Chapter 11
603 Words
Elinya’s POV
The morning began like any other.
I woke before the alarm, the pale Russian dawn slipping through the thin curtains of my dorm room. The city outside was quiet, wrapped in a cold calm that had slowly become familiar to me. I followed my usual routine—washed up, tied my hair neatly, ate a simple breakfast without really tasting it. Everything felt… normal. Almost too normal.
As if the world hadn’t shifted beneath my feet.
By the time I reached the hospital, the familiar scent of disinfectant and quiet urgency settled my nerves. I checked on patients, reviewed charts, exchanged brief conversations with nurses. My hands were steady. My voice calm. Medicine had always been my anchor.
Then the whispers started.
At first, they were low. Careful. Nurses leaning closer to each other, doctors pausing mid-conversation. I caught fragments while passing through the corridor.
“He’s coming today…” “They said he arrived in the city last night.” “No one knows why he’s here.”
I slowed my steps.
This time, the rumors weren’t about Igor.
I stopped at the nurses’ station, pretending to review a file while listening.
“It’s him,” someone whispered. “The Volkovich heir.”
My breath hitched.
My heart didn’t race the way it used to when I heard gossip.
It sank.
“They say even the directors don’t question him.” “I heard when he walks in, the entire place goes silent.”
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on the paper in my hands, though the words blurred.
Why would he come here?
Before anyone could answer that unspoken question, a strange stillness swept through the hospital. Phones stopped buzzing. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the beeping machines seemed quieter, as if the building itself was holding its breath.
A nurse rushed past the window.
I followed her gaze.
Outside the hospital gates, a sleek black SUV rolled to a stop—followed by another, and another. Dark, identical vehicles lined the entrance with military precision. Men in black suits stepped out first, scanning the surroundings with sharp, unreadable expressions.
Every window filled.
Doctors. Nurses. Patients.
All watching.
Then the rear door of the central SUV opened.
He stepped out.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Commanding without effort.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a long dark fur-lined overcoat draped over it, and a ushanka pulled low against the cold. The outfit only emphasized his powerful build—controlled, dangerous, deliberate. His movements were unhurried, as if the world adjusted itself to his pace.
Izar Alexandra Volkovich.
His face was sculpted and sharp, almost unreal—like something carved rather than born. Hazel eyes, cold and distant, swept over the hospital grounds without curiosity or warmth. Not looking for approval. Not acknowledging the stares.
People reacted instantly.
Some girls gasped.
Some whispered his name like a prayer.
Others looked away in fear.
And me?
My heart felt like it might burst—not because of his looks, not because of fascination—
But because of fear.
Pure, instinctive fear.
He wasn’t surrounded by friends. They were men—guards, assistants, shadows that moved when he moved. Power followed him like a second skin, heavy and suffocating.
Dangerous.
That was the only word my mind could form.
I stepped back from the window, my palms cold, my thoughts spiraling.
This is real, I thought.
This is the world I agreed to step into.
And for the first time since signing that agreement, a terrifying question surfaced clearly in my mind:
What if I had made the biggest mistake of my life?
- Writer
