Arsen Zverev Valerievich sat at the head of the long black table in his office. The table was made of polished stone, shining like glass under the warm lights. Behind him, tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showing the wide city below. Skyscrapers, busy streets, and bright signs made the skyline look alive even in the late evening. This view belonged to him. The city itself felt like it was at his feet.

At only twenty-one years old, Arsen had already built the kind of reputation men twice his age dreamed of. He was a genius in business, a natural leader in sports, and a man whose face and figure could have belonged to a model. Power, wealth, respect—he had it all. People whispered about him in boardrooms, admired him in secret, and feared to disappoint him.

But they also called him cold.

Some said his eyes, gray as steel, were unreadable. Others said his voice was sharp and heavy, carrying no warmth. His staff did not dare to approach him unless they had to. To many, Arsen was like a fortress—strong, tall, impossible to break.

Yet, inside that fortress was a secret. Something no one expected.

Behind his strict, mature face, Arsen’s heart had been stolen quietly by someone who didn’t belong in his world of power and shadows.

Her name was Hillary Seraphina.

Hillary was not a famous woman from society events. She was not someone with influence or a family name that demanded respect. She was a young woman with simple dreams, quiet grace, and a light that made her different from the people Arsen was used to meeting.

He had first seen her at a corporate dinner months ago. He had not even planned to attend, but duty required his presence. It was supposed to be another dull evening, another room filled with people chasing his approval.

And then he saw her.

She had been talking with her best friend, smiling softly, her laughter like a gentle sound that cut through the heavy conversations around him. Hillary wore a modest cream dress, her long brown hair falling neatly over her shoulders. She was not decorated with diamonds or silk like the women trying to catch his eye. She was simple. Pure.

And Arsen noticed her.

From the moment their eyes met across the room, he could not forget her. She had not looked at him with fear or blind admiration. She had not rushed to impress him like others did. Instead, her gaze was curious, quiet, and honest. For a man who lived in a world full of masks, that one honest glance was enough to shake him.

Days passed, then weeks, but her name stayed with him. Hillary Seraphina.

He thought of her at night when the city outside his window was quiet. He thought of her during his training sessions at the gym, when sweat ran down his skin but his mind was not on the weights, but on her. He thought of her when women tried to catch his attention at parties, and he found them empty compared to her simple smile.

The genius strategist, the man feared for his cold logic, was trapped by a single memory.

And he liked it.

Arsen leaned back in his chair, staring at the lights of the city. His fingers tapped lightly together, his sharp mind already calculating paths that might bring her into his world again.

“Sir,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was his assistant, nervous as always when speaking to him. “The quarterly report from Seraphina Textiles has arrived.”

Arsen’s eyes flicked toward him. The name caught his attention immediately. Seraphina Textiles.

Of all the companies his empire partnered with, it had to be hers. The very company Hillary worked for.

Arsen’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles. It was not warm, but it was certain. Perhaps it was fate. Or perhaps it was simply the world bending, as it often did, to his will.

“Prepare a visit,” he said calmly, his deep voice carrying the weight of command. “I want to see their operations myself.”

“Yes, Mr. Valerievich.”

When the assistant left, silence returned. Arsen stood and walked toward the wide glass windows. His reflection stared back at him—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp black suit. Every inch of him looked untouchable. But beneath that cold reflection, his mind burned with one thought.

He whispered her name as if it were a vow only he could hear.

“Hillary.”

She would not escape him.

He would see her again, and when he did, he would make sure she could no longer ignore the gravity that pulled her into his world.

Because when Arsen Zverev Valerievich wanted something, he did not let it go.

And now, he wanted her.

The sound of polished shoes echoed across the factory floor as Arsen Zverev Valerievich walked through the main hall of Seraphina Textiles. Workers glanced up nervously, then quickly bent back to their tasks. His presence was impossible to ignore—tall, sharp, and commanding in his black suit.

Managers surrounded him, spilling numbers and reports, but Arsen barely listened. His cold eyes searched the room, looking for only one thing.

And then, he saw her.

At the far end, standing by a table of folded garments, was Hillary Seraphina. Her blouse and skirt were simple, her chestnut hair tied neatly back, but to Arsen, she shone brighter than anyone else there. She wasn’t trying to impress. She wasn’t trying at all. Yet, he couldn’t look away.

He slowed his steps, ignoring the managers’ chatter. Hillary was pointing out details on fabric samples, her voice calm and certain. Even in such an ordinary moment, there was something graceful about her.

“Mr. Valerievich?” a manager asked, holding up a report.

“Later,” Arsen replied coldly, eyes still locked on Hillary.

At last, she turned. Their eyes met across the room. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Hillary’s lips parted slightly in surprise before she gave him a polite, cautious smile. She bowed her head lightly in respect.

That small gesture struck him more deeply than he expected. No fear, no false charm—just quiet acknowledgment.

Arsen walked toward her, each step measured. Hillary straightened, her hands folding in front of her, unsure what to expect. When he stopped before her, the air felt heavy, as if the whole room was holding its breath.

“Your name,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then answered, “Hillary Seraphina.”

Arsen repeated it under his breath, testing it. “Hillary.” The way he spoke it made her feel as though her name already belonged to him.

“You work here?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly. “I handle quality checks and team coordination.”

He studied her silently, his piercing gaze making her shift under the weight of it. Then, to her surprise, he said, “You do it well.”

Hillary blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. “Thank you, sir,” she replied carefully.

Silence stretched between them, but neither looked away. Around them, the workers pretended to stay busy, though it was clear everyone was listening.

Arsen leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “Do you remember me?”

Hillary’s chest tightened. She did remember. That night at the corporate dinner, when his gaze had found hers, she had quickly looked away, pretending not to notice. She never imagined he had noticed her in return.

“I… yes,” she admitted softly.

The faintest curve touched Arsen’s lips—a smile, but one that held no warmth. Only satisfaction.

“Good,” he murmured.

A manager hurried forward again, desperate to regain Arsen’s attention. “Mr. Valerievich, if you’d like—”

“Later,” Arsen cut him off coldly, never breaking eye contact with Hillary.

It was clear now: he hadn’t come here for numbers or fabrics. He had come here for her.

And Hillary, under the weight of his gaze, felt it in her bones.