktor smiled, a genuine, dazzling expression that softened his sharp features entirely.

“Fair enough,” he conceded softly. “Let’s call me a businessman with unconventional methods of dispute resolution.”

Just then, my phone buzzed violently against the table.

I looked down.

A text message from an unknown number.