Corrupted Heart

4 . The Unexpected Favor

For the next three days, Oliver Hayes did not see Sebastian Volkov.

Not that he expected to. Men like Sebastian belonged to a completely different world—a realm of unchecked power, ruthless politics, expensive tailored suits, and dangerous people. Oliver's world, by stark contrast, consisted of children who fought over crayons, broken radiators that stubbornly refused to work during the dead of winter, and endless, soul-crushing paperwork related to charitable donations. The two worlds should never have crossed paths.

Yet somehow, they had. And now Oliver found himself thinking about the inspector far more often than he cared to admit.

It wasn't because he liked him. Definitely not. The man was intimidating, arrogant, and entirely impossible to read. But there was a jarring contradiction about him that Oliver couldn't quite shake: a man feared by half the city had quietly, without fanfare, given a chocolate bar to a lonely child. The memory continued to bother him, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit.

"You're staring at that wall again," a voice chimed.

Oliver jumped, pulled abruptly from his thoughts as Ethan dropped heavily into the chair opposite him.

"You do realize normal people blink occasionally?" Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver rolled his eyes, adjusting the papers on his desk. "I'm working."

"No." Ethan pointed a dramatic, accusing finger at him. "You're thinking about the scary police officer."

"I'm not," Oliver immediately denied, his voice rising a fraction too quickly.

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

Frustrated, Oliver grabbed a thick manila file and threw it across the desk. Unfortunately, Ethan caught it with a grin.

"See?" Ethan teased.

"See what?"

"You missed."

Across the city, nestled in a sleek, high-rise office, Sebastian Volkov was also thinking about Oliver.

Which irritated him immensely. The younger man had occupied his thoughts far more than was strictly necessary for a standard background check. Sebastian leaned back in his leather office chair, the file lying open on his desk. A photograph stared back at him—Oliver, smiling brightly beside a group of children at the shelter. Always smiling.

His investigation should have uncovered something dark by now. Anything. A hidden vice, a secret debt, a selfish motive masquerading as virtue. Instead, every new intelligence report painted the exact same frustrating picture: Oliver Hayes volunteered at shelters, helped struggling families, tutored underprivileged children for free, donated his own meager earnings, worked grueling overtime, and somehow expected absolutely nothing in return.

It made no sense to Sebastian. People always wanted something. Always. The heavy office door suddenly swung open, and Nikolai stepped inside carrying two cups of coffee. One look at Sebastian’s desk made the assistant groan aloud.

"Oh, no."

Sebastian glanced up, his expression icy. "Oh, no what?"

"You're looking at the file again."

"I'm working," Sebastian said smoothly.

"No." Nikolai pointed directly at the photograph. "You're staring."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "Careful, Nikolai."

"You're obsessed."

The room became suddenly, violently quiet. Nikolai immediately read the shifting atmosphere and corrected himself. "Interested."

Silence.

"Curious?" Nikolai tried again.

More silence.

"Concerned?"

Sebastian slowly picked up a heavy silver pen, his gaze unwavering. Recognizing the unspoken threat, Nikolai wisely retreated, leaving the inspector alone with the ghost of Oliver's smile.

That same afternoon, Oliver arrived at Saint Gabriel Shelter, his arms aching under the weight of several heavy grocery bags. The moment he stepped through the heavy wooden doors, he sensed a shift in the air.

The usual cheerful chaos was gone. The atmosphere was thick with tension. Volunteers were huddled in corners, whispering urgently among themselves, and several staff members looked visibly pale. Near the back office, Sister Margaret appeared ready to collapse under an invisible weight.

Setting the bags down hastily, Oliver hurried forward. "Sister?"

The elderly woman looked up, her worn expression softening slightly at the sight of him. "Oliver."

"What happened?" Oliver asked, looking around the quiet room.

The devastating answer came from a volunteer standing nearby. "The funds are gone."

Oliver froze, his breath hitching. "What?"

"The remaining donations. The bank account was completely emptied this morning."

For several seconds, Oliver couldn't speak. A cold dread washed over him. The shelter was already on the brink of ruin. Winter expenses were skyrocketing, medical bills for the children were piling up, and they depended entirely on those funds to survive the frost. Without them—

"No." Oliver shook his head, refusing to accept it. "There has to be a mistake. A banking error."

"There isn't," Sister Margaret said, her voice sounding incredibly small and exhausted. "The bank confirmed everything. The transaction was cleared."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Oliver felt a slow, volatile anger begin to build inside his chest. He never got angry for himself—he could handle personal hardship—but this was for the children. Someone had stolen from innocent kids who had nothing left to give. He was entirely tired of watching good people suffer while selfish monsters thrived.

"I'm going to the bank," Oliver declared, turning on his heel.

"Oliver, wait—" Sister Margaret called out, but he didn't stop.

Three hours later, Oliver walked out of the financial district more frustrated than he had ever been in his life. Nobody would help him. Nobody would explain the anomaly. Every conversation with the branch managers had ended with bureaucratic excuses, empty apologies, and polite brush-offs. The money was gone, they said. The investigation would take weeks. The shelter simply had to wait.

Wait. Oliver hated that word. Children couldn't eat promises, and hospitals didn't accept patience as payment.

By the time he trudged back to the shelter, the sun had long since slipped beneath the horizon. A heavy darkness covered the city, and snow drifted lazily through the streetlamps. But as Oliver approached the building, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Parked directly outside the crumbling facade of the shelter stood a familiar, pristine black Mercedes.

No. Absolutely not. Oliver thought, closing his eyes for a brief second. The universe couldn't possibly be this cruel.

Yet when he opened his eyes, the luxury vehicle remained, its polished frame entirely out of place against the grit of the neighborhood. Before he could decide whether to turn around or walk past it, the heavy driver's door swung open.

Sebastian stepped out into the cold. As usual, the inspector looked completely unaffected by the freezing weather, clad in a perfectly tailored dark coat and leather gloves. His sharp blue eyes locked onto Oliver. Annoyingly attractive, Oliver realized, before immediately regretting the thought.

"Inspector," Oliver said stiffly.

"Mr. Hayes."

They stood on the snow-covered pavement, staring at each other. The standoff felt oddly familiar.

Eventually, Oliver broke the silence. "What are you doing here?"

Sebastian cast a casual glance toward the shelter. "Visiting."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"And you appear wherever I am."

A barely perceptible corner of Sebastian's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. "I'll consider that a compliment."

"It wasn't."

The sharp retort earned him another one of those frustrating almost-smiles. Oliver wasn't sure whether to be proud of cracking the inspector's facade or deeply concerned for his safety. Probably concerned.

Sebastian studied his face for a long moment, his analytical gaze sweeping over the tension in Oliver's shoulders. "You look angry."

"I am."

"Why?"

Oliver hesitated. Normally, he would never discuss the shelter's private vulnerabilities with an outsider, let alone a dangerous police inspector. But the day's raw frustration won. "The donations were stolen. Someone cleared out our accounts."

Something shifted in Sebastian's expression. It wasn't surprise, nor was it confusion. It was a subtle flash of recognition, as though the piece of information merely confirmed a fact he already possessed.

Oliver caught it instantly. "You know something."

"No," Sebastian replied smoothly.

"That was a lie." Oliver stepped closer, his anger flaring. "What makes you think that?" Sebastian asked, raising an eyebrow, entirely unbothered by the accusation.

"Because for half a second, you looked guilty."

"I don't feel guilt," Sebastian said coolly.

Oliver let out a sharp, cynical snort before he could stop himself. To his utter surprise, Sebastian didn't take offense. Instead, the inspector looked amused—deeply amused—which was somehow infinitely worse.

"An interesting observation," Sebastian murmured.

"I'm right."

"No."

"You are."

"No."

Oliver crossed his arms, glaring. The silent argument stretched between them in the falling snow, neither man willing to back down, neither willing to admit defeat. Finally, Sebastian let out a long, dramatic sigh, as though Oliver's stubbornness was personally exhausting him.

"I know who took the money," Sebastian said quietly.

Everything inside Oliver ground to a halt. He stared, completely thrown off balance. "What?"

Sebastian remained perfectly calm, his hands resting in his coat pockets. "I know who took it."

Oliver's heartbeat accelerated. "You do? And you're just telling me this now?"

"You didn't ask."

Oliver looked ready to scream. For the first time since they had met, Sebastian genuinely smiled. It was small and brief, but it was real. It transformed his harsh features completely, striking Oliver with an unexpected warmth that made him forget his anger for a fleeting second.

Then, reality rushed back. "Who was it?"

Sebastian remained silent, watching him play out his frustration.

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "You know, normal people answer questions."

"Normal people don't slap police inspectors," Sebastian countered smoothly.

Fair point, Oliver thought grimly. Unfortunately. He groaned, rubbing his forehead as the cold began to seep through his boots. "What do you want, Sebastian?"

The answer came without a second of hesitation. "An apology."

Oliver blinked, entirely thrown. "I already apologized to you."

"That one was rushed."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious."

Oliver stared. Sebastian stared back. Neither moved.

Slowly, a horrifying realization dawned on Oliver: the man genuinely meant it. This wasn't a calculated interrogation tactic. It wasn't intimidation, and it wasn't blackmail. Sebastian Volkov, a man who held the city's underworld in his grip, actually wanted a proper, formal apology for a minor scuffle.

The sheer absurdity of it made Oliver want to laugh, but Sebastian’s expression remained deadpan.

"You have got to be kidding me," Oliver muttered.

"I'm not."

The silence stretched on, thick and heavy with falling snow. Finally, despite every protective instinct screaming at him to walk away, Oliver let out a defeated sigh. "Fine."

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest, waiting. The fact that he looked immensely pleased with himself made the whole ordeal significantly worse.

Oliver took a breath and forced the words out. "Inspector Volkov, I sincerely apologize for accidentally slapping you."

Sebastian gave a single, slow nod of approval.

"It was not intentional," Oliver continued, gritting his teeth.

Another nod.

"I deeply regret the misunderstanding." Oliver took a sharp breath. "Can you please tell me who froze the shelter out of its donations now?"

For several seconds, Sebastian simply watched him, letting the weight of the apology settle. Then, reaching deep into the interior pocket of his heavy coat, he withdrew a small, metallic flash drive and held it out.

Oliver stared at the object resting in the inspector's leather-gloved palm. "What is this?"

"Evidence."

Oliver's breath caught in his throat. "What kind of evidence?"

"Enough to completely destroy the man responsible."

Oliver looked from the flash drive up to Sebastian’s striking blue eyes, and then back down again. A profound confusion flooded his chest. This wasn't how the world worked. None of this made sense. Why would a man like Sebastian Volkov go out of his way to help a struggling volunteer? Why hand over critical evidence? Why get involved in a minor shelter theft at all?

Almost as if he could read the frantic questions spinning in Oliver's mind, Sebastian spoke, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical register.

"Don't misunderstand," Sebastian said, stepping back toward the idling Mercedes. "This isn't charity."

The words were sharp, yet to Oliver's ears, they felt entirely dishonest. It was as if Sebastian wanted them to sound harsher than he actually felt—a neat, protective lie to guard whatever lay beneath the surface.

Oliver slowly closed his fingers around the drive, the metal freezing against his palm. "Then why help me?"

For a fraction of a second, Sebastian hesitated. The inspector’s breathing hitched, a faint tension tightening his jaw before his usual unreadable mask slipped perfectly back into place.

"I dislike thieves," Sebastian replied smoothly.

The answer was simple, entirely reasonable for a man of the law. Yet everything in Oliver's gut insisted it wasn't the whole truth.

As the snow continued to fall silently around them, burying the grime of the city under a pristine white sheet, neither man truly realized the weight of the exchange. They stood on the threshold of a freezing night, entirely unaware that this brief, frustrating moment would become the very first thread weaving their drastically different lives together.

Somewhere deep inside Sebastian Volkov's meticulously calculated, dangerous world, a trap was already beginning to take shape. The iron jaws of it were silent, perfectly concealed, and designed with ruthless precision.

The only problem was that Sebastian hadn't yet realized who would ultimately become trapped within it.