Page 42 of Twisted Addiction

That detail unsettled me.

Why her?

Why keep one person and no one else?

Elena had greeted me that morning with her usual quiet smile—poised, efficient, eyes as unreadable as Dmitri’s. She handed me the new schedules and a clipboard of inventory lists, her tone crisp and professional.

I didn’t ask questions—not yet—but the thought lingered like a splinter.

The kitchen was alive with movement when I stepped in.

Chefs in immaculate white jackets moved like clockwork—dicing, searing, plating—every motion sharp and deliberate.

The clang of pots, the hiss of pans, the hum of industrial vents created a kind of organized chaos. Garlic and rosemary perfumed the air, undercut by the metallic tang of steel and the faint burn of espresso.

“Temperature’s off again on the risotto line,” one of the sous-chefs barked, frustration cutting through the din.

“Fix it before service,” I said automatically, my voice firm though my heart hadn’t caught up to the role I was playing.

My heels clicked against the tiled floor as I moved through the kitchen, pretending confidence I didn’t fully feel.

The staff followed me with the kind of cautious politeness that said they knew who signed their paychecks—and feared who really did.

Still, there was a strange satisfaction in it. I had a purpose again. A role that wasn’t just “wife.”

Yet beneath the hum of the restaurant, I could feel him everywhere—Dmitri’s presence woven into every decision, every polished surface. The security cameras in every hallway. The guards stationed discreetly outside. The staff who seemed too disciplined.

Freedom, but on a leash.

I caught sight of myself in the steel refrigerator door—a woman in a black silk blouse and pencil skirt, hair swept up,lips painted in quiet defiance. I almost believed the illusion of control.

Almost.

“Madam,” Elena’s voice cut through the kitchen noise, soft but certain. “There’s someone waiting in your office. Says you requested a meeting.”

“I didn’t schedule anyone,” I said, frowning.

Her lips pressed together, eyes darting briefly toward the security camera above the door. “Then perhaps he did.”

A chill crept down my spine.

I adjusted my blouse, squared my shoulders, and started toward the office—each step echoing through the gleaming hallway like a countdown.

Whoever waited for me there wasn’t here for a reservation.

When I reached the doorway, I stopped cold.

A man stood there, tall and golden-haired, his tailored navy suit hugging a body built for sin and scandal.

His presence filled the room before he even spoke—entitled, effortless, magnetic in that arrogant way men born into power often were. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that had probably gotten him out of more trouble than he deserved.

My pulse quickened—not from attraction, but from the instinctive recognition of trouble.

His cufflinks gleamed under the soft office light—each engraved with the Morozov family crest.

So this was him.

Damian Morozov.