KINGDOM OF THREATS

Chapter Eight –The Devil’s Muse

Aiden

“Sir, what do you think?” Anya’s impatient voice cuts through the silence of my office.

I scroll through the glossy profiles glowing on my tablet, one after another. Perfect smiles, meticulously crafted bodies, elegant poses. Yet not a single one of them stirs even a flicker of interest in me. It’s been half an hour, and I am no closer to finding what I need.

Not like the world is short on models. They are everywhere—plastered across billboards, magazines, and screens. But what I am searching for isn’t just beauty. It’s something rarer. Something that makes the world stop.

Something that makes me stop.

“Let’s do it later,” I mutter coldly, sliding the device aside. “I don’t like any of them.”

Anya hesitates, as if hoping I’ll reconsider. But I’ve already turned away. None of them will give me the results I want—unique, irresistible, unforgettable. The kind of presence that can embody the vision I have in my mind. Their beauty is real, yes, but hollow. Without soul.

“As you wish, sir.” Her tone is clipped, but she leaves quietly.

Silence descends, heavy and comforting. My gaze shifts to the open sketchpad resting on my desk. The untouched white page is a provocation, daring me to summon what the world cannot give me.

I pick up my pen. The nib glides across the paper in smooth, deliberate strokes, as though guided by something outside myself. Slowly, lines take shape—a shoulder, delicate and poised. A cascade of fabric that tumbles like a waterfall. Layers of tulle, ethereal and weightless, trimmed with sequins that catch light even in my imagination. A beaded waistline hugging a curve so intoxicating, it borders on sinful.

The picture grows, alive with every stroke. I can almost feel the weight of the silk against her skin, the cool caress of fabric on warmth. My hand trembles, not with uncertainty but with… recognition.

When I close my eyes, satisfaction courses through me. But when I open them again, the realization hits me like lightning.

Her.

It’s her.

Valentina.

Her emerald eyes gaze back at me from the page, wide and unguarded, innocent and dangerous all at once. Her lips—plush, parted—tempt me with the silent promise of ruin. Her curves, her stance, her very essence. I’ve drawn her without meaning to. Or maybe I always meant to.

“Who is she?”

The voice startles me. I snap my head to the left and find Anya standing there, peering over my shoulder as if she owns the right.

“Andrea’s friend,” I reply curtly, irritation sharpening my tone.

“What are you doing here?” My gaze falls pointedly to her hand resting on my shoulder. Too familiar. Too presumptuous.

She withdraws instantly, her fingers curling into her palm as though burned. “I—I came to get your signature on these files.” She mumbles, eyes lowered, strands of hair twisting nervously between her fingers. I’ve told her before—her tells are far too obvious. A woman in business must master her body language, or she’ll be eaten alive.

“Do you not know how to knock?” My voice is steel.

“I did knock!” she protests, eyes wide. “But you were so engrossed in your sketch you didn’t answer me.”

I rub my face aggressively, exhaling frustration.

“By the way…” she says hesitantly, then with a smile too wide, too knowing— “She looks beautiful.”

My eyes snap to her. “Who?”

“The woman you drew.” She points directly at Valentina’s sketch, like a child pointing at a forbidden sweet.

My jaw clenches. In one swift motion, I slam the sketchpad shut. Fury coils in my gut—not at her words, but at the truth of them.

“Sir…”

“What?” I snap, my tone cutting the air like glass.

She holds my gaze too long, as though testing the limits of my patience. I return it with a look sharp enough to flay. She’d be wise not to push further.

She better not.

---

I still can’t believe I am doing this.

Aiden Volkov—CEO, predator of markets, architect of empires—reduced to this. Begging a woman I despise to be the face of my company. The thought alone tastes bitter. But the marketing department had insisted, and I’ve grown weary of their endless quarrels.

They said she’s perfect for the dresses. A unique presence. A massive social following. The public would devour her. And though every instinct in me screamed against it, here I sit, forcing civility for the sake of profit.

Across from me, she lounges casually in a simple yellow dress, her long hair spilling down her back like liquid sunlight. Her eyes—those infuriating blue eyes—study me with quiet amusement, as though this is all some private joke to her.

“So, Aiden,” she begins, her voice smooth as silk. “It sounds interesting.”

I clear my throat. “Yes. We’re looking for a new face for our latest fashion line.”

Her brow arches. “And you think I’m the right one for this?”

“Yes.” My reply is sharp, controlled.

She smiles, slow and deliberate, as though savoring my discomfort. “Well, I’m flattered.” She takes a sip of orange juice, that ever-present glass she clings to like a ritual. Then, setting it down, she leans forward. “But give me one reason to work with you.”

The smug satisfaction lighting her face is unbearable. My jaw tightens. The woman has been a thorn in my side since the moment we met, and now she sits across from me, demanding I justify myself to her.

“Because no one would dare turn down the chance to be my model,” I bite out, every word laced with arrogance. “Others would beg for this opportunity. You should consider yourself fortunate.”

It’s the truth. Women would kill for this. To stand where she stands, to wear what I design, to be touched by the aura of my empire. And yet she stares at me as though I’m nothing more than a man trying too hard to impress her.

“Okay,” she says lightly, almost too lightly. “I accept your offer.”

Relief flickers in me before her next words slice through it.

“But since you’ve really gotten on my nerves… say please first.”

The world tilts. My face hardens, lips pressing into a thin, furious line. Did she just—?

I rise to my feet, fury coiled tight in my chest. “I’m not doing this.” My voice is low, dangerous. “Aiden Volkov never begs. Not to anyone. Not for anyone.”

Anya’s gasp fills the air. “Sir—”

But Valentina only shrugs, already standing. “Me too.” She turns, graceful as a queen, and heads for the door.

“No, ma’am!” Anya rushes forward, grabbing Valentina’s hand. “I’m sorry on his behalf. We really need a unique face. Please, don’t leave. Please.”

My blood ignites. “Anya!” My voice cracks like a whip. “Do you want to lose your job? Neither I beg nor anyone working under me begs.”

Anya flinches, her eyes glossing with moisture.

“Why the hell are you shouting at her?” Valentina’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and protective.

“She’s my assistant. I can do whatever I want with her,” I hiss, stepping closer, bending down until my lock onto her ice-blue ones.

“She’s a human first,” she counters fiercely. “And every human deserves respect.”

“And making her beg in front of you was respect, cherry?” I sneer.

She opens her mouth, then shuts it, her silence betraying the storm brewing inside her. Her jaw tightens, her teeth grind.

“Cat got your tongue?” I taunt, the devil in me savoring her fury.

“I did not make her beg,” she mutters at last, eyes flashing. “You did.”

I feel the shift in the air, the unspoken warlines drawn between us.

Finally, she turns to Anya, her voice clipped. “When do I need to come?”

“Around nine a.m.,” Anya whispers, relief flooding her face.

Valentina nods once, whispers something I can’t catch, and walks out without a single backward glance.

Anya beams. “We made it! She asked for time, which means she’ll come.”

I stare at the door she disappeared through, a muscle ticking in my jaw.

Tomorrow is going to be a terrible day.