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I hate it when my father is right.

Marat Volkov might have been the face of Volkov Industries for decades— handsome as the Devil, charismatic, powerful, terrifying in boardrooms —but at the end of the day, he’s always just been Dad to me.

And God help me, he’s usually right.

Especially when it comes to men.

Especially when it comes to Balor Cruz.

He warned me. Not in so many words—he's too respectful for that—but I saw it in the way his jaw clenched when Balor first walked into a family dinner.

In the quiet, assessing looks he gave me when I talked about him.

And later, when things between us started heating up and cooling down with whiplash-level force, my dad said it clearly:

“Don’t lose yourself, moya lyubov. No man is worth breaking yourself for.”

But I already had.

Not in some dramatic, fall-to-my-knees kind of way.

But in small, insidious ones.

In the way I waited for Balor to look at me when I walked into a room.

In the way I picked out clothes that I hoped would make him blink.

In the way my heart twisted into a knot every time he showed up at Volkov Towers with that unreadable expression and those goddamn mismatched eyes that looked through me like I was something fragile and dangerous all at once.

And then came the rejection.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even angry.

Just a shift.

A pulling away.

The sudden drop in heat when I expected fire.

And I spiraled.

Like a damn cliché, I spiraled.

So when Henry Bartleby— literal human toad and sleaziest agent in the tri-state area —offered me a spot in El Tigre’s music video? I said yes.

I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t have.

I’d said no to that oily bastard a dozen times over the years, ever since he tried to sign me at sixteen like I was some shiny new toy he could parade around.

But this time?

This time, I was angry.

I was hurt.

I was trying to prove— to him, to myself, to the world —that I wasn’t waiting around for Balor Cruz to decide if I was worthy of his time.

So I said yes.

To the music video.

To the glam.

To the strategically lit scenes that put me in all the headlines again.

It was supposed to be harmless.

A vanity gig.

A flashy distraction.

But now?

Now I’m neck-deep in this PR nightmare, and I’ve got my family, the media, and probably Balor himself looking at me like I just stepped off a ledge in six-inch heels and a sequined bodysuit.

God, what was I thinking?

I should’ve smiled and said no.

Should’ve stayed above it all.

Should’ve been smart.

But the truth is—I’m not always smart when it comes to my heart.

Because no matter how carefully I play the part of Lucy Volkov— heiress, fashion darling, socialite turned charity mistress —I’m still a girl who wants someone to look at her like she matters.

And Balor Cruz?

Well, I thought he looked at me like I mattered more than the world.

But I was wrong. Turns out, he didn’t.

So yeah.

Maybe I’m impulsive.

Maybe I’m a little shallow.

Maybe I make mistakes.

But I’m not heartless. No matter what Instagram or TikTok says about me.

I have feelings.

Big, messy, hopeless, heart-wrenching feelings.

The kind that make you say yes when you mean no.

The kind that make you want to tear your heart out just so it’ll shut up for a while.

And now, I’m stuck trying to clean up the wreckage of that decision, praying it’s not too late to get my dignity back, and praying even harder that it’s not too late for me to just be me— plain old Lucy Volkov —again.

God, I just want someone to see me. Really see me.

Because behind the glitz, the glam, the strategic don’t care smirk—I do want that.

I care.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

To make matters worse?

I think I care about him .

Not El Tigre .

I mean, I’m a fan of his music. And getting that call to be his muse, well, it was flattering.

But when I say I care about him, I’m talking about the other him .

Balor Cruz.

Not El Tigre .

I mean, Rico Véliz is smooth, talented, and absurdly attractive in that cocky, gold-chain-wearing way that makes your brain stop working.

He has stage presence.

Swagger.

A voice like sin and smoke.

I first met him at some gala my father dragged me to.

He was charming, a little outrageous, and surprisingly respectful. We shared one dance, one conversation. I didn’t think anything of it.

Six weeks later, his manager, Daniel Matheson, called me out of the blue. He said Rico wrote a song about me.

Fuego Lento . Slow Fire .

He told me I inspired it.

That Rico hasn’t stopped thinking about that night we met.

That he only wants me in the video.

The flattery?

It hit at the exact right— or wrong, depending how you look at it —moment.

Fresh off Balor’s cold shoulder, raw with rejection, I said yes.

The song is sexy, addictive, and dripping in praise.

It paints me like a goddess who men are desperate to chase, even through flames.

Filming the video was surreal.

Rico— El Tigre —was the picture of professionalism.

Polite, on-time, no creepy vibes.

He even handled my gentle but firm “no thank you” to anything off-camera with surprising grace.

And then the video dropped.

It exploded.

Viral overnight.

Trending on every platform.

The song is still climbing charts in three countries.

And suddenly, I’m the one who is viral.

Again.

I’m the face, the body, the girl on everyone’s feed.

Which, honestly, should be nice for other curvy girlies out there.

It’s always good to promote body positivity and to be seen in a semi-positive light.

Usually, I try to do some good for Volkov Industries with these things.

But this time, I’m not seen as Lucy Volkov. Not as an heiress or businesswoman. Or the daughter of one of the most powerful businessmen in the world.

But as her .

The girl from the El Tigre video.

Little Devil. The real Diablita.

Sure, I’ve done plus-size modeling before— runway, editorials, the occasional brand campaign.

And where I’ve always been proud to represent curvy girls with elegance, confidence, and boundaries —this video is something else entirely.

It’s sexy. Steamy. Provocative.

It brings the kind of attention this video is bringing me? Well, it isn’t about representation.

It’s not about empowerment.

It’s obsession.

It’s comments that make my skin crawl.

Messages in my DMs that make me lock my doors twice.

What started as an impulsive “screw you” to the man I wanted most has turned into a spotlight I can’t seem to step out of.

And now I have this creeping feeling that someone is watching me.

That this thing— the video, the fame, the flirty headlines —isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

It started with notes. DMs. Emails. Innocent at first.

Just expressions of thanks and praise for my beauty.

Don’t think I’m a bitch now— but really? It starts as run-of-the-mill stuff.

Then, I get packages.

Dead flowers. Chewed up gum. Containers of liquid— I don’t know what.

I just toss them out. All of them.

And everything that comes after, I don’t even accept.

I have my doorman turn them away.

Then I notice something off in my apartment.

Towels in the wrong place.

Clothes missing.

Milk that’s lower than when I left it.

And for the first time in my life, I’m afraid.

Really afraid.